Christie's Ballroom
"Twenty-something guests?? How in the world did that happen?" panicked Christie when she realized it was too late to write them all before they arrived.
She drops the pen and gets up from her desk, grabbing onto her necklace for comfort.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, they’re too many. I can’t possibly finish everything and stop them from coming here,” she adds hurriedly before feeling the desperate need for a breath of air.
Right before she storms out of the room, someone’s arm gets in the doorframe, into which she bumps head first and falls over.
“And where do you think you’re going, miss?” says the malicious voice.
Christie takes a moment to collect herself.
“That’s none of your concern,” she mumbles from the ground with her hand on her forehead, palpating for any bruises.
“I thought I told you to stop,” showing no care or remorse for what just happened.
“Stop what?” she answers whilst picking herself up, still a little faint.
“Stop that,” strongly emphasizing her last word as if it were something cursed, and glancing toward Christie’s desk.
“Mother, leave me alone.”
“Christie, my dear, you just haven’t tried hard enough. I’m sure you’ve got it inside you. You can do it.”
“Don't you dare call me that. And what do you know about what can and can’t be done? You couldn’t even save us from fathe—”
The mother slaps Christie’s mouth shut and she brutally collapses to the floor. If she couldn’t cause injury earlier, this time she certainly has succeeded.
“Well, since you’ve been thinking you’re all grown up and can stand up for yourself, I have decided we’re going to be leaving. I only came here to see that miserable face of yours,” she says in a proud tone while shaking her hand to relieve some of the pain, satisfied that she got more than just a sight of her daughter.
Christie was ashamed. On the bottom of her mouth, the warm blood oozed a taste of metal, but it also tasted of deep anger and resentment. The fall had made her bite her tongue.
Kneeling down and facing away from her mother, her heart started pounding and hateful thoughts flooded her mind. As they did, some of the papers on the desk started changing with them. The names on the guest list began shrinking and shifting up, making room for the new name that was imprinting itself onto the sheet. Letter by letter, cursively in a misty blue, they rounded themselves off and split apart into words. “How I wish my mother was dead” spelled out when it was finished. Another sheet of paper was being filled with sentences that seemed to never end.
“Is that why they were here earlier?” mumbles Christie from the ground angrily, reaching for her necklace.
“Precisely,” she smiles. “Those poor things must’ve done a wonderful job if you had no idea about it.”
Christie gets up swiftly and rushes out the door to look for her sisters.
“Oh, don’t tire yourself, dear. They’ve gone already.”
She searches for them everywhere in the palace. “Eléonoooooore! Laetitiaaaaaaa!” echoed through the narrow but long hallways.
“She’s so naive,” sighed the mother from the balcony, dropping her head into her palm.
Christie soon accepts that her sisters had indeed already left and goes back to confront her mother.
“What sickening lie did you tell them? Where are they?” questions Christie, ready to bring war.
“Ohhh, relaaaax, they’ll be fine. They left on a stagecoach to Helvetia and think that we’ll be soon joining them. It’s supposed to be our winter holiday. Well, too bad it’s taken me so long to finally get rid of the three of you, at least for some while.”
Christie listens closely, trying to come up with something, but realizes there’s not much she can do at the moment.
“So why are you still here? Take your hideous dark coats and leave.”
“Because you’re unpredictable, my dear. And I need this place still standing when I get back, so you will take good care of it. If not, your sisters might just have a tougher childhood than you did. Hopefully, they won’t resort to writing,” scoffs the mother.
Christie is staring into her mother’s eyes, the hatred underneath her veins boiling hotter and hotter. The words glowed brightly on the papers inside the room.
“Arrangements have been made, people will check on you regularly. Don’t enjoy yourself too much,” she says her goodbye while walking down the stairs.
In the week that followed, many peculiar things started happening around the palace.
One of them was linked to the date of the event. At first nightfall, the date wrote itself elegantly above the guest names, pushing down the rest of the writing as if it kindly whispered it to move over.
Some of Christie’s stories went on for pages. Lines and lines of thoughts, emotions and ideas. Some only consisted of a few scattered words and sentences, jealous of the attention the others had received.
Christie, drained from the argument with her mother and torn apart by the absence of her sisters, spent most of her time in her bedroom, sleeping. She didn’t feel like resuming any of her stories. She tried silencing her thoughts, but the chaos in her mind never seemed to rest. And neither did the writing.
When she did leave her room, she found herself fascinated by the decorations that would appear in the main hall, seemingly out of thin air. She would once walk towards the kitchen and see lights and lanterns hung up everywhere. In a dim orange light, like tiny fireflies they sparkled against the ceiling and the walls. By the time she headed back, tables would be charmingly set up, underneath which lay freshly-washed cream-colored carpets.
She especially loved that night because of the smell that lingered and carried over into her room. It made her think of water lilies. And graceful white dresses that were wet and drying in the breeze of a blooming, open orchard.
