Act III, Scene V

Born a person, he told me. Amunet was born a person. I remember standing there as Mr. Muto explained it all; how once upon a time, Amunet could have been a girl like me, or even Angeline and Fantasme. Amunet could have ruled at Yami's side, just as fair and virtuous as he. Amunet could have smiled and laughed and danced and conversed. But she didn't. She sobbed and ached and broke and beat. Queen Kemat was closer to her than anyone. Before she was queen, she was Amunet's handmaiden. While she braided her hair, fixed her pillows, painted her kohl, fastened her jewelry, the words that would have passed between the two of them probably had more heart than any of Pharaoh's commands. And who better to tell than someone like Kemat, a servant who had to keep your secret or else lose their lips. Or worse.

Mom is out picking up some dinner- Chinese, I think she said. Wasn't quite listening. I don't think my mind made the walk back with me from Yugi's place on this snowy night. It must have been left there beside Mr. Muto, still trying to wrap itself around everything that he said. Born a person. Kemat, who had every reason to damn her, did her best to protect Amunet from the bowels of Ammut the Devourer. I'm sure in thinking that Solomon's words have something- if not everything- to do with what Fantasme said too. Meet her as she had met the arrow. But how does one meet an arrow? I'd be terrified, knowing that my death is right on the tip of it, feeling it plunge through my heart where the rash still burns. And my poor Fantasme, still locked away in that odious asylum. She had met the arrow, she had Amunet. But is she really alive? Really free? If I can save myself, will I end up like her? But if I don't try, I'll end up like Angeline. How will I know which path is better when my time comes?

Either way, it feels to me like Angeline's threat is already happening to me; pretty pink ballet laces tightening around my throat.

Now I am in the basement of my home, still lost in the mist of my thoughts. With a hardwood floor and a large open space, it makes an almost ideal dance studio. The only differences are all the boxes stacked against the unpainted walls and the sofa I shoved out of the way years ago. Mom hardly comes down here so I never have to worry about her rearranging anything. And there aren't walls made of mirrors like in Madame Thibeault's torture chamber where you can watch yourself suffer and sweat. Point your toes, jump higher, smile brighter, don't rush your motions, I can hear her wicked voice hissing. There is only one mirror down here; one with an old, iron frame and gothic design. Probably my great-grandmother's or something. I line myself up in front of it, only seeing now how disheveled and sallow I look.

You'd think that after tonight, and knowing that opening night is tomorrow, I should be resting. I can't. I feel like if I rest, I'll never get back up again. I'll end up curling under my blankets and rotting 'til the worlds forgets me. But I suppose that's out of the question- although it does seem like a pretty good option right now. So I plug in the buds of my iPod and latch it onto my armband. The Sands of Solipsism, Op. 14, Act I Adagio Suite For Seven Wives.

Even when I'm not under the hellacious eyes of my ballet instructors, it's practice, practice, practice. Yet still Solomon Muto's words linger. They swish between the laces of my pointe shoes as I tie them snuggly. They're in the bun pulling my hair that has become a rat's nest after a long day. I can't look at myself for too long in the mirror or I'll see them written there beside me. And what's more, a sour taste hangs in each breath, knowing what happened between Yugi and I. I can't quite say that we're back to normal or that we've made-up. Maybe we've both just come to an understanding; that whatever happened is something we both need to swallow. There's nothing we can do but hopefully move on with time. The only thing is, I don't know if I have time. I could be dead by this hour tomorrow.

Regardless, the heartbreak shows in my dancing. I can even feel it. Not a muscle moves without burning over how much I wish Yugi and I could just be us again. Maybe that's the whole reason why I even wanted to see him again; to just pretend like none of this ever happened. Haha, l-o-l, j-k, I'm not possessed by an evil Egyptian queen who wants to murder you. Of course not. I'd rather us be smitten in silence, just as friends who are too bashful to tell each other how we feel, than to finally have him for a moment and then die on stage. It wouldn't be fair to either of us.

Born a person. Died a monster?

Now as I piqué again, thoughts of Amunet tighten all my motions, make me dance more fierce and noble. What hate in her can compose a dance like this? Why is it that when I bring my hands into my chest and reach them out again it feels like I'm ripping my heart out? The motions of my stress and delusion become this cycle. Solomon. Yugi. Amunet. Fantasme. Repeat. Solomon. Yugi. Amunet. Fantasme. And again. Five, six, seven, eight. With all these horrors and swarming thoughts, it's hard to remember where I am in the dance. I won't let Amunet control my body, so I have to stay focused.

