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The Somnambulant

by Sam W. Pisciotta

 

The moon sits plump within a windowpane as if plucked from the sky and framed for safekeeping. Bound by forces beyond our control, the moon and I share a yearning to pull free. I touch my finger on the icy glass and dream of leaving this place.

But I’m often reminded that such dreams are not for me.

Waiting in the small antechamber, I rise to the tips of my toes, an elevé to focus the mind — legs quiet, core taut, head tilted just so. A dancer’s body. Countless hours of plié, relevé, and sauté. I hold this pose and listen.

Murmurs from the next room. The clink of wine glasses. A shred of laughter. Outside, the final night of winter. The tight drone of propellers slices the evening air as the bulk of an airship moves to block the moon’s full light. The last of the guests have arrived.

Father enters the room. He glowers and pulls me toward the closed door leading to the dining room. “Katya, what are you wearing? Where’s the gown I laid out for you?”

Icy-white layers of tulle drape from my hips, a romantic tutu in the style of Taglioni flowing just past my knees. A white leotard beneath a soft-pink bodice, and slippers laced with pink ribbon. Perfection. My feet move into the fifth position. I bend at the knees and push into a small assemblé. Since that night in London’s West End at Her Majesty’s Theatre, I have lived for one purpose. This evening, I’ll find my soul and gain my freedom.

Father grasps my elbow and wrenches me closer. “Enough,” he says, his voice exerting control. “Damion Bennett must die at precisely eight-thirty this evening. Do you hear me? Precisely eight-thirty.”

My arm flinches within his grasp. “Father, why are you hurting me?” He knows this evening’s importance.

He straightens and steps forward to wedge me against the door, its brass knob jarring into my back. “Do you understand what I’ve said? Eight-thirty. The toxin must be administered with precision. He must not die one minute too soon or too late.”

“I’ve prepared countless hours for this.”

He softens, caresses my arm. “I know, my dear. You’re ready.”

I smile at his misunderstanding. “I’ve prepared a pas d’action from La Somnambule.”

He shakes me at the shoulder. “Stop it. You must focus.”

“But I don’t even know Damion Bennett,” I say. “You promised I could dance tonight.”

“Concentrate on Bennett. Or I’ll disassemble you and build another girl who does as she’s told.”

And there it is. My father’s lack of love. His belief that I’m no more than a thing, a tool, a weapon to further his agenda. He’s right, of course. I’ve no right to call myself human. But to dance — to stir the ether and conjure me a soul, to breathe spirit into the hollowness of my existence, that will change it all. I have seen the power of art with my own eyes.

Father’s voice warms. “I wonder if you realize how important you are to me.” His firm hand slips behind my shoulder. “I love your energy, but I’ve indulged you too much. Ballet is not your raison d’être. We both know why you exist. You won’t disappoint me tonight, do you understand?”

I wilt beneath the weight of his stare, a child in her creator’s shadow. I force myself to meet his eyes. I have never before sought to disappoint him, but this denial is unreasonable. He has promised me this opportunity to touch perfection.

“At dinner, I’ll seat you next to Mister Bennett. That will give you all the access you need.”

“When will I dance?”

“You won’t,” he says. “Perhaps another night.” He reaches behind me and opens the door, then ushers me through.

We enter the room; conversation stops as the guests turn toward us. They smile when I go en pointe and bow. I twist towards Father, and in a voice meant just for him, I say, “You promised.”

His expression flares anger before he remembers the guests. A smile scrapes across his face. “My dear friends,” he says. “Welcome! You won’t be disappointed this evening, I assure you.” He reaches back and pulls me forward. “As promised, here is Katya. The marvel I mentioned in my invitation.”

The guests tilt in their seats, ogling for a better look.

“Katya is an instrument beyond your imaginations.” He pulls his watch from his vest pocket. “Mark the time. At precisely eight-thirty, your world will change.” His smile pulls wider. “First, let’s enjoy our meal.”

To the guests’ applause, Father escorts me to the dining table. “Katya! Sit here beside Mister Bennett. As my most ardent critic, he can examine you before the bouillon is served.”

Father, excited and brusque, booms his voice across the sprawling table, and my face flushes with heat. Like a magician conjuring phantoms, he draws the dinner guests’ eyes toward the wonder of his doll child.

“Thank you,” I say and move from beneath his touch. I step away from Damion Bennett to take the empty seat next to a plump and feathery woman several seats away.

“How exciting,” says Madam Cordelia when I sit beside her.

Father pauses behind my chair before moving silently to the table’s head.

Madam Cordelia asks if I can smell cinnamon. She insists I close my eyes while she picks up the small dish of ground spice from the dining table and holds it beneath my nose. I assure her I have full command of my olfactory senses.

Madam Cordelia gazes into my eyes. “You look so real.”

“I am real,” I reply and for a moment consider delivering the toxin to her instead.

Indeed, I know other ways to kill Madam. Brutal and ugly ways. I have been taught so many. The sterling silver comb holding my hair would slice buttery smooth through that wrinkled old gullet.

Our bouillon is served.

