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Dance for me

Dance for me - Photoshop - ©2021 - Kryseis-Retouche

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CONTENT WARING: The short story may contain stuff that may not be liked by some users. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.

One last dance.

That's all I want.

Everything I want.

To dance just one last time.

But these legs won't let me.

These broken parts of me.

They have become my own prison.

Oh... this might even sound poetic. Oh, I'm sure someone out there would surely say so. And I would promptly try to tear his eyes out of their sockets for this.

In my whole life I was a dancer. Dancing was my only purpose in life and, when that was taken away from me, I became an empty husk, like my soul had been taken away from me.

Well, ok, maybe I wasn't completely sincere.

Maybe I should. After all, these are my final moments, my final confessional, before everything comes to an end.


I wasn't just a dancer. No, not really. I was... something else... something far more dark and bloody.

Try to take a wild guess.


Very well, if you said that I was a killer, din din din, you were right. You just won absolutely nothing 'cause this is not a fuck__g game-show. This is life. A cruel, shit_y place that slowly sucks away everything from you. And why the f__k every single cuss word I use is censured?

Wait, what was I saying again?

Oh, right, life isn't fair and all.


Yes, I was a killer. And a good one at that. During the day I would dance in some of the theaters of the city of London while, during the night, I would go around and kill for fun.

So, yeah, that' a quick recap of my life in the last years.

And I know that there's a good chance that you, reader, are about to trow these pages in that crackling fire right beside you and then take a drink from that cup of tea while thinking "I wanted to read something good, not the tale of a murderer". And that's ok. I won't judge you.

While if you're still there then you're probably asking yourself: why? Why did I start to kill?

And now would be the moment for me to tell you my very sad backstory like "my parents hated me and beat me up so I killed them", or "my parents loved me but they were killed by another killer and I decided to avenge them, then becoming the very thing I swore to destroy". But in reality those aren't the reasons.

My parents loved me, they raised me well and died of old age. They told me to follow my dreams and I did.

I wanted to dance because I thought that, this way, everything in the world, in my world, would fix itself. Because the world looked broken. The colors seemed wrong. Everything wasn't how it was supposed to be. Nothing was the way books depicted them. Nothing was perfect.

But, for a while, following my dream was everything that was needed for the colors to become right, for the cracks in reality to fix themselves.

But, in the end, it wasn't enough. In the end the colors started to become less what they should be. Less and less.

And then, one fateful night, it happened. After a show and a bit too much drinking I went for a walk out.

In an alley.

A dark alley.

Yeah, I know, I was simply asking for it.

And someone answered.

Some bandits, or was it a robber, or a rapist. I don't remember.

What I do remember is that, whatever it was that was on his mind, it was short lived.

Because after a moment he was there, lying face down on the street in front of me, a bloody hole in his chest. Blood had sprayed on my chest and face and hands.

And there, standing behind the robber, was a man wearing a fedora and a monocle, a gun in his right hand that he was now casually reloading with a smile on his lips.

I didn't scream. Probably in shock.

I lifted my hand to my face and looked at the little red pearls of blood on it.

And something ticked in me.

That red. That simple, oh so simple tonality of red, was enough to make all the colors look right again.

I smiled. And put my finger in my mouth. The metallic tinge on my tongue, oh so divine. A taste I would never forget.

And then I laughed. Probably histerically. Or, at least, to someone on the outside it would have surely seemed histerical. But, in reality, it was joy. Pure joy.

I ran towards the man and hugged him. A bit of blood had ended on his clothes as well. But I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all.

That was when I met Jack the Ripper for the first time.

Yes, you haven't misread. It was him.

People only think about him as a murder, a serial killer. But he was a gentleman. A gentleman whose world was as broken as mine.

We were made for each other.

And we kept going, killing and killing, person after person. And we could never have enough of that color that could fix our world even if only for just a little while. A couple our victims were found but, rest assured, we remained the feared ghosts of London.

My performances became better and better now that the world looked right. I became known, oh so known. And rich.

That helped. It always did. People would follow me everywhere, answer to every whim of mine without a word. They would follow me in any street. After all, how could this woman be a killer.

But, one night, I went too far. Someone had become suspicious, and that someone I had invited to my house, so that I could see his colors, and the look in his eyes when I killed him. It was like the best drug this world could offer.

But when I took the knife out, he was ready. He made me fall down those stairs, breaking my legs. The pain. Oh the pain, it was so much. I never thought a human could suffer so much.

I liked it.

And the man, he didn't run away to call the constables. No, his pride made him go down those stairs to try and finish what he started.

He wasn't expecting me to attack him back. He thought the pain would have blocked me in place.

The look of surprise on his face was so amusing. It made me smile, and laugh and cry with joy. And then he died, on top of me, and I tasted it again, that sweet blood of his.

But he still killed me, in a way.

He took away my legs. He took away those dances from me. He took away that sweet color.

And now, I'm writing this final letter to anyone who will find it. I called upon Jack. He will help me dance one last time, and then he will end my suffering, making me see the colors of the world the way they should be one last time.

I regret nothing.



The Observer looked at the mirror that wasn't still a mirror.

He observed as a man entered the room the woman was in.

He kept observing as they kissed each other and as he held her up.

He kept observing as they danced, them man doing all the work as the woman's legs hung limp under her.

He kept observing as they both smiled and laughed at their clumsiness. He had never been good at dancing. But he had become a little better after meeting her.

He kept observing as the man gently lowered the woman on her bed.

And he kept observing as the man gently put a knife where her heart was still beating and pushed.

The woman smiled and he could hear her say "Thank you".

Then the mirror became just that, just a mirror.

And Time was besides him: -What a strange couple.-

-They were both killers. I don't understand why there are this kind of protagonist.-

-That's reality for you. Sometimes the gods really hate a soul and give them the worst curse they can. To let them see what reality really is.-

The Observer didn't answer right away. Then: -You're right. I still have much to learn.-

And he walked away to observe another world.


Hi everyone. So... this was probably the most particular thing I wrote in a very very very long while. It's difficult to put yourself in the mind of a killer, very difficult. You have to try to see reality in their strange twisted way, understand it, and write it down in a way that can make a bit of sense. Task which is made quite more difficult from the fact that I don't know any killer. Please don't think bad of me, I'm no killer/sociopath/ [insert word that may describe some crazy person that kills for fun]. Now, this comment has become so long that my computer is starting to lag so I'll cut it short. I hope you still liked this story, I certainly find it interesting in its own way. So, bye bye!

SketchMonster1's avatar
Beautiful and sophisticated design. Incredible work.
GreenRuke's avatar
luvliartlady's avatar
EmyEmerald02's avatar

aHem- if no-one is gonna say it then fine ill do it_

First of all, the composition of this is beautiful- how the flowers (or nature, innocence of new life) are the light in the darkness of reality:+fav: (but that's how I see it I guess)

Second, how the pose reflects how beautiful some things are even if the malice isn't specifically noticed, and even how the flowers can be interpreted as wings! aRgh- the colors doe- the cool feel this has is so nice:heart: (or my house is cold but anYwaYs)

Can you tell I love this?? CAN YOU!?