o n e.

[━━colour in the lines]

"AGAIN." MADAME'S VOICE rung out across the room of girls, who danced like marionettes with their strings drawn too tight. None of them faltered as they completed their turn and flowed into the next, which at some point had been the beginning of their routine. Had they not been used to this extravagant form of torture, their legs would've given way hours ago.

"Again." They turned once more, with an eerie synchronicity and not even the suggestion of complaint in their silent minds. Their bodies were made for this, carved by those who pulled those strings that they were attached to.

"Again." Their muscles were tight, quivering under their skins that were each marred in their own sets of scars. They wore them in a way that some might wear jewellery, or a fur coat. Madame always spoke quietly, knowing exactly when the music that stirred the thick air would lull enough for the girls to be able to hear her.

The silver sun lit up their skin so that it shone like the varnish and paint added to polished wood, their faces carved out of it my a specialised hand that new exactly which of the strings they needed to pull to tighten each muscle, to control each movement. These girls had been created specifically for this purpose.

"Stop." Her word had been too quiet, it seemed. One of the girls with beautiful brown skin had been a second or so behind. In a room full of people who were moving at exactly the same time, it was jarringly obvious.  They did stop, finishing their movement and immediately settling into a cold, frozen stance, hands by their sides, eyes fixed on whatever happened to be directly in their eyeline. None of them turned their heads as Madame walked along the front line and stopped in front of the girl. None of them reacted when they heard the sound of her wooden cane against the bone of the girl's ankle, including the girl herself.

"Molotova." Her word was sharp, and a different girl in the second row raised her chin - the only acknowledgement. Her skin was a shade darker than the other girl, and there was an unnerving stillness about her, even among the other girls, as if her marionette had had more time to grow stiffer. Or maybe, more practised at the specific movements taught here.

"Accompany Egorova to my office. Wait there." Both girls moved at once from their places. It was an odd image, because they both had exactly the same stride. Long and graceful, despite Egorova's short legs, exactly as they had been taught to move. They were in the hall in seconds, side by side. One girl's breaths were quick, her face struggling to stay as blank as it should now that there were less eyes on her. The other was perfectly calm, entirely used to this situation. She'd been here many times, both in her own place and that of the other girl.

Unlike the dance studios and the rest of the building, the hallways were floored with grey flagstone. They were easier to wash the blood off. The taller girl - Molotova - barely recognised the turns she was taking, far too used to walking this path to be paying much attention. They arrived outside of Madame's office a few minutes later, slipping in silently once the guard opened the door. They sat, in chairs side by side, wooden chairs - hard, stiff, uncomfortable and worn. Egorova's was stained by a pool of darkness that both girls knew was blood.

The girl in the stained chair knotted her fingers together, because she wouldn't shake, or show fear. Instead, to occupy her mind, she turned her attention to Molotova beside her. She'd seen the girl, as they all had, but knew very little about her. She'd never heard the girl speak, and all the teachers seemed to ask her questions that she didn't need to say anything to reply to.

She had a pretty, wide face, though at the moment it was spotted - no doubt the effect of puberty. Large, brown eyes that were deemed attractive in western media, except they had no semblance of the innocence that they might if she'd been raised elsewhere. She was tall, and was not quite as slim as the rest of them, though her face, her figure and the shade of her skin made up for it. She looked young, like she should be naïve, but Egorova wasn't sure she'd ever seen the girl slip up. Even now, when they were alone, her eyes were still perfectly level and focused on the wall opposite them, somehow looking relaxed in her stiffness. 

The door slammed against the wall as the guard outside opened it a little too fast in his eagerness to stay out of Madame's way, and Egorova snapped her face forwards to match Molotova's position, though she knew it was too late. The woman passed her - only centimetres away from brushing up against her arm - and walked around her hardwood desk with her calculated, venomous gait.

"This is the third time that you've been here this month, Egorova." Her voice was as quiet as it had been in the studio, but the girl in the bloodstained chair could understand every word. She was suppressing her trembling, but only just. She knew exactly what that meant, too. Madame seemed to sense that she didn't need to say anything else to the girl, because she turned her attention to Molotova, who still sat in exactly the same way.

"I assume you know why you're here?" The girl nodded, even that movement carefully precise, her brown eyes never moving. 

"Then get on with it." Madame slid a gun across the desk, and Molotova picked it up swiftly, loading it and switching off the safety. Egorova realised what was happening in an instant, her calm visage shattering as her eyes widened and she started to try and scramble out of her chair. The sound her body made as it fell back against the chair was drowned out by the sound of the gun firing. The last thing Egorova saw were Molotova's empty, brown eyes, shrouded by gun smoke. Both the girl and the woman watched her cooling body impassively for a few seconds, before Molotova turned her gaze back to Madame and slid the gun back across the desktop, the barrel pointed towards her.

The woman took it back with a practised motion, and dismissed her remaining widow with a nod. The door shut behind her as Egorova's blood soaked into the stained chair and Molotova began her walk to her next lesson, unbothered by what she had just done, and how the cold gunmetal had bitten in to her flesh. She didn't make it to that lesson on time, or at all, but that wasn't uncommon either.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hi. hello. yes i started another thing when i've not finished one. oh well. this will probably have very slow updates caus i have a random spurt of motivation for this atm but that will go away quickly, i'm sure.

JABBERJAY_011

WORDS [1200]

WRITTEN [17.2.2022]

PUBLISHED [24.2.2022]