C'mon, Tea! You know the movements. You've been practicing since you were a little girl, remember? Back in your room, before you were even ready for pointe shoes? Before you knew Angeline would have to die before you got the main role? Before you saw the frosted indifference screaming in Fantasme's eyes?

I feel my body more heavily now. Perhaps it takes a little away from the perfection and grace of my lonesome performance, but it beats Amunet possessing my body again. I have more control over myself than I realized.

Yes. Focus on the dance. I've memorized each part because it was my dream to dance this role. Focus, focus, focus, or else Amunet will have my body! The steps? What were the steps? Fourth position. Open arms. Plié . Foot to passé. Close arms. Turn. Born a monster. No, born a person. Met the arrow, then died a monster. Fifth position. Spring up. Echappé sauté. Land in demi-plié. But the way he looked at me. Was that the work of a person or a monster? Yugi was hurt. it's my fault. I hurt him. I shouldn't have let Amunet have me. I wasn't strong enough. Sur le cou-de-pied. Pas ballonné. Breathe, reach up. Glissade. Grande jeté. Land toe, ball, heel. The next time he looks at me, it won't be one of those shy glances he'd sneak during geometry, or a blushing smile when I cheered him at tournaments. He'll be looking at a corpse in a coffin. He'll try to hold back the tears as he places flowers before me. Just like Angeline's parents did for her and her sister. They lost two daughters. I should apologize to them. Don't know what for, but I should at least offer my condolences.

Born a person. Died a monster. That's what Solomon said. Large fifth position. Step into demi-plié on right foot. Second position. Turn en dedans. Thrust left leg en l'air. Complete the turn. Can I really do this? The only one who has is Fantasme, and do I really want to be her? Maybe I did, but now? Guards, needles, no time to talk. The way she screamed when they pulled her down the hall. She's my burning ballerina. Meet Amunet at the edge of the stage as she had met the arrow. That's what Fantasme said. Entrechant. Reach and relax. Fouetté en tourant. Faster. Faster. Faster. Kill. Kill. Kill. One-two down. One-two down.

I keep falling out of my turns. Nothing I do sticks right with the music and my body is burning up. It shouldn't be this hot. I shouldn't be this tired. It's been hardly any time at all. Amunet is writhing through me, wanting to own the dance in me. I can't let her! I have to focus! I lift onto my toes again and turn. Then I slip. So I try again. And slip again. Turn. Fail. I try to remember everything I was taught. Why aren't I spinning right? I'm snapping my movements. I'm whipping my head in the direction I'm turning. Yet I still stumble out of my first rotations. It's just one-two down. One-two down! Slip again.

I can almost imagine Angeline snickering with her pack of flat-chested, frail, snooty followers. They used to stand off to one side of the room when they were all finished showing off how perfect their techniques were. Virtuoso: Madame liked to title them. But while the rest of us were sweating, sore, and infuriated by our failures, they liked to pick out the weakest in the herd of us dancers in the room. As if they were about to attack the sick, the weak, and slow like hungry wolves. However, after the pack went up to the roof for a smoke, Angeline stayed behind and helped some of us out. I mean, in her rude, condescending way. So even as I fall out of my turns again and again, I can practically see her green eyes poking fun at me, and then her coming over to point out my mistakes. My first instinct would be to brush her off and resent her. But inside I'd know she was usually right.

"Don't rush the turn," I hear her say. "Bring your arm to your chest, don't leave it out too long."

Pretending she's here beside me is slightly comforting. I lift up again, doing as my imaginary Angeline says, and finally hit a decent pirouette. A rush breezes through me. Relief, exhilaration, and anxiety all at once cloud my veins and bound into my heart. For some reason, this feels like the greatest accomplishment in the word to me. It's a small victory at best considering that there are tons of them in The Sands of Solipsism. I've known how to do these since I was, like, thirteen. But now it feels better than ever. I could almost giggle with delight as Amunet had at Yami's touch. So I go again. Perfect. Again. Smooth. Pirouette after pirouette and everything seems to be working just fine. I can feel all my limbs, hear every heart beat, breathe every breath. This is me.

Born a person, died a monster.

That's when the world stops. In mid-turn, I am met with horrifyingly black, unblinking eyes. A full body, hellish scowl and all, stands harsh and bleak against the grey plaster backdrop of my basement walls. Nothing escapes those eyes. They've slowed and distorted my own world so that the moment I spy her feels like an eternity. I somehow find them in my consternation, and regret ever locking eyes with hers. Those mendacious orbs should belong to a demon, not this girl with otherwise innocent features. It is like looking out your bedroom window at night, into the black unknown, and always wondering who might be staring back or what might pop out. And seeing her so unbelievably close to me- being able to gasp in a breath of her chilling presence- makes my brain just turn off. My body breaks beneath me. I simply stop, crashing into the mirror behind me.

