Eternally Spin My Darling

...Think and judge it for the best

Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide,

And lead thee hence through the eternal place,

Where thou shalt here the desperate lamentations,

Shalt see the ancient spirits disconsolate,

Who cry out each one for the second death…

~Dante

It spun, around and around in a circling motion; never ceasing to question these movements. Simply doing, swirling, as does the earth in the universe. A little girl, with golden curls, a small pointed nose, and an ever present grin sat gazing at these movements as these thoughts passed through her mind. The spinner had pointed toes wrapped in satin, one ever pressed against the mirror base while the other stretched out behind in a perfect arabesque. Slim arm stretched up toward the roof, a small porcelain face gazed out resolutely to whatever was before it, and a tight bun rested upon its head, burning red in the dim lights of the night.

“My little dancer, Sasha.” Whispered the little girl with the golden curls as she watched, like many times before, the little spinning music box dancer slowly come to a stop as the music died away. If she rewound it, she knew the music would begin anew and so would the dancing she loved so much. Just as she was about to, however, the little girl let out a yawn and felt suddenly very sleepy.

“Ah, not tonight I suppose,” She said to the little dancer as she began folding down the lid of the music box, “tonight we will both rest it seems.” She placed the closed music box on her night stand and laid down in bed and soon fell right to sleep. If she had stayed awake she may have noticed a few oddities which soon after occurred. The grandfather clock which every night chimed in the midnight, ceased its ticking as the pendulum came to a slow stop at 11:56 in the evening. The night light which was ever lit even during the day, blew out as a chilly breeze rustled the curtains of her open window not far from where she lay. Additionally, the white owl and the bright full moon were not to be seen. It was an odd night, one of those nights you tend to toss and turn the whole time, not quite waking nor sleeping. As the darkness of night increased a strain of this dark could be seen dropping down from the arch of the night sky, and creeping ever so silently in through the window. The Shadow had little trouble passing the salt strewn upon the ledge of the window, and slithering into the room.

Scattered seemingly randomly all about the floor were the toys and clothing items of the little girl with the golden curls. Yet, the Shadow knew full well this was no act of randomness. These items were clearly planted against it, to stop it from reaching the young child with the little pointed nose. Down from the ledge it dropped like a cloud almost, and meandered cautiously passed the different items. All of them smelled of the spell, the one passed by Nocturna Copia; the old witch and keeper of time. The shadow passed some blocks which the girl with the ever present grin had left, with which she was striving to build a wall and a bridge which stretched out to nowhere. Every day, the shadow took note, every day she built this but never bridged anything with the bridge.

Before reaching the bed the Shadow also passed a Jack in a box; it’s silly and slightly demented looking clown face popped out and hanging carelessly in the night.

“See now, isn’t it late?” Said the Jack in a box, still staring blankly out.

“Ah, old Jack.” Responded the Shadow pausing for but a moment in its journey, “I see your vocabulary is as extensive as ever. Tell me, why is it you stand sentinel guarding that hag’s stolen treasures?”

The Jack in a box did not respond, which the Shadow knew it could not. Still, in spite of that painted grin the Jack in a box always wore, the Shadow sensed that its spirits did drop at these words. After a long pause the Jack in a box said, “See now, isn’t it late?”

After that brief distraction it reached the bedside, where the little girl’s arm hung down over the side just above the Shadow. It was easy than, the task would soon be done. Yet, the Shadow could not bear not seeing the ever present grin one last time. It sank its single fang into the thumb of the slumbering girl so that she flinched and swung her arm back toward her warm body. The Shadow was tossed up and over the side of the bed so that it fell beside the slumbering girl. It crept up her body, so that a chill ran up her spine and her face grew ever paler. Yet, the Shadow still saw the grin spread across her little face. In the face of even the Shadow she still smiled. This shocked the Shadow and it told itself it better do its task swiftly before it too fell prey to this spell. Just as it made a move towards the girl’s heart a sudden gust blew the Shadow across the bed until it lay scattered across the little girl’s night stand. Beside it rested the music box, now open and the little dancer stood erect. She did not spin, but simply stood gazing outwards as she always did.

“My fang has already penetrated her flesh,” the Shadow told the little dancer, “you have failed.”

“It has only brushed her,” responded the little dancer, still not gazing at the Shadow, “it will have little effect.”

“A brush or a whip, death is death,” answered the Shadow, “and death grows hungry.”

“Why?” Shouted the little dancer, turning now to face the Shadow, “why must she? Do you not see? It is I. I have made this darling happy. I have fulfilled her mother’s final wish. That her daughter would always have that smile and will always spin. Eternally spin, my darling.”

“You think, old hag, that you have me fooled?” Retorted the shadow, its dark mass growing, “just like that painted smile on the old Jack in a box down there, she smiles because of you, yes. But, only because she must.”

The dancer stepped off from the platform and began to stride toward the Shadow. With every step she took, her hair grew greyer and thinner and her skin sagged and wrinkled. She croaked, an old woman by the time she stood before the Shadow, “I won’t let that smile fade!”

“You have convinced yourself that you do well. Do you not know the pain she endures at your hand?” Shouted the Shadow, “and now, she will die. Only, with ever more pain and suffering. And you, you who prides herself in cheating death, will be the only one who might stop her suffering.”

After saying this the Shadow was absorbed into the early dawn’s light. The dancer returned to her perch, and swiftly her hair returned to its burning red and her sleek limbs bore once more their shimmering porcelain cover. The odd events of the night were ended now; only, the girl with the golden curls awoke with a freezing chill in her one arm. For a time she ignored this pain and went over to her music box to say good morning. Only, she began to sniffle as she spoke and soon began to sneeze.

“Ah, Sasha” she whispered to the little dancer, “I seem to not be well. I must tell…. Wait…. I must tell…. Who is it, my little dancer? Who must I tell?” Her eyes grew wide as she thought back and back. Yet, she could think of nothing beyond the little room. She felt, however, that something was terribly wrong. Something very important was missing; but she could remember nothing beyond building that bridge every day.

“Where, Sasha?” She mumbled her arm now completely numb and her runny nose becoming a bloody one as tears swelled up in her eyes, “Where is it the bridge goes? Who…. Who am I crying for Sasha?” She broke out coughing then, and turned towards the door behind her. She had never opened this door. Just then, the music box began to spin and the girl with the golden curls forgot these thoughts and decided instead to lay in bed until the “little chill” as she called it, passed. The little dancer noted how the little girl with the slightly pointed nose still grinned as she began coughing up blood as her whole body succumbed to numbness. And still the music box played and played, simply happy to see the grin on her face.

Far from this place in a hospital there was a little girl drifting away while she succumbed to death in a coma. At her side was a worn out woman with a loose brown bun of hair, holding the little girl’s hand as she drifted away. The day was January 13, 1964. A little girl 7 years of age died this morning. The lady with the brown hair whispered to her now dead daughter, “If only my darling… If only I could have said farewell.”

The next morning there was no more girl with the golden curls on the bed of the playroom. There was only a little porcelain doll with golden curls and an ever-present grin on her face. Also, she had a slightly pointed nose. The little dancer smiled, for now, the little girl’s grin was forever her own.

The End.

******************************************************************

This story is extremely personal for me. I wrote it several years ago when I was dating a man who could not love me back. It felt like I was dying inside.

While the imagery comes from several songs, the feelings come from myself.

I relized that sometimes you must let go. You must let it die and find new life. To allow it to struggle, you are only causing more pain and suffering. I hope you can relate to this story the way I did!

Love you all