The tiny ballerina twirled on her golden pedestal, a slight smile painted on her rosy lips. Her perfect golden locks were bound up in a bun on the top of her head, and her eyes were closed in Madonna-like bliss. She twirled and twirled, her leg bent gracefully and her arms in a perfect O above her head, heedless of everything but the Tchaikovsky waltz emanating from her music box. She did not notice the little girl who watched her with disheveled blond hair and blue eyes filled with tears, did not notice the yelling from the hall, did not notice the smell of alcohol or the sound of breaking glass. She simply twirled, oblivious to the world around her.
As Marissa watched the dancer in the music box, she sobbed. She thought back to when she got the music box, after her first ballet recital two years ago. It was a gift from her parents, back when Father laughed more than he yelled and when Mother smiled more than she cried. Everything she could remember from those days seemed magical, like a fairy tale-- no, like a dream sequence in a ballet that would never end. Now almost every night there was screaming and shattering and crying coming from the kitchen, as Marissa sat in bed holding her breath, dreading that the angry footsteps and slamming doors would find their way to her room.
One more bottle shattered, and the kitchen door slammed. Marissa heard the dreaded footsteps stomping up steps. She heard muttering now too, angry and threatening and dark. She heard the Tchaikovsky waltz still playing softly, the ballerina's dance winding down. Marissa looked at the golden dancer in the music box. "I wish--"
Marissa twirled on her golden pedestal, a slight smile on her rosy lips. Her perfect golden locks were bound up in a bun on the top of her head, and her eyes were closed in Madonna-like bliss. She twirled and twirled, her leg bent gracefully and her arms in a perfect O above her head, heedless of everything but the Tchaikovsky waltz emanating from the music box. She did not notice the little girl slumped like a rag doll, disheveled blond hair nearly touching the floor, did not notice the muffled sobs and far-off sirens, did not notice the smell of blood or the glint of shattered glass. She simply twirled, oblivious to the world around her.
As Marissa watched the dancer in the music box, she sobbed. She thought back to when she got the music box, after her first ballet recital two years ago. It was a gift from her parents, back when Father laughed more than he yelled and when Mother smiled more than she cried. Everything she could remember from those days seemed magical, like a fairy tale-- no, like a dream sequence in a ballet that would never end. Now almost every night there was screaming and shattering and crying coming from the kitchen, as Marissa sat in bed holding her breath, dreading that the angry footsteps and slamming doors would find their way to her room.
One more bottle shattered, and the kitchen door slammed. Marissa heard the dreaded footsteps stomping up steps. She heard muttering now too, angry and threatening and dark. She heard the Tchaikovsky waltz still playing softly, the ballerina's dance winding down. Marissa looked at the golden dancer in the music box. "I wish--"
Marissa twirled on her golden pedestal, a slight smile on her rosy lips. Her perfect golden locks were bound up in a bun on the top of her head, and her eyes were closed in Madonna-like bliss. She twirled and twirled, her leg bent gracefully and her arms in a perfect O above her head, heedless of everything but the Tchaikovsky waltz emanating from the music box. She did not notice the little girl slumped like a rag doll, disheveled blond hair nearly touching the floor, did not notice the muffled sobs and far-off sirens, did not notice the smell of blood or the glint of shattered glass. She simply twirled, oblivious to the world around her.
