The Music Box

I leave the pink candy floss skies of the high street and step into the darkness of the stairwell. The heavy fire door groans behind me and the steps leading down to the club are slightly sticky. 

A beaded doorway greets me. The shredded image of a woman is printed across it. It almost feels wrong to swipe her aside as I enter. An elderly man looks up from a mahogany desk, tired eyes over silver frames. 

‘Welcome. Do you have an invite?’

I slide the invitation across the counter, hoping he doesn’t notice my quivering hands. He looks through his lenses now, his eyes appear to shrink behind the glass and he gestures to a dusty pink box to his right. In its centre, a dainty figure of a dancer rotating above a crimson puddle. 

I pull a small knife from my pocket, wincing as I slide it across my palm and let my own blood dribble onto her stage. The man offers me a small nod and points a frail finger towards the entry.

My fingertip presses the record button on my concealed camera through my shirt as I enter the cavernous room, filled with flickering candlelight. A long reflective runway splits the space and cigarette clouds hang in the air above tables of cloaked men. 

It feels like a warning as the music picks up and the cloaked men amidst their nicotine fog begin to vibrate with suspense. I watch the velvet curtains at the end of the runway intently. 

Before I see her, I see her horns. Ringed antlers protrude from her skull and tear through her nest of dark hair. Her lithe shape is slumped but visible through her sheer white gown. I angle my chest towards her. I can already see her candle lit thighs on the front page of The Times.

She is escorted down the runway by two men, who are careful not to disrupt a ring of salt at the base of the chrome pole as they strap her to the metal. I wonder if I can find a way to interview her after the ritual. My questions hang thick in the air.

A tattooed hand grips her dark hair, revealing her vacant expression to the audience. It seems that she looks right at me. Her wet lips open and close mechanically and for a moment it seems she is trying to communicate with me. She seems defeated as her words don’t come to fruition and instead her sullen eyes fixate on my cloak. With her vacant stare, I question her cognizance. A drugged source doesn’t make a great testimony.

The room breaks out with guttural cheers as a silver dagger is pulled from the cloak of one of her escorts. I watch her pale irises roll forward and she manages only a small shudder at its sight. Within seconds of the dagger appearing, it is slid across her translucent throat. A hail of blood shoots towards me and its coppery stench seeps into my hood.

The men step down from the runway and the pole begins to spin mechanically. Her limp body is dragged in a circuit. A spiralled galaxy of salt and blood forms beneath her. My heart races. 

I had thought I had been diligent in my research. I thought this ritual was ceremonial. Performative. I now felt complicit. My phone hangs like a brick in my pocket, as I wonder if I should call the police. 

Her body is left in rotation. A ballerina tethered to her spindle, forced to spin into infinity. The cloaked clientele lunge forward. They surround her lifeless body and they begin a monotonous chant in a strange foreign language. I know I must comply and I edge forward, my curiosity replaced with sickly nausea.

I get a closer look at her. Her hair was matted with blood and salt. She still bore the mild expression of terror across her features. It was the money shot, but she was no longer a story, rather human.

A crystal glass appears from beneath a cloak and is placed beneath her slashed throat. Blood oozes down the sparkling crystal and fills the cup. 

The glass is raised and in unison, the crowd yells, ‘Salus!’

One by one, cloaks are lowered and the glass is sipped. The unmasking begins. Dozens of faces. Men, women, young, old. The cup moves closer to me. I know the exit is behind me, I consider making a run for it. The blush skies have likely been replaced with darkness. 

The man to my right takes a deep gulp and turns to me. His wiry white beard is now stained a deep red. He presents the cup to me. I shake as I lower my hood and take in the foul liquid. I feel the warmth descend my throat. I can no longer look at her as the metallic taste coats my tongue.

He cocks his head slightly, ‘What is your name, Novice?’

A breath catches in my throat as I utter my pseudonym, ‘Thomas.’

The reverence of the room vanishes as two hands grab me from behind. My cloak is torn from my body and the room erupts with anger. I feel my legs collapse as I am dragged through the furious crowd. The group claw at my body like flames licking the timber of a burning house.

My whining pleas are ignored and I find myself between the red velvet curtains as she had once been. I am dragged towards her rotating body. I had come here today, desperate to have my name tied to her story. I had pictured my parents on a sunny Saturday morning proudly reading my article over a cup of coffee.

My body is tied to the pole and I desperately try not to step on her body. I slip on the spiralled blood and my crumpled form folds over hers. We spin in parallel. I realise that there will still be a story. There will still be my name.