The sound is loud. A cacophony of glass splinting in every which way, the iron frame toppling to the floor, my body landing amongst the broken bits of my reflection. A few of the larger pieces leave blood trails along my arm, especially at the elbows where my body lands heavily. One of those painful, aggravated growls tremor through my throat as I scream. Maybe more from shock than of actual pain. There's a whole amalgam of sharp emotions stabbing me. Frustration. Terror. Disdain. Foolishness. With the glass shards sending pain on its merry way through my arms, I break. I simply can't do this anymore. Everything erupts within me. I scavenge for the largest piece of the mirror I can grab in the split second my brain actually does something. It's out of my hands and exploding into the wall like a firework before I even knew what to do with it.

"What do you want from me?" I howl, though it's not entirely a question. There is no reply but the silence after a storm. Suddenly my breath is louder than ever, clouding over my ears like it was the only sound that ever was. It echoes from wall to wall, and I don't remember when I started breathing so hard. The dance wasn't even that strenuous yet. My body is trembling dangerously. I ache, shake, and quake like Amunet's victims had in their last bloody moments. I hate to think she's won, but the negativity bursting through me seems all too like a trophy to her. This spite growing inside me- the dread, the rage- I swear she gets off on this. And just thinking about how happy my frustration is making her shifts things from bad to worse. She's taunting me and I'm sick of it! I don't know how much more I can take until I-

Until I am like Angeline. I stop and think. No. This is exactly the reaction she wants. She wants me to give in and fear her like Angeline and all the other dancers. She doesn't need to kill me when she can giggle and applaud as I kill myself. This must be how she tests the meat. Oh, Angeline… is that why you won't leave my mind today? Are you trying to warn an old rival?

I grunt again, trying to avoid crunching on more glass as I stand. My pointe shoes are ripped at the sides with bits of the mirror wedged inside, just nicking my feet. As I reach down to pull the pieces out, I expect to see myself in a dazed shock, or even feel Amunet's hand around my neck. I don't. Instead, I see her in the reflection in some shady parallel universe. I stand tall, my feet echoing hers in the shards beneath my feet. I can almost feel them under me. I look down at her, and she looks down- or up?- at me. The ceiling above her is nothing like mine; it's rimmed with intricate designs and patterns, and squirming with shadows. Moonlight rains in on her. A simple smoke, probably incense, tangles around her. My reflection is her floor. Blood trickles down her arms. She had probably just killed. Some of it makes her dress blush. Then it plops down in great, heavy drops from the tips of her tiny fingers. They splash on her side of the mirror, right beside my feet. Drip. Drip. Splash. Splash.

Lost splatters hop onto my ankles and the pale pink of my shoes. That's when I realize that these blood drops are a two-way street. The cuts on my elbows are leaking the coagulating mush all down the sides of my arms too. Droplets fall from my fingers just like they do for hers. They then meet at the mirror parting our two worlds and bounce back in war. I am completely entranced, longing to know what other horrible fairytale she is trying to tell me. Amunet reaches for a piece of glass beneath our feet and lifts it into her upside down world. I can't decide whether I'm awake or asleep. It all seems like one big hallucination. But…

"Tea?" mom calls from above. "Tea, I'm home."

I shift all my attention towards the stairs. A shadow sifts over the top steps. Maybe mom walking upstairs. But why don't I hear footsteps? I try for words and yet nothing comes out. I want to yell, say that I'm down here, or at least know if I can get a reply back. I can't, though. My throat wants none of it- no voice, no breath. Everything catches and sticks, like the moment I'd clicked eyes with the killer. And speaking of! When I look back into the broken bits of mirror, I can't find Amunet's image in any of them. All that is left of her world is the dark palace ceiling, empty moonlight, and the incense puff that is now free to roam where her presence had prevented.

She's gone. The moment that thought fully sinks in, my heart dips. Why had she picked up that glass? Where did she go? Why'd she leave the second she heard my mom come in? If she touches her, I'll… I can't! Those thoughts won't even process in my head now. All that matters is getting to my mom before Amunet does. I push off the glass as hard as I can. Adrenaline has suddenly coated me in a strength I've so rarely felt before. My legs pump and hurdle up the stairs, take me around the corners of my house as fast as ever.

"Mom!" I call. "Mom, are you ok?"

There is no reply. Only my cat Kuriboh comes running. His little bell rattles in his hurry. I use my feet to kind of scoot him away in a gentle football motion.

