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The music grows faster, more intense, like someone threw blood in the ocean and has created a frenzy. “Yes!” he cries out again in that velvety tone as he waltzes in and around the human birdcages. He’s keeping time to the beat, bowing an air violin. One arm crossing over the other as new waves of chills are birthed along my arms and my scalp tingles.
Is this my fate?
As the crescendo begins, he bows with more vigor, weaving in and out and around the dancing garden girls. A sheen of moisture forms on his brow, and his eyes are drunk with lust. But the women are silent. Faces expressionless. Eyes hollow like open graves.
“Bloom! Twirl! Yes! Yes! Yeeeesss!” His words are loud but in breathy pants.
His blooming flowers obey him and twirl counter clockwise, arms over their heads in a perfect arc, their naked inked bodies swaying at his command. To bloom. To dance. To bring him pleasure.
My brain refuses to register this nightmare. I want to go home. I want my family even though we’ve been having some turmoil lately. Like Dorothy in Oz if Oz were hell. I want to get back to Kansas to someone who loves me even if we fight.
He’s gliding around the bubbling fountain. This man is mad. How did I not see it before? I should be able to recognize the signs. I’ve seen madness, stared it down and even cowered to it. I did not see this.
I am trapped.
I am broken.
He’s furiously bowing in the air to the climactic moment, savoring every sick second. Suddenly, he drops to his knees, completely spent as the music softens, and then he rests on his back, his chest heaving and his eyes closed.
His cheeks are flushed, and he blows a satisfied, satiated breath from his lungs.
I think it’s over. This perversion. This sickness. But my heart continues to pound, and my throat feels parched and achy. A sharp stab throbs behind my right eye.
The naked dancers stay in standing position, their arms arcing over their heads.
What have I witnessed?
His smile sends a wintry shiver into my bones. It’s over for now. Or is an encore performance awaiting me? When did he teach them this synchronized dance? My pinky aches and reminds me if I do not comply to this twisted ballet, the next thing he breaks might be something bigger like a leg, an arm or elbow.
Maybe my neck.
Heat surges through my body, leaving me dizzy and jittery.
A humming begins in his lower register, and then he breaks into song. A rich, melodious voice that could rival Josh Groban’s. His arms rise up as if he’s trying to grab the sky as he sings.
Oh, so lovely garden girls
unfolding flowers
bloom for me in these dark hours
then you shall dance, and twirl and twirl
Look how lovely my garden girls.
Peace flushes his face.
Deafening silence permeates the room as the dancing girls resume their former pose: knees drawn into the chest, arms wrapped around their legs and heads bowed on the tops of their knees.
I realize then the greater, more frightening picture. These women, these flowers, are closing for dusk. Limbs are petals. Their faces the center bud.
A balloon deflates in my chest, leaving me breathless. I gasp and pant, but a deep breath eludes me. I hang my head between my knees and force myself to breathe. If he hears, he’ll come near, and the last thing I want is the master of the garden to frown upon me.
Even those bring pain and destruction.
But beyond these walls and this island, I’m being searched for. I continue to tell myself this, and my chest loosens. My breaths even out.
I will be found.
