Fade Away

An eerie silence adorns the alleyway, a figure hiding in the shadows. Within the figure's fragile hands is a music-box; the very one she's kept all her life. She holds this box dear because without it, she cannot live properly - she doesn't want to live properly. This girl's hair is ratted and tangled, an un-proper look for the chilly season.

Sound is provoked, and she leans closer towards the source. She's nearly out into the open snow bank by now, but it wouldn't dare stop her. She wasn't even dressed for the season - she was donning a rugged dress that she's had for the longest of times, small rips and tears forming throughout the dress. Melodic sounds give her bliss and pleasure, her eyes closing for once on her own accord.

She's never once wanted to sing with such a desire, longing blazing within her. The girl shifts to balance the weight onto her other foot and glances down at her music-box. She runs her fingers along the rough corners with care and caresses the smooth surface that seems to glow in turn with the sparkling snow. With even more care, she opens the box and cringes as the pretty sounds erupt from the interior. She screeches profusely, though nearly inaudible, and slams the box shut.

She hangs her head in shame, letting her grip on the music-box falter and she nearly drops her precious box of sound. For a moment, she wants to let it fall and shatter; at least then she wouldn't be tormented daily by what she cannot have. During this entire event, she had slipped into the shadows of the alleyway again and the carolers had begun another song.

The girl gulps and runs her free hand through the knots of her hair and recoils shortly after, refusing to make herself presentable. She turns to place her box on a ledge, but decides against that notion as well and holds the box tightly within the clutches of both hands. With determination, the girl steps forward and trudges through the snow towards the cluster of singers. She reaches out to one man's shoulder about to gain his attention, but he reacts much sooner by the help of a fellow caroler. The song stops abruptly and the singers scatter from their station, all planning on meeting at another destination. The girl's hand drops, shame hidden behind the set smile on her face.

From that spot, she could easily see her reflection within the glass and yet she refuses to do so. If she did, she would know longer have hope; at least, that was what she had been told. If she were to glance at her reflection, she would see dead eyes and perfect skin that was scuffed and worn; she would see patches of hair missing from her head and cracked lips that never moved; furthermore, she would see a doll - a broken doll.

She could never be with them, never rank as a member of the carolers for the season. Inside, the doll weeps but no tears come. The people run daily from her, never willing to play with her as she wishes. The girl sulks and clutches her box even tighter, moving down the street in a consistent rhythm.

She removes a hand from the side of her box as she watches and opens the box for all to hear - this time she refused to scream because she wanted all to hear the beautiful noise. She caused the carolers to retreat so she, in return, must give back. The girl adjusts her walking tempo to match that of the song and continues to walk in step; taking no notice of the stares that came from the windows of homes. She can finally match the grin on her face as she walks down the glittering street.

A group of people turns the corner in front of her and she stops her movements with pleasure. She bends down to place the music-box on the snow-covered street and advances towards the group. They exchange weary and fear-filled glances but they don't budge.

She stops in front of them, swaying to the music that continues to play from behind her. "Can I sing you a song?"

A female within the group exchanges a troubled glance with another person of the group but the girl ignores it. Yet, she sees the exchange from the corner of her eyes and notices that the female is shaking her head 'no' to the others. The girl clenches her fist and watches herself so that she doesn't chip her own fingers. She shakes her own head towards the group and saunters off, picking up the music box along the way.

Never had she found a person willing to put her appearance behind them and allow her to sing. She continues off in the opposite direction, in search for the carolers. The doll wrings the hem of her dress, smoothing it down unintentionally afterward. Snow was falling from the heavens and night was approaching at a rapid pace. The snow fused in with her hair and doesn't melt when it hits her skin as it normally would. Her body radiated no heat and she didn't cold. In fact, she never once endured such a thing as coldness but understood other perspectives of the subject.

The carolers would be heading home soon and she would have to wait until the following year to approach. Her steps morph into a paced jog, her bare feet crunches against the snow as it continues to hit the ground in multiplied forces. Her limbs creak as she runs, her speed maintaining as time passes.

She reaches the center of the small village, glancing at her surroundings in bitter acknowledgment. There would be no more singing; furthermore, no one would allow her to sing. The doll crouches down in the center of the clearing, glancing at the buildings that overlooked the location. She places the music box on her folded knee and leans forward, smoothing out the snow in front of her. Pushing the snow off the side, she takes hold of the box once more and sets it in front her with care.

Somberly, she stares at the musical box and wishes for a turn of events. Every year it was the same, a bitter wish, and never has the wish came true. Cracks continue to spread throughout her body due to the snow, a single crack representing the events that take place every year. Soon her limbs would start to fall apart as her mind had already done. Mirroring her actions earlier, she runs a finger over the details of the box and resists the foreign need to flinch as she notices residue from her fingers residing in her fingertip's trail.

She lifts the lid and the music box fills the court with distorted music. Clutching the box before her with an even tighter grip, ignoring the crumbling of her fingertips, she sings her first and last song. She remembers the words from years of listening to the carolers so she continues onward with a crackling voice that matched the distorted music. She knows she's falling apart and she knows this will be the last opportunity to sing so she reasons that Christmas was the best time to sing her last life - as so she does. A distorted melody filling the air and leaving not long after when her souls frees itself from the bonds it holds. Her entire body crumbles and blends with the snow; all that remains is the old music box that continues to die along with her.