The dancer that tapped and broke her neck.

Down the spiral staircase leading into the depths of my heart, unheard and unseen, feeling the tingling walls echo back into my ear, "Do you need to do this?" There's a fading flame dwindling further away, almost like a mirage. Will-o-wisp disappears every ten steps I climb down. The goosebumps on my skin reach out towards the crawling hands and itching fingers, waiting to grab and scratch deep into me. The pulse powers through and pushes the flame deeper and further away, electric. 

In the hazy sun, her auburn hair flew into her eyes. She pretended that the wind was helping her wipe away the tears and hide them from the nearby onlookers. Margaret couldn't move her hands for fear of disturbing the dance of the wind and her flaming locks. Breathing stiller and stiller she allowed the atmosphere to rain supreme around her. Her eyes adjusting to the strokes of sun and shadow. 

The tap on her shoulder didn't startle her, she had been expecting the arrival. Fixated and unmoving she mumbled, "Oui?"

"C'est pour toi."

Margaret's tense shoulders relaxed deeper into the ground, "Une minute s'il vous plaît?"

The dancer tapped away waiting for minute after minute and Margaret sunk deeper into her pulsating wisp. The sun was distant now, unseen in the bondage of her marrying hair. The hair tangled from cheek to cheek and tucked behind ears that were never as close as the other could have been.

The tap became a grip and Margaret replied, sure that she would continue her escape for a century into this dark staircase, "Une minute s'il vous plaît."

Libana's last song played at the top of the stairs and pulled her right back to the first step. The dancer lay waiting on her journey to her core, tapping its feet and sending pulses across her cheeks and electrifying her red hair. 

The pull of the wisp grew stronger and brighter once again, almost reflecting the scorching sun that burned her hair into colour. The spiral continued deeper and downwards. The crypt smells became more familiar. Pungent and carefully wafted into her nostrils, reminding her of the journey to come. The staircases became steeper and more angled, until she sled past the dancer towards her fading light.

The fingers grasped at her neck. Slipping onto the mummyfying strands. Gripping and digging deeper into the scalp. The pulls in all direction got stronger and the wisp reared it's shiny head one last time. 

The minute had come to an end and the blood-thirsty wisp quenched its thirst in the glistening red blackness of the liquid from her neck. 

An ode to the the works of Dragos Bruma