Dance to This [kth]

e p i l o g u e

𝐞 𝐩 𝐢 𝐥 𝐨 𝐠 𝐮 𝐞

ミ★
[......]
❝L'ange de Noël❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

—La Chanson de L'ange—

The theater is dark. The only light now shines upon the center of the stage; small particles of dust swirl around in silence, drifting back and forth between what is seen and what isn't. The audience is not privy as to what is going on deep in the darkest depths of the stage. Stage crew, wearing all black, move pieces of backdrop, decoration, setting placements, and other background necessities as low violin trembles from the orchestra. Once the scene is ready for the next piece, the spotlight burns from a bright white until it falls into a deep blue. The lighting crew across the theater turn on another spotlight, only this time, it is the illusion of snow. Small white flares of light rotate around the stage to emulate a harsh winter's storm.

My stomach is currently in my chest with anticipation. The violin stops abruptly. Pause. Snowflakes continue to fall. I see Yoongi's hand movements just below the stage in the corner of my eye when his hand lifts with the baton to ready the instruments. I hear a cough in crowd. My shoulders flinch at the unexpected sound. My heart is steadily beating incredibly fast.

The silence only lasts a moment, but as I wait to announce myself into center stage, it feels like hours. The low whispers and chaos behind me backstage are lulled out due to the sound of my beating chest. This is it. All semester has been leading up to this very moment— my stage.

I swallow hard. My inner cheek is being gnawed as I try not to succumb to the flashes of imagery overcoming me every time I blink. I can still see it. I can still feel it. I can still hear it. The thump. The cries. The aftermath.

The small jittery flute is my cue to enter the stage. It's her song— The Angel's Song. . .

It's the premise of her demise. My body is moving before I can fully comprehend what I'm doing. The muscle memory takes over for the adrenaline overcoming me; it's as if I don't need to think. I don't need to do anything but surrender my control to the music. My extending arms, reaching for something that isn't there. My angled turns, reeling in a fantasy. My gentle facial expressions, manipulating even herself into thinking she is persevering. She isn't.

She is drowning in darkness. When the bright blue and white lights of snow fall into flashes of darkness and terror. . . I see it. I can feel the death. I can hear the last breath. As my breathing becomes more fatigued, and the tempo of the music quickens, my movements translate the Angel's final moments. The audience is watching me intently. I can feel everyone's eyes, but I thrive off of it. My hand reaches out to the hundreds of people hidden in the abyss of darkness in front of me. They are watching me. They want to know the Angel. They want me to show them.

They want me to show them her death. Her fall. Her lustrous plight.

I close my eyes. It's part of the routine. My body is still except for the heaving chest I'm trying to suppress, and I remain in this outreached position. When the melodious music stops, and my hand is brought back to my chest, the Demon enters from stage left.

Jimin. I wait with my eyes closed for his touch. My fingertips are shaking against my chest because I don't know whether or not he had made his cue. I can hear the music. . . I can envision his steps behind me. . . I wait patiently for him. When his delicate fingertips finally touch my shoulder, we begin our dance.