I knew from the moment my unholy foot crossed its raised threshold, that Theatre Hall was tormented by something surreal, something unnatural. How I surmised this, so quickly, and yet so certainly, I cannot be sure. It was as clear to me as the Proscenium stage, lit up by a dozen or so overhead spotlights.

Something lingered here, something dead and hollowed out. It did not feel malevolent to me, not vengeful or violent. I was only aware of the overwhelming pressure of hopelessness, of long, insurmountable despair.

My drama professor stood at the front of the room, prattling on about the history of the building, pointing out its architectural subtleties. He spoke with all the enthusiasm of someone impassioned by personal interest. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to invest in the lecture, couldn’t curtail the sinking ache that seemed to have imbedded itself into my chest wall.

In the seat next to mine, a young woman, Claire, or Clara, I couldn’t remember which, was turned toward me, head inclined as though she were waiting for a response. I had not even been aware of her presence before that moment, so engrossed was I by the uneasy depression that had settled over me.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled, “did I startle you?” she seemed amused, rather than offended. “Didn’t mean to. Anyway, I said it’s cool we get to have class here, don’t you think? I mean, it’s really gorgeous, so much character and history.”

“Gorgeous?” I repeated, and the word felt wrong on my tongue somehow. Gorgeous. It implied something alive, something vibrant and optimistic. A word like that did not belong here.

“Yea, in like, a gothic sort of way, right?”

“Oh…”

I didn’t know what to say to her. She was so oblivious, so tragically unaware of her own surroundings. How could someone be so light, so utterly weightless, here, in this haunted, sorrowful place? But she was still looking at me, still expecting an answer to her absurd question.

“I suppose it is, yea.”

I hoped she would leave me to lament in peace then, leave Theatre Hall to its own swelling devastation, and find somewhere newer, livelier to be.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she pressed, “but you’re kind of weird, aren’t you? I mean, like, a good weird. You’ve sort of got that whole brooding thing going for you.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. A couple of other girls were whispering behind us too, chattering away like giddy squirrels, mocking the place. None of them belonged here.

“I’m quiet, I guess.”  My eyes were on the floor now, intentionally dissuading any further conversation. It didn’t matter.

“You know,” she chirped, “ you should come out with us after lecture, there’s this fun little bar a couple of blocks down. We do karaoke and pretty much just make fools of ourselves, but it’s a blast.”

I smiled; a false, dull gesture, and turned away from her. A striking bitterness had overtaken me, knotted in my stomach. She was like a bird, just a little nothing-canary flapping and making noise only for the sake of doing it.

Some of the other students were taking artistic pictures on their cell phones, some gazed up at the vaulted ceiling with awed, rapt attention. Their bright enthusiasm frustrated me, made me feel almost envious. Nothing so naïve and exuberant could remain unblemished, not here. This was place for weeping, for hopelessness and withdrawal. The walls fairly dripped with it, the oppressive feeling of malignant woe.

I didn’t even notice when the lecture ended, but gradually I became aware of the people rising from their seats, fastening their coats, and walking toward the door. The professor had already packed up his briefcase, and was wrapping a knit gray scarf around his neck.

Claire-or-Clara restated her invitation as she stood to pick up her bag.

“It’s always a good time, Ben, I promise. You seem like you could use a night out.”

I thanked her politely, but declined.

She raised her eyebrows at me and sighed.

“Okay, Mr. Broody, but at least take my number, and the bar’s address, in case you change your mind.”

She rooted around in her bag to produce a black, felt-tip pen and a little spiral notebook. Scrawling quickly on a lined page, she tore it off and gave it to me.

“We’ll be there until late, so at least  keep it in mind okay?”

“Okay.”

She smiled, “good,” and started toward the aisle.

I crumpled the thin, useless paper in my hand. It was fragile, creasing, dreadfully temporary.

I remained in my seat a long while after all the others had gone. What could they find out there, in the darkness, anyway? And what was the point? There wasn’t anything beyond that door. Not now, not anymore. All that existed was this black and airless theater, stretched out before me into an infinite horizon.

A light shown then, just one, directly in front of me, on the stage. It was oval-shaped, casting it’s yellow glow across the wood plank floor. Music began to play, classical like a Victorian waltz. It was a sad, morose tune, and it sounded from everywhere, poured from the very walls of the place, and flooded the tilted foundation. I did not feel at all frightened; I had subconsciously expected this, even longed for it.

She came out then, the source of my discomfort, gliding impossibly on tiptoe until she was fully basked in the shine of the light. The sight of her swept the air from my lungs, washed it away fully. She breathed it in, my stolen oxygen, I saw the delicate ribcage expanding under her boned corset as she inhaled.

