Underneath the Magical Museum

The prolonged hall acknowledges those distressed,

reciprocating with suggestions of being blessed. 

The soulless, black hall hears the screams of drowning, 

Empty and helpless, but condemned as discounting.

Passed the Hall of Oblivion, enters another majestic room,

Articulately marbled flooring with memories of a fairytale ballroom.

An enchanting rose-tinted glass rooftop, encompassed by blooming lilacs,

Amidst stands a life-size statue crafted with wax. 

The golden sculpture graciously flaunts her pirouette,

Reminiscent of a passionate ballerina, behaving as if her life was a game of roulette. 

Ultimately, her ambition was her flaw,

Carefully engraved on the shimmering stone, “In loving memory of Archelaus.”

The public passionately mourns over her tragic death, 

All agreeing too early did she suffer her last breath.

Beings from all over visit this grand museum, 

Condemning the monster who banished her to the mausoleum. 

—Monster? Don’t make me laugh—

Little did visitors know that underneath the lifeless statue, 

She could see all that came through. 

When they ignored her presence, 

She no longer felt her youthful fluorescence. 

When they only looked at her with despair, 

She felt her past self disappear. 

When they ignored her cries for attention, 

She wished for her true ascension. 

There was only one soul who knew her poor fate: 

Her condemner–The monster. 

Who is that monster; the one who banished her to a life crueler than death? 

Me.

An eye for an eye? A life for a life. 

Before she was encompassed in wax, I knew her. 

…

Archelaus began her destined journey of becoming a ballerina on her fourth birthday, where she befriended my sister. She was a natural, it was as if the heavens preordained her to elegantly leap through the air. Her first performance was flawless. With her hair interwoven into an alluring hallo, and her pure white dress shimmering throughout her choreography: she took the world by storm. Audiences were hypnotized by her heart-touching, expressive face. They longed to protect her from the dreadful, evil world.

All her peers admired her, desiring to learn her majestic ways. My sister, Diane, was her greatest admirer. Diane followed her everywhere, assisting her with anything she could. Pitying my sister, Archelaus took her under her wing. At the next performance, they performed a synchronized dance. It was simply exemplary. Professionals from far and near eagerly attended their harmonized flights. Everyone was left starstruck. 

“They must be from a different realm, no human is that ethereal–that celestial.” 

The mentor and the mentee’s show would soon be deemed: The Transcendental Twins. Diane was seen as Archelaus’ other half, her seraphic sister. Audiences gossiped about how at a wave of a hand, Archelaus granted Diane her otherworldly power. Diane could dance as if the world possessed no monsters as well. She had the ability to blissfully smile and cure the poison in everyone’s hearts. 

Archelaus realized she curated her ticket to fame–her heaven. The two blessed audiences on stage together for many years to come. However, as time went by, Archelaus noticed more and more eyes turning towards her mentee–less and less attention on her. It was an outrage. 

The explanation was simple: one of the ballerinas was no longer an angel. She had been tarnished and tainted by the world her audience wanted to protect her from; she was slowly corrupted by herself. To reach her heaven, she would commit small offenses: putting sleeping pills in a human ballerina’s pure water; using her beauty to get the light crew to focus the spotlight solely on her in The Transcendental Twins; ignoring all that would not benefit her. All little misdemeanors that she regarded as what she needed to do for her heaven. Small sacrifices. 

Everyone starts off as angels. 

Soon, her small sacrifices would sacrifice her heaven. The audience could feel something different about Archelaus: they did not know about her small sacrifices, but they could feel something amiss. Archelaus shone a little less (even with the spotlight only on her), her heartfelt expressions affected the audience a little less, she leaped a little less—she was a little less than an angel. She was human. 

Slowly all attention shifted to Diane. She still had that heavenly glow that attracted all. The mentee overtook the mentor. Archelaus cut Diane off. She still wanted to ignore all that would not benefit her. This time that method would not work. Diane was still her seraphaic sister, while she became a human who would sin a little. Jealousy turned to rage. Rage turned to hatred. Small sacrifices turned to an unforgivable sacrifice. 

An eye for an eye. A life for a life. 

Archelaus became a little less than human: she became a monster. I returned home to my sister, your soul sister, no longer breathing. 

Your eyes widened when you saw me. Words came out of your mouth; lies slowly corrupting you more and more. Was it worth it? You killed three angels and created two monsters. 

…

Am I a monster for banishing her to The Magical Museum? 

Absolutely.

Will I ever regret it?

Absolutely not.