Christie was an eager and curious girl, but she was also easily bored. Whoever — or whatever — was making these preparations seemed to know this all too well, so each time she walked by, the decorations became more and more exciting. So exciting, she was forced to stop and admire them. It sometimes made her forget about the loneliness too.
If before she was afraid of all these guests colliding on the day of the ball, she was now intrigued. What did they look like? How were they going to dress? Were they going to behave or cause trouble?
Her sisters weren’t here anymore, which meant they couldn’t be endangered by whatever was about to happen. Perhaps they were safer away, but it didn’t make worrying for them any easier.
Christie opens her eyes to the sound of a soothing voice.
It was the music, which meant the guests were here. The ball started while she was asleep.
Nervous, she gets dressed and readies up. When she heads out of her room, she sees the main hall packed with people. At first glance, they seemed to get along fine.
She walks down the stairs in her carefully picked blue dress, joining the crowd but too shy to talk to anyone just yet. Did they know who she was? Did they know who they were?
All around, the guests were chatting, slow dancing, and drinking. The atmosphere was pleasant and things seemed normal. Awfully normal. She didn’t know what to think of it, but she was happy to finally have some company.
“Let’s hold a toast, for today Morocco have won!” a manly voice cheers from above.
The man steadily approaches the top of the stairs from the right-hand side.
His pace was somewhat quick, but not too quick. It allowed everyone time to turn their heads to him.
“Feast! Feast on the delicacies we have baked for you,” he cheers again enthusiastically. The man was carefully watching his steps on the stairs to the ground floor.
His posture made him look sort of like a waiter, but that he couldn’t be, Christie presumed. For one, he was too in charge of himself. And secondly, he wore what could only be called a costume, as they were certainly not servant clothes.
Dark purple-shined shoes that gave the impression of glass, dark purple tailored trousers that matched, and a formal shirt underneath a dark purple custom blazer. Surprisingly, if Christie were to say the first word that came to her mind when faced with such a bold outfit, “purple” would have come in second. Because “laces” was the word on everyone’s lips. Every piece, from top to bottom, was fastened with laces. Every piece of clothing had some sort of lace design. The fabric his clothes were covered in, thick lace. Even his shoes had a ridiculous amount of laces.
“Must have taken him an eternity to tie those monstrosities,” chuckled Christie.
The showman approaches the crowd with never-before-seen excitement in his eyes and a mischievous smile.
“Feast! Feast on the delicacies we have baked for you,” he cheers once more, loudly, as the music quiets down.
If there were any few that hadn’t been captivated by his entrance, everyone was now paying full attention to the man in dark purple — and in laces.
He gulps down his glass of champagne with insatiable thirst. You could tell it wasn’t his first. The drink was one to be savored, but the hint of cream in its flavor perished directly inside the man’s stomach.
“Today, Morocco have won!” he shouts for the whole palace to hear, though everyone was already standing in the main hall.
“A nail-biting game!” he follows with a sip from someone else’s glass.
“Just like you, a bunch of nail-biting stories.”
He laughs while circling the room, searching for glasses people had already begun drinking from.
He quickly snatches one from a woman who was still mesmerized by the interminable amount of laces and lifts it up in the light to examine it. It then vanishes down his throat, after which he sighs with pleasure.
“A bunch of nail-biting stories. Which. will. all. die.” with each word shifting his stone-cold stare from one side of the crowd to the other.
“You will all die. Because she is never getting back to you,” moment in which he gazes directly at Christie.
He pauses briefly, looking around for reactions, but there were none.
He then puts on the large grin he had forgotten about and goes back to his initial demeanour.
“Feast! Feast on the delicacies we have baked for you,” his arms inviting people towards the food trolleys that were still underneath white covers.
“I assure you, the food is of the most delicious kind.”
“Enough,” steps Christie from the crowd.
“There she is. Ladies and gentlemen, our beloved creator. What took you so long, darling?”, he grabs her by her shoulders and looks her up and down.
“Come, come, follow me. We’ve got bigger matters at hand,” he says before addressing the crowd for one last time.
“The rest of you, please, please, enjoy the rest of your evenings.”
[🎵 Music resumes playing while the man leads Christie up the stairs and into her bedroom]
He sits her on the bed.
“Apologies for being overly dramatic down there, I was dying to see how you would react. You, darling, did not disappoint.”
Christie is at a loss for words.
“Besides, you made me this way,” he continues. "You called me, remember? You called all of us here. To me, you said you wished your mother was dead. And you longed for your sisters to be back. I’m here to help you with that.”
She’s staring at him, astonished.
“Isn’t that what you want?” he asks sincerely as he sits down next to her.
Christie doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
The song’s lyrics creep into the room:
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. 🎵
☔ Here, have this umbrella for a rainy day. If you would like to support me, please share my story with your friends and loved ones.