The Last Curtain Call

Juli W. Rose 

The Last Curtain Call

I leave the dance studio after dark, the way I always do now. The mirrors inside are still warm with bodies, but the street is cold, watching. When the door shuts behind me, the sound echoes too long, like it doesn’t want to let me go.

My ballet shoes are in my bag, ribbons knotted together, pressed against my hip as I walk. I swear they shift sometimes, like something inside them is waking up. My feet ache, but I don’t slow down. I’ve learned not to linger.

The streetlights blink on one by one, not smoothly—hesitating, like they’re deciding whether I deserve the light. Cars pass, their headlights stretching shadows across the sidewalk. Every shadow looks taller than it should be. Everyone seems to move just a second after I do.

A radio plays somewhere nearby. I can’t tell from where. The song warbles and fades, then returns again, skipping the same line over and over. I try to hum along, but my throat tightens. I stop when I realize the voice sounds almost like mine.

I pass the drugstore on the corner. The neon sign flickers, buzzing angrily, bathing the sidewalk in sickly pink. Inside, no one is at the counter. No soda jerks, no teenagers. Just rows of bottles and mirrors reflecting mirrors. For a moment, I see myself in the glass—standing in fifth position, arms raised, smiling. I am not smiling in real life.

Someone is walking behind me.

I didn't hear the footsteps at first. I feel them. A pressure between my shoulder blades, like hands guiding me forward. I tell myself it’s nothing. Men stare. They always have. But when I glance at a storefront window, I see only my own reflection—elongated, warped—and something just behind it that doesn’t belong to anybody I know.

At the bus stop, I pause. The bench is empty, but it’s still warm. The streetlight above it flickers violently, and for a split second I’m back in the studio, the lights snapping on, the pianist’s hands frozen above the keys. I smell rosin. I smell sweat. I smell something old, like dust that’s been breathing.

I start walking again. Faster now.

The houses grow quiet as I near my block. Too quiet. Windows glow yellow, but I don’t see silhouettes moving inside them. No plates clinking. No laughter. Just stillness, thick as velvet curtains. From one open window, I hear a piano practicing scales—too perfect, too clean. No mistakes. No pauses to breathe.

My calves begin to burn, not from walking, but from holding. My body pulls itself upright, chin lifted, spine long, as if an invisible instructor has stepped behind me. I try to relax, but my muscles won’t listen. They never do.

I don’t look back down the street. I already know something is standing there, perfectly still, watching the way I walk—memorizing it.

When I finally reach the street I live off of, I step inside, and the door shuts softly behind me before I get the chance to shut it myself. 

Too softly.

And somewhere in the dark, something begins to clap.

The clapping is slow.

Deliberate.

Not echoing from the walls. Not coming from inside my head…

I stand behind her.

She doesn’t turn at first. Her body freezes. The hallway light above her flickers once, then steadies, humming faintly.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

“Bravo.”

I say quietly. I stand close to her.

She turns slowly.

She stands at the end of the hallway near the stairwell, half in shadow. She recognizes me after it's already too late—I am the man leaning against the back wall of the studio earlier, arms crossed, watching rehearsal even after the parents and students had left. She had assumed I was waiting for someone else.

I smile at her now, a grim, eerie smile.

“You were so good,” I say softly. “I couldn’t stop watching.”

Her throat tightens. “I—.”

“I know.”

Another step closer. My shoes barely make a sound against the floor. I’ve learned how to be quiet.

“You dance like you’re not even touching the ground,” he continues. “Like you belong to something higher.”

Her fingers tighten around her bag strap.

“I need to go,” she says, keeping her voice steady. “Please move.”

I tilt my head, studying her posture. Her turned-out feet. Her lifted chin.

“You don’t stop performing, do you?” I murmus. “Even now.”

I can hear her heart pounding loudly. 

“Goodnight,” she says, trying to slip past me.

Too easy.

There’s a rush of air as she moves. I catch her arm before she can disappear. The bag slides from her shoulder and drops between us, forgotten.

She makes a sound—sharp, startled—but I quiet it. Gently. It has to be gentle.

“Shh,” I murmur. “It’s okay. You were perfect.”

She goes still in my hands.

For a moment, I just hold her there. Not out of necessity—out of recognition. Of what she is. Of what she can be when no one else is watching.

I carry her the rest of the way.

The woods are quiet tonight. No wind, no interruption. Just the soft rhythm of my steps and the weight of her—light, controlled, like she’s still holding form even now.

I chose the house carefully. Close enough to watch. Far enough that no one notices.

Preparation matters.

She wakes the way I knew she would—sudden, breath catching, body fighting before the mind catches up.

Good.

Awareness is part of it.

The room holds her exactly as intended: no distractions, no noise, no audience to dilute what matters. Just space. Just focus.

I listen before I move. The shift in her breathing. The way she tests the limits. Even now—even now—she’s controlled.

I step closer.

“I knew you’d wake up,” I say.

She stills.

“I just wanted you to dance for me again.”

It’s different here.

No mirrors. No crowd. No applause to muddy the truth.

Just her.

And me.

Exactly as it should be.

She opens her eyes slowly, adjusting, taking in the space. I watch for panic—for the break—but it doesn’t come the way it should.

Instead, she centers.

It’s almost beautiful.

She breathes in counts. I can see it in the rise of her shoulders. The discipline. The habit.

She’s already returning to it.

“Yes,” I whisper, unable to stop myself.

This is what they never see.

The light shifts, and for a moment, I imagine what she sees—what she should see.

Not this room.

A stage.

Mirrors stretching into infinity.

Only her reflected back, again and again, each version as precise as the last.

Perfect.

I step closer, but I don’t belong in that image. I never have.

“I just want you to dance,” I tell her.

Because it’s true.

She moves, even now. Small at first. Controlled. Intentional.

Every motion is exact.

She doesn’t need space. She creates it.

I circle her slowly, studying, memorizing.

“You see?” I say. “You were made for this.”

Made.

The word settles between us.

“They don’t understand,” I continue, quieter now. “They watch everything at once. They miss what matters.”

I don’t.

I never have.

“I’ve seen every rehearsal,” I tell her. “Every correction. Every adjustment. You think no one notices—but I do.”

I step closer.

“You don’t break. Even when you should.”

That’s what makes her different.

That’s what makes her worth it.

She gives me nothing in return.

No fear. No gratitude. No recognition.

Just stillness.

It unsettles me.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I say, softer now. “To see something perfect.”

I study her, searching for the moment it clicks—for understanding.

“For once,” I add, “it isn’t lost in the crowd.”

The room hums faintly around us.

Contained.

Complete.

“Now,” I say, almost gently,

“it’s just for me.”

The bulb hums above them, steady and low.

Then he grabs the knife behind him and shoves it into her skull. 

Watching as the blood oozes out of her head and drips down her face. 

“Now you're mine forever”. 

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