#inspiredbymarvel

There are marble statues and golden girls who wander through the halls of silver, the windows are open and the bitter breeze is strong. Marble girls and golden statues, or is it the other way around, who can tell these days? The pointe shoes are stained with blood, and the girls made of marble dance again. 

“You’re made of marble,” are the words the Madame speaks to you, you nod and smile along. To disobey her means death. 

The boys are made of fire that burns in the summer and the girls are made of the Venus de Milo. You seek the ones who are neither of these but there is no one like that in this place. Just lies and blood and the stench of death. Love is a foreign word to you, the one you know in 32 languages but the emotion still eludes you.

You are now the only girl made of marble and he is the only boy made of fire. The dance floor is slick with blood, and the words he speaks to you are only ever lies. (“it’s ok, it’s ok.) He was wrong, it was never okay. The lies drip like crimson tears from his lips. 

You dream of the Bolshoi school and the night of the fire, the fire roars bigger and bigger with every passing breath. 

You dream of marble dancers weeping blood, the words you scream are in no language you know. He lays his hand in yours and then pulls the trigger, and the scream you hear seems not like your own. 

You dream of marble dancers weeping blood, and boys wearing their halos of burning light. Love taunts you in your dreams, Aphrodite one minute and cold hearted Athena the next.

    “When I drift off, I will dream about you.”

    The first night I was in the blue room, at the tender age of 5, I cried myself to sleep. We are “chosen by the motherland, and we will not fail her.” I wish for a friend. 

    Only one of us makes it out alive. 

    The first night I was in the green room, at the tender age of 13, I cried myself to sleep. I must never tell them so. There were 3 other girls there, older than me by a year or so. My dreams are littered with brown hair and chocolate eyes. 

    Only one of us makes it out alive. 

    The first night I was in the violet room, at the tender age of 15, I screamed myself to sleep. The boy in the cot next to me simply ran his hand through my hair until I stopped screaming. There were 3 boys there, and me. My dreams are littered with brown hair and chocolate eyes. 

    Only one of us makes it out alive. 

    The first night in the crimson room, at the cold age of 16, I do not know how to scream or cry myself to sleep. I make do with the blonde boy sleeping in our bed next to me. They tell me that he is my husband. I simply nod and smile along. It feels like a sin against brown hair and chocolate eyes. 

    Only one of us makes it out alive. 

    The first night in Siberia, at the wrathful age of 17, was the night I met Ty Sin, known to me as Theo. Brown hair and chocolate eyes. He tells me my name and that the only way to rebel is to remember, 

    “Natalia Morozova, the galaxies were born in your eyes.” 

    One could argue that only one of us make it out truly alive. 

    The first night of our mission, at the age of 18, we mess it up. The target gets away, the chamber a threat hanging like a noose around the memories that are our only hope.

    The night of our first mission, at the age of 18, we forget. 

    The first night we remember, at the age of 56, not a second has passed on our bodies since the day we turned 18. Stuck to be youthful for what seems like an eternity. We remember each other for the first time in nearly half a century. 

    The first night we dare to say I love you, at the age of 57, we are forced to drag each other by the hair to that chamber. 

    One could argue that none of us make it out alive. 

    The first night I dreamt about him in the chamber, at the age of 58, it’s just a split second of brown hair and chocolate eyes, and a voice, 

 “Natalia Morozova the galaxies were born in your eyes.” 

The first night I wake up, at the age of 102, I wake up somewhere in the galaxy, brown hair and chocolate eyes stampeding through my memory. 

The first night I record a message, at the age of 102, I record a distress signal. Hoping somewhere, somehow, someone with brown hair and chocolate eyes could hear me. 

The last night I record a message, at the age of 106, I record a goodbye, 

“Theo, I remembered, I fought, was it all enough? I don’t want you to feel guilty, don’t wallow in your pity, part of the journey is the end,” I take a breath, “Just know that when I drift off, I will dream about you. It was always you.”