One Last Dance

This piece is a bit different than my others, because I wrote it for a class. We were given 5 different songs, and we had to use those as inspiration for the short story. I fixed it up a bit, but it's still kind of strange.

Since I wrote it, might as well share.

Enjoy! (and votes, comments, etc. are always welcome)

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The screen crackled to life as a home movie began to play.

A little girl - hair tied up in neat pigtails with two starched white bow and in a crisp and frilly pink dress with black Mary-Janes and white stockings – stood nervously at the edge of the ballroom. On the other end was a little boy stuffed handsomely into a suit and tie standing by a gleaming black grand piano. A man with some instrument hanging off his neck – the little boy’s father, it seemed – was nearby adjusting a microphone. On the dance floor were many girls and boys all dressed up nicely, preparing for the waltz to come. The little boy climbed up onto the piano bench, and with a nod to his father, launched into a fancy little piece. Children laughed and twirled around on the floor, but the little girl with pigtails still stood shyly to the side. The song ended, then another, and another. Slowly, some children tired and left the floor, yet the girl with pigtails continued standing on the edge. Nobody had asked her to dance.

The father playing music seemed to notice and between songs, leaned over to whisper something into his son’s ears. The little boy perked up, glanced around the room, eyes landing on the little girl before nodding resolutely and bounding towards her. As he neared her, however, his gait slowed into a hesitant walk that stopped directly in front of the little girl. She looked up with a curious expression that turned surprised as the little boy offered his hand, clearly asking for the next dance. Shyly, she accepted the hand and the father started cute little number on the piano as they whirled on the dance floor.

At that, the screen crackled again before static overtook the image of the little boy and girl dancing. Although the movie didn’t record the next part, Carrie knew exactly what had happened. The dance had ended, and the girl was panting breathlessly when the boy leaned over to whisper something in her ear.

“I’m going to marry you,” he said, “and you’ll never dance alone again. I promise.”

Over twenty years since that fateful day happened, yet as she lay in bed, she could still remember every moment. Every moment of that one day that changed the path her life would take. Every moment of that night when Charlie promised to be hers, forever.

And here, she lay, waiting for Charlie. Waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to keep that promise. The promise that she would never dance alone again.

Car lights swept through the window and projected on the far wall, lighting briefly on the television set before passing over.

“Charlie!” Carrie sat up in bed and scrambled to put her slippers on her feet before rushing down the stairs. “Charlie! You’re home!”

She hastily pulled open the rickety door to find no sign of movement outside the house besides the flickering of the streetlight. “Charlie? Where are you?”

Lightly but hesitantly, Carrie closed the door. Footsteps sounded – at first, distant, then closer and louder. Eagerly, she opened the door again. “Charlie?” Her voice was full of hope, love, and nervousness. Hope that Charlie was there. Love, for Charlie. Nervousness, that it wasn’t Charlie at all.

There was no response, and once again, Carrie shut the door reluctantly. She turned around and headed towards the staircase and called out again. “Charlie?” This time, her voice held a hint of panic. Again and again, she repeated her love’s name. Each time, the voice became louder, more worried, higher.

She rushed through the house looking for Charlie, stumbling over the raised floorboards by the kitchen and nearly running into the couch in search of the ever-evasive light switch. Her feet pattered on the carpet, then on the wooden floor, and the house groaned with every movement.

The grandfather clock sounded in the study room. Once. Twice. Twelve times. Carrie followed the sound, opening the French doors in such hurry that they slammed against the wall and the glass panes shook.

“Charlie?” Carrie said, one last time. “It’s twelve, now. Isn’t it time for the ball? Come, dance with me!”

She stopped short in the center of the room and smiled at some unseen object.

“Why yes, of course I’ll take this dance.”

With that, Carrie held her arms up in position and waltzed around the room with an invisible companion. Had anyone passing by outside perchance glanced in, he would’ve seen a wispy girl wearing a white gown that reached to her knees twirling around. He would’ve seen a willowy girl who glanced adoringly at the invisible figure in her arms. He would’ve seen a pale girl seemingly fading away with each step and twirl she took.  

Carrie giggled breathlessly as she dropped her hands from the unseen shoulders.

“Thanks for dancing with me, Charlie.”

A minute passed by, and another. Carrie rose her arms up again. Once again, holding her invisible partner, she let herself be guided through a waltz, then a cha-cha. Then a foxtrot. On, and on, and on. In one twirl, though, a piece of paper lying on the dusty bookshelves caught Carrie’s eyes.

She stopped, suddenly, and stepped toward the paper. Each step seemed heavier than the previous; each louder, longer, steadier. The sound was ominous and Carrie seemed to recognize the foreboding feeling. With each step, her relaxed and careless posture from dancing stiffened a bit more and became tenser.

A wisp of a breeze blew through the open window, causing the paper to flutter to the ground. Claire picked it up and squinted at the fine calligraphy.

Death Certificate

Date: September 11, 2001.

Name: Charles Barrett Hansen.

 Carrie’s brain slowly comprehended the words that were blurring in front of her eyes and her breath quickened.

“Charlie,” she screamed. “Where are you?”

Her voice grew desperate. “You can’t break your promise! It’s not fair!”

Carrie slowly sunk to the ground and curled up in the corner between the bookshelves and the mahogany desk that hadn’t been used in seven years. In the seven years that Charlie hadn’t been there.

“Charlie,” she whispered, brokenly. “Can’t I have one last dance?”