Gazette No 82

This is her song -

My name is Barbara - and we danced the night away in the Dance Hall. The music played in a dark rhythm but I could still see the lights.

Every note echoed off shiny boards and ornately-decorated walls. My feet were as one with The Stranger, who enthralled me and with whom I was enraptured. I held The Stranger close, lost in the flow of musical notes and the swirl of a dinner gown.

The Stranger was my friend yet the fear was cold and black. The Stranger was black. Everything was black.

There was a shaft of ecstasy from the lights, high. They called me, the lights, and I saw them as one blur, so bright behind the adorable black.

I saw me and The Stranger in the dazzle-gloom. And we danced. And we danced slowly and then slower until shiny shoes barely touched the boards. Floating. Held firm. Caressed. Entreating!

Oh, such bliss! Such oblivion! Take me to this place! Take me now!

The Intruder thrust a hand into this black. Hurting. Holding tight. Shouting! I begged The Intruder let me go. Let me dance! Let me glide away!

Let it be!

And then there were garish lights and faces, and people talking, rough with me, shouting, whispering, prodding, poking, stabbing pain in my arms. Masks! Oxygen!

At least I can breathe now.

How I love and hate those who saved me, who stopped the dance, who wrenched The Stranger away from me, from my aching arms. It was so good in the black and the lights, and the warmth of The Stranger.

I am sorry, father. Are you watching? Are you with me now?

Does anyone really see who I am? Do they know me? Do I know myself? Do I want to know myself?

Over and over the song goes on. I hear the song.

Can you?

This is my song - the beginning that is the end and the end that is the beginning.