I pause upon the doorstep of the old broken building at the end of the alley. It is dark and small, and the heavy wooden door with the rusty iron hinges ominously dares me to open it. And I do. Because I must.

I tell myself I'll skip this stop tomorrow. Of course I know I won't. I say this every day. And sometimes I almost believe it.  Today the beast is calling me and the crawling of the pins upon my skin a small price to pay for my bitter regret.

I have spent my lifetime bending bones and stretching muscles beyond their natural ability to soak the glory of the spotlight as lead dancer. Tonight we have our biggest show to date, "The Nightingale" and I will be dressed in the wings waiting and ready just in case the young and perfect Celine is injured or ill. And I will stop the praying that she is. For I am not too ignorant to know these crooked abused bones wouldn't make it through flawlessly. 

Last month Omar told me I was just a bit "too old" for the role I felt angry. But the truth is, I also felt relieved. The fight of pushing to prevent this day is over. His words confirm the steady screaming of my back and constantly bleeding feet, my time in the spotlight has ended.

As I enter my now familiar haven I feel the smoky dense haze wrap around me like a lover. Ghostly smoke fingers stroke my tired sagging skin and lift  me with the promise of rest from the pain that comes with the death of a lifetime of dreams. It is the only place that forgives my bitterness and wraps me in acceptance without sacrifice. My lover, my friend, a release from myself.

The opium pipe calls to me, beckoning with wanton fingers. It needs me as much as I need it. Scents intoxicate me, a mixture of sweat, oriental spices, and tobacco. Clouds of smoke hover overhead. I watch in mild interest as some ghost-like creature nestles up close and whispers a thousand little lies.

Each one sits upon my neck like a caress. Magalina, the hostess, brings me a tray and pipe. The long wooden match with the bright red head shakes in my trembling fingers as I strike it upon the stone. It's sweet sulfur smell mixes with the air as its wisps of grey smoke dance above my head.

I inhale deeply, although never deep enough. Only after I have thickened the smoke on the ceiling do my senses finally begin to dull chasing away memories and worry. My muscles uncurl and relax and the blood running through my veins slows, as if its just remembered its purpose is to create and not just sustain. My vision blurs and the thick white vapors swirl to form a symphony of shadow and light.

Finally, I feel it, the burn and crackle, as the force of heated air is absorbed and pushing the white haze through pathways until it sits
upon my brain. Tendrils of fingers with thousands of needles poke and prod. Awakening my dream state, feeding the beast that always demands more. My skin begins to itch and buzz from the inside out.

The rough heaviness of this foreign skin I wear weighs upon me and in my stupor I gouge my fingers to burrow beneath it for release from its constriction. It raises itself into vision and twirls above me in the smoke. My true form begins stretching and elongating. My painful frame cracks and straightens and I hear the string sound of my taut muscles stretching. My calloused worn feet straighten and without my burdened soul I am weightless and take the form of a young fresh dancer. Twirling and bending effortlessly and without pain as I only can in these opium dreams.

I feel a searing burning from inside my barren chest and daggers begin to protrude through my skin. Feathers grow from the chutes in slow motion and I watch my form contort to become the nightingale. My arms stretch and crack birthing wings that stretch to fill the room.

Free at last I soar above the haze, above the slum where I hide to feed the demon in me that demands the pipe. Soon I am circling above the Opera House.  In this vision form I can see the spectators sitting hands clasped in anticipation while orchestra members and dancers watch the heavy curtain drag across the stage.

I soar downward.  Down past ceilings and lights. Down to the center of the stage batting away the flitting dancers with a single swipe of my wing. I shimmer and twirl effortlessly transfixing the audience who sit in silent reverence.

As I twirl weightless and free, death enters stage left. Black cloak dragging across the speckled marble floor. With a darkened face and hollowed eyes he smiles at me. His mouth opens wide and he releases a low and mournful sound, causing all to pause and watch. I stand stiff as he approaches me with his skinless black boned hand reaching toward my neck.

With the lifting of his arm I glimpse his torso. Bones of black covered with bits of frayed thin swinging muscles connecting to nothing. Clinging to his rotting torso are shriveled bits of dead dreams, conquered spirits, and shredded hope. Deep in the center is emptiness so vast I cannot find an ending. Every fiber of me pulls toward its comforting nothingness.

I lift my voice in agony. My mouth fills with blood as my lips stretch and harden becoming a sharp protruding beak. Death's hand connects with my soft feathered throat and I close my eyes and release a scream from my burnt lungs. My voice becomes transformed mid scream into the song of the Nightingale. It's perfect pitch resounds clearly off the walls.

Death stops. His hand, cold and firm, releases and he stares with those empty black hole eyes as I continue to sing. Louder and with a passion lost decades ago. I let the wails of decades of pain and heartache flow from my soul to my voice singing until there's no breath left.

When I stop my throat is dry and scorched. I see death slowly backing away stage left. His black eyes drip thick Crimson tears that run down his graveyard chest. He bows his head, and blends into the shadows behind the curtain.

The audience snaps to life and the room fills with applause. I gaze across the crowd of weeping eyes and clapping hands and am suddenly filled with hope. The conductor climbs from the pit. With tear brimmed eyes he holds his hands to quiet the crowd and he places a necklace upon me bearing a crafted golden slipper. I bow graciously and extend my wings which are now adorned with rows of diamonds that capture every light with my movement. I rise above it, leaving it all, soaring into the clouds.

I fly beyond gravity spinning and twirling until I feel myself falling. My diamond layered wings become too heavy to lift and the weight pulls me faster and faster plummeting me downward. I am trapped in the heavy clouds writhing for center and struggling to rid my deadly wings when I see it. The familiar haze of the smoking room.

Within these scented walls my celestial form shrinks and bends. My feet crack and bend themselves back into their abused misshapen form. I try to lift the pipe to my mouth but my arms are too heavy. My eyelids flutter as the promise of a thousand lies again caress me. Telling me it's easy, one more puff can bring it back.

I sleep for a bit. Dreamless sleep heavy and painful. Until she comes, Magalina, asking me to leave. Reminding me that people are waiting and the charge for the chair is as much as the charge for the pipe.

I hand her the tray with my heavy thick arms. I stand to the familiar sound of tired old bones popping. My feet feel the weight of my body and a thousand dead dreams as I slowly shuffle towards the heavy door. With shaking hands I grab the warm iron handle and pull, placing one foot in the sunlit street. I glance longingly back over my shoulder into the smoke filled room for one last deep inhale of those comforting spicy scents.

I see him there, death, standing center stage. His black cloak hanging to floor. He lifts his hollow black eyes to me. A sneer filled smile curls his lips as he lifts his bony finger to point at my wrinkled thin skinned throat. Above him Tendrils waft away creating a stairway to the sky. Yet who are those worthy enough to make that trip?

He glances stage left to a pit in the darkened shadows. It is an abyss like his center, where hope dies and those within it are chained with burdens and regrets so heavy there is no way for release. I think about the pipe. Its sweet voice like the nightingale leading me up those stairs toward freedom. Death and I share a nod of understanding. His finger sweeps away from me into the pit and I know we are bound together. Companions of regret and the bitter truths of dead dreams. Away from stairs of painless dancing dreams and diamond wings. Those stairway visions and weightless forms are truly only dreams of the pipe. But death and I know the truth. We are certainly going the other way.

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Word count 1640