Strange Carcosa

CHARLIE'S DREAMING: DAY 4

I was back in the palace.

    "Your rooms," a tall, willowy man slithered. His smile was serpentine, eyes sea-green. Pale wavy hair fluttered by his perfect cheekbones. "You'll want to bathe. Lady Consele expects you at the Ball."

    "The Ball, huh," I grit my teeth, stuffing a cig between them. "Fuck's that?"

    The servant blinked at my language, slender white hands clasped behind his robe.

    "The Ball is the Ball," he tilted his head, and he should have been beautiful, but he was bloodless, lifeless, a feathered, cerulean nightmare. I wanted to snatch off his jeweled headpiece and fling it. My eye twitched.

    "The Ball is where we all gather. To dance, sing, make merry—" those blank eyes fixed me. "To be our best, most beautiful selves. What else is a Ball...?"

    "Whatever, Slim," I hissed, wrenching the door open. Inside was a room of such opulence even the Don's quarters paled. I gaped.

    "Get dressed," the servant smiled. I arched my brow, scowling.

    "Yeah, with what...clothes," I trailed off, blinking at the absurd, old-timey suit that appeared on the plush bed.

    "I will see you at the Ball," his vacant smile only grew. I slammed the door in his beautiful-hideous face.

    And screamed into a pillow.

—

    Piece by piece, I put on the suit. My red-painted lips were ironed. Hair, coiffed. Eyes, hatred.

    I stared at my reflection for a long, long time. If not for the fact the clothes must have been from the Old World, could have been a phantom.

    "It's good to see you dressed up again, Vanessa," the Don murmured behind me, stepping into view in the floor-length mirror. I could hear my blood pounding in my ears.

    "Say," I rasped, eyes flicking towards their reflection. A tall, pinstriped shadow. The Don smoked quietly.

    "Hm?"

    "What's my name?" I sneered.

    "Va...nessa, of course," they blinked, tilting their head. "Are you well?"

    I scoffed, eyes widening, widening, glinting with madness. My smile was a wolf's grin.

    "What's your name?"

    The Don stared. Their cigarette smoldered between their long, lithe fingers. Then they stretched—all of them stretched—they said something, but I didn't hear, didn't care—and then blipped out of reality.

    "Reshov," I murmured to no one, eyes nowhere. My corpse-stiff hand clawed for a cig. It took some fumbling, but I finally raised it to my lips, puffing, watching myself.

    Pops appeared again, but this time, he wasn't moribund. Tall but always a bit hunched—skin firm, healthful—squinting one blue eye in a nest of wrinkles. He smoothed back his salt-and-pepper ponytail.

    "You're real," I muttered, staring at his reflection. It almost hurt more than seeing his wasted ghost. "Everything else. Bullshit."

    "Nailed it, Charlie," he grinned, winked—ruffled my hair from behind. I burst into tears.

    "Hey, hey, fella," Pops shook his head. "You got done up all nice, don't be smearing it up. Chin up, yeah?"

    "Chin up, chin up, yeah," I warbled, voice watery, grimacing, smiling, eyes shining. My heart galloped, missed a beat. Icy fear doused my guts. "Except I'm fuckin' terrified, Pops."