Her skin was waxy alabaster, cracked and breaking and inconceivably beautiful. Eyes that bespoke an untold depth of loneliness, large and unwavering, looked out at me from behind black, painted lashes. Her lips formed a perfect, crimson Cupid’s bow, turned down slightly at the corners. I was transfixed, all-consumed by the thin white ballerina.

 She started to spin, her tattered skirt billowing out  around her like a half-wilted rose. It was light pink, almost sheer. I knew that she was crying, felt the unshed tears welling behind my own eyes. She stopped abruptly mid-turn, and transitioned into a slower, more languished dance. I almost looked away from her then.

Her movements were orchestrated, individual pieces of art that blended together to achieve obscure, agonizing  transcendence. It was a non-human tier of perfection, unattainable yet somehow very real. Part of me wanted to move away; I didn’t deserve to see this, to admire her melancholy beauty so boldly as a solitary audience. Another part of me wanted to ruin her, to fuck her and blacken her, to make her flawed. I wanted simultaneously to share her with the world, and to keep her only my secret.

The conflicting impulses battled inside me, so that I remained astutely motionless. All the while, she continued to dance, bending and twisting my soul around herself like a frivolous ribbon.

I lived for her next stance, her next twirl. Sometimes, she would look at me, right into my eyes, but I couldn’t discern her thoughts. She was as stone as she was water, unmoving, yet flowing so easily across the stage.

That was what perplexed me most, everything about her was in acute juxtaposition with something else.  She radiated death, but I doubted whether she had ever really been alive. There was something pathetic and innocent about her pale, glistening eyes, but then again, there was also something provocative in the way she regarded me, as though she were beckoning.

A chorus of weepy violins rose up in a fevered, desperate sort of way. The ballerina was moving faster now, and her cheeks were becoming slightly flushed. Her legs looked healthier too, sturdier and more defined than they had been before.

My own skin was paling, callousing, and had become like thin wax. I could see the webbing purple vasculature just below its surface now. The vessels  beat with an irregular lethargy.

She was using me, stealing my body, my blood, my air. I knew this, but I didn’t try to stop it. My strength was waning, but my mind was sharp, clear for the first time in my life. I perceived the tiniest nuances of her meticulous performance; the sorrow in her steps, the ripple in her soft hair. It was a masterpiece, one that only I could appreciate. It was maddening, yet bitterly satisfying.

I could stay, I thought. I could stay a little longer, here with her. I could let her take more from me, just a little more, not everything, but enough for right now, enough for this moment.

Her skirt was fuller now, ripened to its intended state of being. The eyes that met mine above it were a cool, electric blue.

 She pirouetted to the edge of the stage and looked at me, with tears falling freely down her cheeks. I stood on trembling knees and opened my arms for her. She shook her head, and I understood the gesture to mean that either she could not leave the stage, or, at least, that she was not supposed to.

I dropped my arms to my sides and smiled sadly. She knew I was going to leave her, that I couldn’t remain here and shrivel to nothingness. I worried that she would hate me for it, but she only bowed her acquiescence and continued her regal dance.

She had expected this of me, had been resigned to it from the start. Our structured universe together was at an end, and it sickened me.

I turned away, back toward the door. With every step I took nearer to it, the music faded slightly. It disappeared altogether, as my holy foot crossed the slanting threshold.

Outside, the night was startlingly cold, silent. A fresh, stark white snow had fallen to layer the sidewalks and street-parked cars like glistening silk . The pure, uncompromised scent of it filled my renewed lungs in a painful, wonderful way. It, like me, was clean, immaculately so. The world was new again, and I was alive.

I walked aimlessly for a while, relishing the feel of wet flurries as they hit my skin. The streetlamps were lit and glowing marvelously, guiding my way like streamlined beacons.

The city was reborn to me, full and vast and brand new. I put my hands into my pockets as I walked, and pulled out a wrinkled paper. I’d forgotten about it. I stood for a moment under a lamp and smoothed it out on my palm. Clara was written across the top of it. What a lovely, feminine name. It was perfect for a winter night, warm and comforting.

The address underneath it, that of the karaoke bar, was on Walnut Street. That wasn’t far. Besides, I could walk. I could run. I could yell and fight and sing and taste and make love. There was everything still to experience, everything still to adore.

When I got to my destination, I stopped at the entrance before going in. I saw Clara through the frosted window. Her dark hair was shining under the dim bar lights. People were moving all around her, some stopped to look at her too. There was a drink in her hand, red wine, and she was sipping it, savoring it with true appreciation. As I watched her, she looked up. She had gray eyes, I hadn’t noticed before, but they were stunning. Tonight, everything was stunning, even the neon beer advertisements adorning the walls, and the broken down pool tables at the back of the room. The varied smells of fried food, hard liquor and stale cigarette smoke met me as I pulled the door open. It was stupendous, this new acuity of senses.

Clara turned around and saw me come in. She smiled, and I smiled. This was perfect. She was gorgeous. I was finally me.

– Erica Schaef