Deviant

Mirabelle Renée DeRose

My life is a mise en abyme of Swan Lake. Haunted by the black bird of my rebellious tendencies, my pride is an insurmountable obstacle to happiness. Similar to the white swan, an emblem of feminine beauty and softness who embodies innocence and purity, the privileged few in my inner circle recognize me as an emotional, passionate artist. In contrast, like the iconic black swan, an occult symbol of darker desires who personifies deception and spiritual liberation, at times, I morph into an audacious, provocative psychopath mastered by morbid impulses.

But I won’t plunge into a profound introspection of my vignette. No, this brief narrative is merely an introduction meant to manipulate you into reading Deviant. A word of advice- only masochists would repress their attraction to this artfully conniving, Machiavellian novel. I promise you that a single taste of this sweet madness will form an intangible craving for more. Without further ado, I thus allow this scene to herald the arrival of a tragic tale depicting a ballerina metamorphosing into a swan. This ingenious vixen needs love to break the spell, but her prince falls irremediably in love with another.

Oh, the torture of unreciprocated affection!

But my prince cannot be denounced for this fatal mistake, for the mind is unfathomable, even to its owner.

Six months prior

Today, my sister died.

No, the syntax of this sentence does not need to be corrected! I may be a Parisienne, but I am more fluent in English than native speakers! The right question is: does the syntax of this sentence harbor a profound, deeper meaning?

The answer is a resounding oui!

Rendering the line as <<my sister died today>> entirely neglects a specific ordering of ideas that offer insight into my psyche. Throughout my short life of eighteen years, I am first and foremost a ballerina. My love for dance is of paramount importance.

For Maman, my late sister Colette is the single, utmost priority of her being. Remove Colette from existence, and her loss leads inexorably to the unraveling of Maman.

Amid the starlit evening were the ever glow of the moon, the star of the night, and the dark side of mother nature that accompanied us to the funeral procession. Now, as twilight slumbered and the sun rose, Maman whispered to me, “Go do what your sister cannot. Mirabelle, dance.”

A fortnight later saw me deep within foreign territory among Americans. Gone were the days of being the understudy to Colette at the Paris Opera Ballet. No, at the School of American Ballet here in New York, my goal was to become the prima ballerina.

“Chambord, Madame?” Inquires my maid, Sylvie, who traveled across the lake with me. Reclining elegantly on a beige chaise lounge in my penthouse scenically located in the Upper Eastside, I extend my hand in answer. Diligently, Sylvie places a chalice of Chambord in my grasp, and I savor the taste of the raspberry, cognac-based liqueur subtly flavored with hints of vanilla. As I admire the panoramic view, my thoughts deviate from ballet to the soiree I must attend in an hour. Although I typically frequent elite parties, being influenced into befriending the American equivalent of the DeRose family is not of import to me. Choreography pertains only to ballet, not my social life.

My mother, Dominique DeRose, and father, Bastien DeRose, are the prominent designers and co-owners of the fashion empire, Deviant. They create surrealistically gorgeous shoes with trademarked flirtatious red soles and now have expanded the scope of their influence into the cosmetic world by branching out into fragrances and lipsticks. Here, the most notable family is the Blackthornes. Marcellus Blackthorne, CEO of a billion-dollar conglomerate called Blackthorne BloodCorp, and proprietor of revolutionary technological innovations, has twin sons Xavier and Xander Blackthorne. As is mandated by the enigmatic laws of dynasties, those who live in the same aristocratic social circles must interact. Even better would be to form coalitions, heir to heir.

A sweet, enigmatic smile crosses my lips as I contemplate the vividly white, gauzy silk of my pointe shoes. Fortunately for me, I know how to turn the rules of my parents into my entertainment.

One hour later

Outfitted lavishly in a rose velvet sleeveless ruched dress paired with a pale peach swan feather wrap and intricate gold Pandora feather earrings, I make my dramatic entrance to the Blackthorne party.

“So, you have fallen into cheating, Xavier?!” A shattering cry penetrates the debauched and wicked tenor of the party. A lean yet muscular young man with iridescent Stygian locks emerges from behind a pair of opaque French doors in an ebony Gucci suit studded with blood-red rubies worn with a black dress shirt. The alluring man draws near the platinum-haired woman who has accused him of being unfaithful. With a cruel, cynical upward tilt of his plump lips, he pronounces in a husky voice made lyrical with an exotic accent I cannot detect, “Remember, I do not love the way you do.”

The girl in question, who has beautiful ombre skin as rich and luxurious as mahogany, snarled, “You eccentric bastard! You and I are officially over!” With flamboyant confidence, the girl sashayed out of the penthouse with her chin held high. Having witnessed such a climactic scene of heartbreak, the man who the woman had called Xavier lent me the impression of a manipulative, egotistical man who peculiarly vocalized his thoughts. Determined to avoid confrontation with this suave aficionado, I stealthily maneuvered around him, but despite my efforts, he noticed me. With a single step, he intercepted me, blocking my passage of escape.

Caught, I gazed into eyes that smoldered with a verdant green that spoke of a lush, clandestine forest bearing arcane secrets. It seemed as if the air filled with a non-corporeal form of golden stardust as I stared, utterly hypnotized, into those eyes glimmering with exotic black speckles and lined with slender strands of gold around the pupils. With disturbing intensity, Xavier observed me like he was striving to unearth the most deceptive of mysteries. Suddenly, a self-satisfied smile crept onto his lips, and his voice echoed with eerie calculation. “I know who you are. You are Hysteria.”