I stand
watching the delicate fingers,
as they creep over scores of music,
which enchants my senses,
I watch the soft fingers turn into black, hard coldness.
It starts to pull at my hair and clothes,
creeps into my feeling of weakness and tugs,
pulling me towards the curtains,
their musty, decaying surface,
like a chill on my spine.
I hesitate,
but the addictive music pushes me on
and I slowly lose control.
I scream.
But the curtain gags my yells
and I am forced behind the curtains of the unknown.

Victoria King