"Go, Kuriboh. Go outside." I push him towards the cat door. It is said that cats are some of the most spiritual beings around. They can sense your emotions, lay with you when your feeling ill, even see spirits. And though Kuriboh remains simply a giant poof, he knows something's up. The cat hisses stubbornly. I want to say he's trying to hold me back from a fight, maybe even fight the battle for me. His arched back and glaring canines only prove more to me that Amunet is here and wants to kill, kill, kill.

"No." I say again to the cat. "Get out of here." He seems to understand, this wonderful child of Bast, and eventually toddles out the door in a haughty mood. I scour the kitchen for a weapon. I'll even take a pan if I can't find a knife. Not sure what either of these will do against a spirit, but having one with me makes me feel just that much safer. I lunge for a knife in the dish rack and wield it sturdily at my side. Now it's just matter of finding the one was born a person and died a monster. Finding Amunet, a shadow with a name, amongst the darkness.

"Mom?" I call again. My voice savors of fear. I cringe at every creaky floorboard, bite my lip at every thumping footstep. The staircase to the bedrooms is even worse. Even mounting the first step means wrestling between fight or flight impulses. It feels like the banister is shaking furiously beneath me until I realize that it's my hand that's still trembling. I ask again for mom, and when there is no reply again, I begin to fear the worst. I can see it in my head. I'm going to walk into mom's bedroom and find her mangled body scattered around the room. Her head on the nightstand, her arms dangling from the curtains. Or I'm going to have to follow a bloody trail and watch mom kill herself in the bathroom like Angeline did. I'm sure my screams will wake every tingle of pleasure in Amunet's being.

How I wish Yugi were here now. No matter the circumstance, no matter the enemy, he'd never give up. He'd be brave although his insides would be in total panic mode. Joey, too, would laugh away his worries. He and Tristan would charge into battle blindly if it meant saving those they love. Why can't I be more like them? Why can't I have the heart of Yugi? The strength of Joey and Tristan? The faith and passion of Pharaoh? Can I master all that Fantasme had? I may think I'm alone on this voyage into the darkness, but even now I can see their faces reassuring me in the back of my mind. They're telling me to go on, fight. They're telling me to be brave, to meet the arrow.

"Mom?" I try one last time, her bedroom door tapping the wall. My knuckles go white around the knife. It is so quiet that there's a wave of ringing noises in my ear. I hate that feeling; when you're in a closed, silent room, it suddenly feels like your ears are clogged and it's so quietly loud? Yeah. That's what entering this room is like. Through the wash of silent noise, a real ringing sound emerges. The ringing that pierced the ears of the ballet company when it scratched through the stereo. It's so high pitched and sharp, it's practically cutting my eardrums. I hear how the sound waves wiggle inside me. It's the sound of Amunet's presence and the ominous shrill of darkness to come.

I swing around hard, and start stabbing the air behind me. But she's already there, her hands conveniently snaked around my throat before I can plunge the knife down. One thundering growl later, and she's shoving me all the way across the room until our bodies slam against the wall. The chandelier above mom's bed writhes with the impulses of my head hitting hard against the sheetrock.

There's a real weight holding me down. There's a real clammy, meaty presence gripping my throat. Amunet is really here, really trying to kill me. I can reach out and touch her, like I do when I try to tug on her arms. Her skin is like wet clay, barely holding any shape over her limbs. But I can't deny the sheer power in her. Someone so brittle and dead like her has me locked against the walls and I can scarcely move. I fear her fingers may pierce my throat at any moment. Where does all her strength come from? It's like how Angeline held me against the lockers. Is that why she was so strong that day? Because she was possessed?

I can't think about that now. I have to get out of her grip. The knife in my hand hardly gets any where since I'm pinned, but I manage to bring it up to her elbow. She knows it's coming. I see her glance at it and yet she does nothing but tighten her grip. She lifts my head off the wall and thrusts it back again and again and again. My head pounds as she tries to crack it open. I croak in pain, my voice given a little more jolt every time my head lands back into the wall. I have to get out of this now. Now! With the best swing I can get, I slip the knife into her elbow. The feeling of it greeting the bone is horrible and still tingles in my fingers. I gag with what little breath I have. Of course, I'm not strong enough- or willful enough- to send it passing through her completely. But it's enough to loosen her hands. And the second she does, I burst with all my might and body slam her away from me.

