2019-05-22 - Dancing Bears

People mistake the witching hour as midnight. After all, midnight is the liminal hour, the time between. But for Gina, the witching hour was always 3 AM. And there was always a fifty-fifty chance she was awake for it. Tonight was one of those nights, as she sat tucked away at the booth farthest from the door, rereading her copy of Евгений Онегин, lips slowly murmuring along with the Russian stanzas. It was a habit from-- she didn’t know, anymore. Who was it that said that poetry should always be be read aloud, mouthed and held on the tongue to fully taste it? It didn’t matter: it was habit now. And even if she cared, there was no one to judge her for it: the diner was empty, save the muffled sounds of the night shift cook watching Netflix in the back, and the smooth jazz muzak she chose so as not to distract from her reading.

It was sometime during Eugene’s famous rebuff that she heard it. No longer jazz, but Stravinsky, the rustle of cloth, the murmurs and laughter of a group. She didn’t look up from the words in front of her, not at first, just closed her eyes and took a deep breath, smelling perfume, champagne-- something-- musky? Before she could quite place it, something heavy, soft, fell upon her head with a gentle, ponderous caress. And so Gina closed her book and looked up-- and knew that she absolutely had crossed, once again.

Around her a ballroom glittered, fine polished wood gleaming in intricate patterns of color and grain that, along with the firelit lamps and multitude of crystal chandeliers, lent the whole of the room a warm glow. And everywhere around, large, true-sized bears were dressed in their finest 19th century Russian aristocratic dress, the sows bedecked in jewels and rich, dark colors, the boars in their long uniforms and formal uniform dress, all on their haunches, growling gossip and niceties. Tilting her head back, Gina looked up at the weight on her head, and there saw the 9ft bear next to her, its heavy, sharp-clawed paw petting her violet hair. He - it was dressed as a male bear, after all - looked down at her, and she felt her stomach clench, briefly, when she spotted the eyes. A light blue-grey, like someone spilled ink into milk. Oh. This memory. She thought, because she knew those eyes.

<<You look far too pretty tonight to stick to the walls, little mouse. You may be a little bored, but you are big enough to go and greet the guests, don’t you think?>> The bear rumbled, and Gina looked down to find herself dressed in a rather frilly black confection, complete with mary janes and dainty black lace gloves, before she looked up at one of her many stepfathers.

<<I wanted to watch Mom dance with everyone, Father.>> She replied, and the bear roared - Gina flinched, scrambling to her feet before she realized it was a laugh, and Step-Bear Dad held a ginormous paw towards her.

<<Come, little mouse, you will dance with me.>> He ordered, and just like then, Gina gingerly put her hand in his giant paw, and with a swirl he brought her into the circle of dancing bears, all of whom dwarfed her. Her spine straight, she glanced up at the dignified boar, whose eyes kept staring down at her, sharp. And then there it was: that soft tickle behind her mind, the coaxing, the little whisper to trust, to believe, and she had her answer. The clenching feeling in her stomach flip flopped, because how many claws were sharp and true? How many were real. A mirthless smile tugged at her lips, as the agent of the Dark spun her deeper, faster into the whirlwind, until all she could see around her was a swirl of teeth and cloth, fur and jewels.

<<See? Isn’t this better? Not having to stay close to the walls. You are such a pretty girl, after all. You know all these steps so well. Just like your pretty speech. You have a talent, little mouse.>> The rumble came from her bear, as he spun her, once, twice, thrice, until her back was to him, and the claws circled her stomach - she sucked in a breath reflexively - as he led her around the floor, almost as a display, and she could see the glitter of dark eyes, the knowing smiles.

Gina tamped down on her fear, crushed it small until it was diamond-hard, a speck that she began covering with layers of annoyance. Disdain. A touch of outrage. And polished with a little determination. Layer by layer, as she let her mind begin to shuffle, orient itself to prepare for-- anything necessary. Opportunity. An opening. All the while, the rumble continued as the predator kept stealing the voice, the memories, a rumble of sweet words and the gentle tug, trying to sway her, get her to trust, to follow, the tone gradually deepening, as she followed his lead in the old waltz.

<<You belong beneath the bright lights, like your mother did. You belong with society, with people who all wish to see you, listen to you.>> He chuckled, kindly, like the memory she had of that particular victim of her mother’s had. <<You cannot deny the lineage. The blood. It is psychology, genetics, nurture. Look how well you wrapped Kalvin around your finger-- >>

<<My Dad.>> She almost growled, and in return she felt herself lifted up, tossed with a jolt into the air and caught, slathering jaws snapping at her face with a snarl -- missing by inches, a warning -- before she was dropped again onto wobbly legs, but her fear was deep now. Deep and polished, and the words slipped on its surface.

<<But weren’t we all your dads? Such a kind little mouse to us. But so cold, weren’t you? You knew precisely what was going on, and you left us to it.>> Again that roar of laughter, the rumble of which she could feel through his arms. It almost distracted her from brush against her mind, though he didn’t even try to hide it. <<Sullen and cold, and full of scorn. So much better than the world.>> Gina’s eyes skimmed the room, watching the swish of skirts, the timing of the song. Smooth, smooth, smooth, nonstick, teflon tender. She repeated to herself, over and over, letting her eyes wander. Look for the details. <<So superior to your mother, when all you did was exactly what she’s done. Lie, and twist, and deflect. And fail. So much failure.>> She could hear the taunt in his words, despite the sad, grieved tone.

But that didn't matter. Because they’d finally made it, just now, a moment near a window with a clear view. With a sudden mental shove, she slammed the chandelier above them up, just a few inches, rapidly, suddenly, so it crashed and rained down crystal and wax and flame. The thing stealing a stepfather’s eyes looked up with a snarl, but before he could tighten his claws she slipped away, running as she ballooned her shields. So thin, thin as a card, smooth as teflon, fueled by anger and determination, while behind her she could hear the angered roar, the heavy steps that shoot the floor as they approached closer and closer, and she reached even deeper to that pearl of fear and finally - finally took hold of it, and she flung it behind her.

Like the combs from fairy tales, she felt the fear tangle them, trying to shove away the fear, but she was already gone through the door, breathing heavy into the cold sparkling snow, which splattered into her skin, wetter and wetter, until she could no longer feel the heft of her skirts. She stopped, gasping for breath, hands on her denim-covered knees, soaked to the skin with rain. She pushed darkened strands of violet from her eyes, looking around, sighing with relief to find herself outside. A block away. And clutching the stitch in her side, she turned, to make her way back to the diner, looking very much like a drowned rat by the time she arrived.

Four thirty six. Safely past the doubting hour. The witching time.

For now.