Post by Radrook Admin on Feb 9, 2023 21:58:52 GMT -5
Chrysalis
Helen Saragossa, the ninety-five-year-old former famous ballerina, was huddling alone in the dark main bedroom of her house. A snowstorm had crippled the Alaskan town’s electric grid, and the snow-covered street were awash in deep darkness. All was silent except for the occasional howling of the wind which was whipping up swirls of snow and ice, and making visibility difficult.
From her second-floor bedroom window, as she gazed out, Helen could see the distant snow-covered meadow awash in soft glow of a barely-visible full-moon. Beyond the tree line, a small frozen lake reflected the occasional headlight of a slowly-passing car.
There were also occasional distant howling of wolves. True, such wolves were rarely seen in the the town itself, of course, but during inclement weather, they would sometimes seek refuge under the town’s houses, and this worried her. What prevented them from viewing her as prey?
True, she did have a shotgun, but she had never fired it. Anyway, suppose she fired and missed? The thought of the consequences sent a shiver of fear through her 95-year-old decrepit body, and she draped herself more tightly in her woolen garments and bed sheets.
For brief moment, of course, she considered of calling the sheriff's office, but then she remembered that phone lines were down. Then in desperation, she considered walking there. After all, it was only seven blocks away. She had often easily covered that distance despite her advanced age. But that had been n fair weather, In this weather, she feared not getting three blocks without collapsing from exhaustion, and who would even notice?
Furthermore, the streets were deserted.
No, she would have to remain where she was. Yes, it was going to be a very long, lonely, and frightful night! If only she had bought some candles as they had kept telling her to do. Or at least a lantern of some sort as they had recommended. If only she had purchased a flashlight. But she had been stubbornly negligent.
There was suddenly lightning, and she briefly caught sight of her own reflection in the full-length mirror next to her bed.
It was the deformed reflection of a stranger whom she had never accepted as her true self, and never would. Her true self? Ha! Her true self would forever be that young, outgoing, beautiful ballerina of the thick, wavy, blond hair, and agile lithe limbs, who had repeatedly and easily mesmerized thousands with her effortless dancing, and who had earned prestigious accolades for her technically-flawless performances.
No, she would never identify herself with that pitiful, living scarecrow of an old haggard woman whom she had just seen in that cruel mirror. That hideous old woman who found it hard to climb a few steps of stairs, and whose arthritis was a constant reminder that death approached ever nearer, like a stalking predatory feline, which was almost upon her. She had refused to admit reality. But now, finally, she could no longer deny the dreadful closeness of that fearful day when the ravenous beast known as death would finally pounce.
Yet, deep inside, the once-beautiful youthful, ballerina could not avoid hoping to be eternally young, forever charming, believing that the old apparition in the reflection was nothing more than a cruel illusion that would soon fade and would once again display magnificent splendor of her youth.
Once more she would be the center of social attention. Once again she would inspire the intense looks of virile interest as she passed by the young men who all secretly wished that she would at least deign to cast an interested glance or a cursory smile of recognition their way.
She smiled as she vividly recalled the large expensive glittering chandeliers of the grand dance-hall with its ebony black, highly-polished floor, and its magnificent central white marbled staircase leading to the theater upper seats and balconies reserved for the rich. Seats and balconies from where thunderous applause would always arise as she took elegant bows. It was all merely a very distant memory now, a grand memory never to be relinquished, as she would never relinquish her youth.
A car-horn briefly honked outside, breaking her spell of reminiscence, and unmercifully wrenching her back to cruel reality. Suddenly, seeing herself reflected once more as she truly was in that accursed mirror, she angrily picked up a book and hurled it at the accursed and cruel unmerciful reminder. It was a large, heavy, hardbound book, and the impact toppled the mirror onto the wooden floor with a resounding thud followed by the sound of shattering glass. .
Then all was silent once more, except for her own bitter weeping as she had often wept many times before, still hearing the occasional, slow sloshing of occasional car wheels slowly sloshing through the deep snow on the narrow street that bordered her house. Still hearing in the nearer distance, wolves' melancholic ululations as if they had been weeping over her demise before a proud and indifferent moon.
Then, suddenly, there was a loud slamming open and shutting of the door downstairs, followed by men's desperate voices and cautious footsteps ascending the narrow stairs.
Momentarily she panicked. Burglars had gained entry thinking that the dark house was abandoned. She needed to get to her shot-gun. But it was stored downstairs in the basement and wasn’t even loaded. How could she have been so careless? But she had to try. Yet before she could rise from her bed, her bedroom door flew open, followed by a loud bang, and through her semi-closed tearful eyelids, she saw a flash of light.
For a brief instant there was nothingness. Then suddenly, she was aware once more. Slowly she opened her eyes fearful of what she would chance to see. She gasped in surprise. Totally gone was the darkness. Everything was a pleasant white light, and she herself seemed aglow.
"Where am I?" she fearfully asked.
“Welcome home!" a soft compassionate voice responded.
Then suddenly, she was standing before full-length mirror framed in precious jewels. It couldn't be! Before her stood the reflection of the exuberantly beautiful young woman that she had been 70 years before in the full bloom of youth.
“Behold! I make all things new!" the same gentle voice announced and Helen knew, that she had finally gone home.