She snarls. She's a predator whose just lost her prey and is now fueled by frustration. I don't get far in running away from her, though. I've only made it into the hallway when there's a hand around my ankle. She yanks me back and I fall onto my chest. Rug-burn seizes me for a moment until my body remembers there's a whole other pain to be feared. My hands reach for the stairway banister so that she can't pull me farther. But she does. She tries so hard to pull me that I can't hold on any longer. I end up rolling into her clutches where we wrestle for dominance. I am not the match for her that Yami was. I am like a doll she wants to see how far my head will stretch until it snaps off. But through it all, I try to look at everything but her eyes. I know that if I do, I will see my death in them. I will see how pathetically I struggle beneath her, the terror reflecting in my own eyes.

But then there is more. Amongst the blur of my tumbling, swatting, and punching, there is a new scent emerging in a cloud above us. A real haze! And I can smell it too; the smoke.

"Shit." I say between gritted teeth. I think it's the first time I've ever really cursed out loud. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!"

Landing a kick that uses all my ballet muscles finally pays off. My foot sinks into her concave stomach. Mummification has left her without organs, so there's no gut to stop my foot from diving beneath her ribs. Her skin acts like an elastic band that holds her together, and it's the only thing keeping my kick from making a crater in her torso. She stumbles backwards, almost over the railing itself. I spring into my room where I know I'll find my cell phone on the bed. The smoke scratches at my eyes. I'm not surprised to find that my room is set almost completely alight. Flames chew up the curtains and devour my furniture. But I spy my phone in a tangle of bed sheets and hop over flames and the clothes I've been meaning to put away.

It's so hot. The fire then attacks my vanity, pecking at every photo and magazine cut out it can reach. I almost stumble into the flames on my way to my bed. And just as I'm about to slip the phone into my hands, Amunet is on me. She takes a wad of my hair between a fearsome grip and rips it out without mercy. The cruelest scream I have mixes with the roar of flames. The clump of brunette is tossed back into my face when she figures she has no real use for it. And then she knees me in the face, backs me up into a corner, and pushes my computer desk into me. Which even though I'm being pummeled to death in Amunet's tragic rage, I realize is what started the fire. A piece of the broken mirror wedged into a couple of the wires, and the outlet completely enflamed and melted.

I can't even scream anymore. I just moan and groan whenever another punch comes or she throws another bottle of perfume that so happens to graze me. Call me crazy, but I swear she doesn't mean to hurt me. Maybe shoving someone into a wall with a heavy desk is just her way of saying 'I need something'. I know. Ridiculous. But as much pain as I'm in, I can't help but notice how frantic she is and how it's not all towards me. This might be my way out. My only chance! She paces, prowling like a lion in the brush. My cell phone is still on the bed. If only I could reach it. It's so close and yet so far. And what if she sees me trying to grab for it? I have to try. My arm barely makes it, my fingers barely touch it. It's too far. Tears swell in my eyes. Is this really going to be how I die? How much longer until the flames pick up my scent? Until they swallow me whole?

I suppose it's a good thing that the fire burns so loudly. Otherwise, Amunet would hear how I sob like a baby. There's hardly any air for me to breathe between wails, but the moans and inaudible words keep coming anyways. I don't want her to see how death scares me. I don't want her to see the victory in me crying. But I can't stop. Won't stop. A little water will be good for these flames anyways.

There's a photograph on the floor. Only nipped by flames, I can still see the smiling faces of my friends. Joey. Tristan. Serenity. And my dear, dear Yugi. I'm in the middle, bunny-earring Joey and Yugi, and smiling like I haven't had in so long. I don't want to believe this is the end. But, the again, I didn't want to believe in the curse of The Sands of Solipsism either. Yet here I am. Flames closing in around me. My body pinned. The murderous Egyptian Queen's eyes sharper than ever in their black universe. I hear their voices even beyond the moment when the flames eat up photo. Their laughs, their goofing around, their inspirational speeches while one of dueled our way to victory.

I try one last time for the phone, pushing on the mattress to hopefully make it slide my way. The phone is heated already when it touches my hand.

"Yugi," my voice trembles.

"Tea? What's wrong?"

"Yugi, listen to me."

Amunet hears me. Her eyes snake my way before she turns whole body in my direction. She's disgusted that I even breathe. And with one cocked eyebrow and those menacing eyes, I know there isn't much time.

"What's all that noise? Tea?"

"Don't come to the ballet tomorrow." I croak.

"What?"

"She'll kill you."

And that's it. If I'm saved, I'm saved. There's nothing more I can do but have faith in my Yugi. He always knows what to do. And my eyes slowly, slowly succumb to the stinging of smoke. The last thing I see is Amunet between a blur of heavy lashes. She is staring. Just staring. Like she always has. Like she always will.

One chapter left! O to the Siris!

Update coming soon (or as soon as I think soon needs to be)

Haha. Thank you, pretties!