Thirty years later

The svelte dancer turned on the music and began to practice the dance again. Move. Move to the rhythm, it felt good. Better yet, it felt right this time. Slow, smooth, seductive. Hell yes, seductive. This time he intended to make it to the top. Before long, he would be out of this funhouse. Words couldn't describe how sick he was of this place. First on the hate list were the menial tasks this place made him do. He had started in the kitchen and managed to grease his way to the elite job of unit housekeeper. Second on the list were the pathetic attempts at rehabilitation, also known as therapy. By now he could be a damned therapist. All it took was memorizing a few standard phrases, such as "How do you feel about that?" or "What are the consequences if you follow through with that?" Consequences. Now there was something he could write a book about. Another word the staff seemed to like around here was "control". "You need better control. Control yourself. If you continue to act like ..." which was synonymous with they were about to take control for you, which was never going to end well. Usually that meant lockdown in seclusion.

"Hey, I hear your number's coming up. You think they're gonna bounce you back on the streets, loverboy?"

Gliding across the gymnasium floor, he chose to ignore the man's remark. It was probably best to be cautious, even with some brainstem like Barney. This was no time to lose his temper and give them a reason to cancel his parole hearing next week.

"Everyone here knows all about what you did to that guy. You're pretty close to a homicidal maniac."

"If you're homicidal, then get away from me."

"Very funny. I meant you, loverboy."

"I'm not homicidal." He breathed between dance steps. "I'm rehabilitated."

"Bullshit. You're a fucking sociopath. You'll never change and everyone knows that."

"I've paid my dues. Three hundred and twelve therapy sessions. I've earned my freedom."

"That's not how I heard it. As long as that guy is still alive, he will see to it you are parked here until the day he dies, plus ten years."

In one swift pirouette, he gracefully pinned Barney by the throat, sliding him to the smooth tile floor as if it were all part of a simple dance routine. Smiling at his gaping expression, he squeezed him, just a little. "Why are you pushing me? Fuck this up for me, and I'll demonstrate all my sociopathic tricks on you, you ugly bastard. Since you know so much about me, maybe you'd like to sample my specialty, what do you say?" It would be so easy to snap his scrawny neck. Too easy. But he no longer felt the urge to destroy. Medication had subdued his violent urges. Loosening his grip, his head was pounding, threatening a migraine like it always did when he came close to blowing. Suddenly he felt like throwing up and released Barney, letting him fall to the floor. "And don't ever call me "Loverboy." I hate that."

"What's going on in here?" A security guard was walking their way. When neither moved to answer, the dancer responded.

"I'll take seclusion." It would be safer there. No one was going to ruin his chances, not when he was this close to being released. It had been a lot of tears, torturous therapy sessions and lost time. A whole section of his life was gone, like so many pages torn out of the middle of a book. Meekly following the guard, he sighed as the door locked behind him. The day was almost here. No more locks and keys. He could walk outside in the sunshine without being under the watchful eyes of guards. He could go out again, dancing and dating, and meeting new friends. Oh God, how he dreamed of making up for lost time in that category. His body ached for pleasure, often waking him in the night. No more lights out and bed checks. Sipping wine under the phosphorescent moonlight, while studying his girlfriend's beautiful face, and then gently, ever so easily, making love to her. No more pills shoved down his throat ... Life would once again be a lovely affair, just like before. His lessons learned. No more ...

Aspen, Colorado 2013

"Can you tell me how you're feeling today?"

Sera closed her eyes, picturing Michael's broad smile and dark mesmerizing eyes. She didn't want to remember the way he looked on Christmas Eve when cradled in her arms, cancer had finally claimed his life. He had slipped away from her just as he had vanished in high school, never to return. "Michael was the love of my life. You want to know how I'm feeling? I feel that everything I ever believed in has been lost. I feel like I lied to him. My faith and beliefs meant nothing. I didn't help him at all. Without meaning to, I hurt him." That thought would haunt her to her grave. Guilt and remorse was eating at her in the same way Michael's cancer had consumed him. This was her karma.

She sat before the psychologist as she had so many times before. Over the past year, she had often felt as helpless as the logs that were softly crackling in the fireplace, disintegrating in the fire. While she knew that she needed to move on, she wasn't sure where to begin. Closing her eyes, Sera could envision Michael, lying across the bed; candlelight bathed the contours of his face in pale light. Why wasn't he breathing? Shaking him gently, she had called his name. Vaguely she recalled someone pulling her away. She jumped at Dr. Lavender's hand on her shoulder.

"Michael's been dead for almost a year now. While no one would expect you to forget someone so special, I believe Michael would want to see you moving on." Dr. Lavender took note that, once again, Sera had brought in pictures. One time she came to a therapy session carrying a suitcase of his clothes. To be honest, it made the doctor feel strange viewing them. It was as if Sera were trying to piece him together again, like the story about Humpty Dumpty. "You know, I have to ask if you ..."

"Last week I thought I saw Michael. This was the third time in two weeks."

"I worry about you, alone in that cabin." Dr. Lavender watched her closely. "Why don't you go to California and spend some time with your friends, Joe and Anni?"

"Maybe I will." The fire was beginning to feel oppressively hot. She had to get air and couldn't breathe. "I've got to get out of here ... Now ... I can't breathe." Bolting for the door, she dropped an envelope of pictures, scattering the leftovers of her life to the floor.

Dr. Lavender started to go after her, then changed her mind. Picking up the photos, she mumbled to herself, "You took her with you, didn't you, Michael?" Michael's photograph smiled back at her. She tucked the pictures in her desk, sighing. "What am I going to do with you, Seraphine Dolanski?"

* * *

Standing in the middle of the great room, Sera stared at cold ashes in the fireplace. It occurred to her she had never once considered building a fire. There hadn't been a fire since the one Michael had built on their honeymoon. Drifting abysmally to the television, she put in a DVD and watched him sing and dance across the stage. "It wasn't really your fault. I couldn't cure you. I know we tried everything we could. Do you hear me talking to you?" He danced on, laughing with DJ, enjoying the moment. She clicked it off.

Wandering to the kitchen, her footsteps made no sound on the hardwood floor. A dish of pudding sat alone on the refrigerator shelf. Taking a tiny nibble, she turned to the window. Outside, it had begun to snow, flakes gently...