Masquerade

By Abby Kvart

Behind the door, there is another world where the room’s heartbeat beats slower than the theatrical party out there. Eerie music fills the room, creeping up our spines like spiders.

The photographer’s chilling directions bore one twin while the other one strains.

The veins on her neck fight against fragile skin. Their hands hold on to each other for dear life, like a widow holds her child’s hand at a funeral.

They are two parts of a whole that cannot be broken, these women, these victims, are fused together literally.

The mourning dove sits still as a statue; it could fly away but does not.

Masks hide the faces of the suffering, only their eyes peer piercingly out, annoyed at the objectification and stares.

The bouquet in one twin’s hand is like a bride’s, but hard and harsh; it should be wilted but refuses

to do so.

White dresses hang on the women’s bodies, made of innocent lace that has seen too much.

The door clicks shut as the camera clicks into action, leavinging the twins trapped once again without autonomy. And the bird never moves.