She was an American girl: five foot six, platinum blond hair, and the looks to go with it. As a material girl, she danced the night away, in black clothes made of leather and lace. The music came from others but the attitude was all her own. She could smile her life away, making all the bad things imaginary. She was filled with the invincibility of the young; ready for anything, she met life head on. The music filled her up, flowed warm in her veins and gave her rhythm. Rock and roll, play that rock and roll�
In cowboy boots and silver chains she kissed the eyes of gods just to have them look the other way. She joked that she would carve a cross deep into her arm, but she cried over a stubbed toe, she would never have the guts to cut herself. She had a love for life deeper than most people could imagine, she would never have the guts to hurt herself.
I knew her pretty well, we weren�t close friends but then again, who has close friends these days? I used to see her where her kind of people hung out, leaning over junked up cars that were playing their music far too loud. I saw them in a field on my way home one night. They squinted into my headlights and took another drink from their green tinted bottles. She looked at me for a moment. I tried to ignore her.
Everyone tried to ignore her at some point in their acquaintance. I might not have been her close friend but neither was anyone else, she shied away from most people as if she were afraid to they would fall through her fingers if she grasped too hard. She was happy with people around her � as happy as she was when they weren�t, but she was most happy when she heard the music.
She wasn�t extraordinary, the music was why people loved her, they all heard it but not in the same way she did. When she heard the music, she moved with it and all eyes were drawn to her as she swayed and turned, her body moving with a rhythm all its own. Parents and preachers agreed she was evil: spawn of the devil, with her music and her dancing like a heathen. They could remember their parents warning them away from that new rock and roll not so long ago, they decided she was a product of its darker side. They warned their children away from her, not one of them listened � not once they�d seen her dance. They argued that she couldn�t be a demon, not when she danced like an angel.
We were all surprised one night, when her eyes stayed shut so peacefully even after the song was over. She swayed, on and on, to the music none of us could hear. The whole school could plainly hear that there was no music but still, she danced and we stood, mouths agape, and watched. After long moments she fell, her breathing had stopped long ago, even before her feet stopped moving. Barely seventeen, sweet dreams on the dance floor, barely seventeen, she was a dancing queen�
Later the official ruling was that she had killed herself: poison swallowed in a moment of despair. I knew she would never have the guts to kill herself. People whispered that the devil had taken her back to that from whence she came. I knew. Several others knew also. The music, slow and pulsing, took her over that last time. Took over her heart beat, matched the pounding bass to the beats of her heart. When the music stopped, she stopped too.
So that was her poison. Something she loved more than life itself killed her. Yet even in death her body, her muscles, remembered and went on dancing. There�s a dead girl dancing on the dance floor, and all we can do is stare.