Blinding lights illuminate the flawless ice that reflects my glittering silver costume. If the crowd wanted to, they could glance at the rags I wear in the reflection and see the marionette strings that lace my limbs and keep my limp head held high. Of course, though, they keep their eyes trained on my smile, too busy being entertained to notice the glassy marbles that have replaced my eyes. I cannot be upset at their attention, for this smile is one that I chiseled from ice, tooth by tooth. I grin at the faceless crowd with bright red lips and sweep off my shiny shawl. It floats through the light-filled air before settling gently on the ice behind me. All around me, the crowd’s gazes meld and run over my body like molten lava, eager for the show they were promised.

​

From somewhere above the lake, nimble hands prick a harp’s melodious strings. The sound that echoes through the air sounds like angels dancing. I do not nod along with the beat – this is a song that I have danced every day for months, now. Nothing new, except for the layer of frost that settles on the cuts over my heart.

​

I think there was a time when the feeling of the lake’s cold breath on my face did not feel bitter. There was a time when I danced on the ice for the warmth that bloomed in my heart, rather than the applause of the crowd, and that warmth, not strings, held me up. There was a time when the ice was where I went to escape and ice my wounds over. I think I was happy once, but I cannot be sure. It has been too long.

​

Now, I look down as the same warmth drips down my chest. The strings holding me up tug sharply, and I leap dutifully into the air. Once, twice, three times, I spin around mid-flight before landing gracefully on the blades. In the ice’s reflection, I see myself crumple to my knees and weep soundlessly.

​

The harp sings brighter, and the knives on my feet slice through my sobbing face trapped in the ice. My skates make marks that are mirrored on my chest. I close my eyes during the figure eight, because the pain ate up my insides somewhere between my first steps onto the lake and now, and all that is left is hollow pride, dripping in crimson into the scars across my heart. My frozen fingers on both hands come to rest on my chest as my back arches backwards. They slowly smear red from my heart to my shoulders, then flick it into the glittering glass air. The blood swirls with the harp’s angelic notes.

​

Suddenly, the harp’s notes get wilder. They are harder to dance to now, and my feet scramble to catch up, sending me careening into spins that send me flying through the air again and again. I am twirling, twirling, twirling while the crowd roars louder in laughter. I watch as my tears fly into the blurry lights and form crystals that hover in the air, sharp as daggers pointed at my throat.

​

Seconds later, the harp begins to slow, and I desperately fling out my blood-soaked hands to stop the endless spinning. When I finally skid into a balanced pose, heaving through frozen lungs, there is a brief silence. The tear-daggers are suspended by string as they, too, wait for the crowd’s reaction. I feel nauseous when the crowd’s hands applaud politely. My tears shine knowingly in the last drops of light, but I smile through bloody lips while the world looks on indifferently.

​

One by one, the lights turn off in a circle. I catch a glimpse of my contorted face, ugly with bloody teeth within a horrible grimace, and my broken body, mottled by new scars. I finally let myself sink to the icy stage floor and claw at my throat to keep from choking. The clean cuts on my chest suddenly ache, now that the numbness of the bright lights and ethereal, glittering air has vanished. I hear the ice crack as the crowd leaves over my pounding heartbeat. The last note plays — an echoing, empty sound. The last light flickers out, and I am left halfway between infinite nothingness.

​

The ice is now a barrier between myself and the girl in rags, and I caress it gently. She is younger than I remember. I was right about not remembering, for the rest of her has already faded into silver wisps of memory.

​

Her eyes are red. I can see, now, that it is not the color of passion or love, but of the blood that billowed behind me like a cape. It is the color of passionless suffering that I spilled for the sake of an audience.

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Snip! goes the string that holds my head high. Dully, I feel the daggers of tears fall into the back of my neck while I look down at the ghost of myself through the black ice.