Father glares at me as he pulls his watch from his pocket. I shake my head. If I can’t dance, I won’t kill Damion Bennett. No doubt, he’ll disassemble me for this transgression. But if I can dance, perhaps I might convince him.

Madam Cordelia slurps her soup before speaking across the table. “Victor, I believe you’re having a bit of fun with us. Be truthful. I think you’ve arranged for us to speak to no more than an ordinary girl. A domestic in your employ, perhaps?”

Father protests, and the other guests weigh in on the topic. Meanwhile, I deduce the turns of Madam’s head as predicted by the movement of her eyes from left to right. I measure her breath’s rhythm. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Her eyes indicate the action. She exhales and, as predicted, turns her head towards me. Our eyes meet, but I have already expelled the chloroform through my own breath, a release of gas originating from the brass chamber nestled within the intercostal space of my eighth and ninth ribs. This is not the toxin reserved for Bennett, but a sweet-smelling gas modified by my father to affect the brain quickly. It wafts at the tip of Madam’s nose as she inhales her next breath. A minuscule amount. Madam Cordelia draws in the chloroform and blacks out for the briefest of moments, her head lolling back then snapping forward as she regains consciousness.

Father glares at me in the most serious fashion. After all, I have just drugged a most important investor. I shrug, unable to contain the smile bubbling from within me.

He stands, shoving his chair backward; the room quiets with the host’s visible anger. He stalks around the table to stand at my chair.

“It’s true,” he says. “I began with a waif taken from the morgue.” He presses near me and peers into my face. “Unwanted. Discarded.”

I turn from him and straighten in my seat. I won’t dignify his insults. Not tonight.

He takes my hand, insists I stand by my chair, then grips my shoulders to turn me toward the guests. He unfastens the hooks at the back of my bodice. I protest, but he asserts his dominance, gripping my shoulders until I comply.

His fingers move with authority as he speaks. “I’ve created something unique in the world, a thing most wondrous.”

The guests gawk at the promise of what might happen next. I refuse to meet their stares, to endure the thirst in their eyes. Heat flushes through my face. Like a butterfly pinned for observation, I stand paralyzed. With a single and violent pull, he yanks my bodice and leotard down to my waist. Several women gasp, but the guests grow silent. With trembling hands, I cover myself, and Father turns me away from them. Tears pool at my eyelids and curve along my cheek. The room blurs with smears of cold color.

Father’s arms wrap around me. Over my shoulder, he addresses the guests as his fingers move along my spine, feeling for the fleshy fold that will allow access. The tissue at my back was made supple but strong; still, he’s careful not to tear into me.

“I assure you,” he says, “Katya is not human.” He pulls back the skin to reveal his masterwork.

Through mirrors in Father’s laboratory, I have seen it all before. Like a clock’s viscera, the gears and pinions stack throughout my body, intricate layers of mechanization designed to imitate life. Threads of electricity climb and pop along my spine, crawling up parallel rods that reach into my brain’s meaty tissue.

The pungent stench of burnt air charges the room.

Now the guests erupt into disorganized questions and concern. Father waits for them to quiet. I sense his rising pulse. His excitement. His body tensing with power.

“The mechanism which I’ve given her is my own creation — the Life Force Engine, a spring holding near-constant tension.” He works to reseal the fold at my back. “Katya’s training gives her extraordinary abilities — keen senses and quick reactions. Her mind, continually stimulated, learns and adjusts swiftly.”

I shiver. He leans toward my ear and whispers. “You may dance. A chance to set the evening right.”

I nod in agreement, understanding what he demands from me. I’ve been humiliated, but I won’t miss this chance to claim my soul.

He lifts the straps to my shoulders and brushes away my tears. “Katya will dance for you tonight because I will allow it.” He pulls out my chair and motions for me to sit. “This is merely the beginning,” he says, “the prototype. One day, you and I might have an army of Katyas at our disposal.”

I catch the smile on Madam Cordelia’s lips. Indeed, a depraved hunger twists the faces of all the guests. All but one.

Damion Bennett addresses the room, his voice filled with haughty indignation. “This creature is an abomination,” he says. “Are you suggesting we populate the world with them?”

Father pulls the watch from his vest and glances at it. “In time, Mister Bennett, you will understand Katya’s true power.” He smiles wryly. “Mind the time, my friends. Eight-thirty!” The guests start at Father’s exuberance. “For now, let us break bread together.”

Our main course is served. Madam Cordelia and the other guests exclude me from their conversation. Throughout the meal, they glance in my direction but refuse to see me directly; no doubt the horror overwhelms them. They have seen inside me, perceived the cold, ragged teeth and wound steel. They have witnessed the dark hollowness packed around the mechanical, the empty space within the pretend girl, vacant of soul. Who can blame them for their horror?

From the table’s head, Father holds his timepiece and glares at me. Having caught my eye, he lowers the watch and turns to speak with the guest to his left. I comprehend his meaning, of course. No room to disappoint. It’s almost as if I can read his mind, and yet I have never felt more distant from my creator. Father has always been a demanding benefactor, but a line has been crossed this evening.

He gave me the illusion of life, just as he gave me the ability to take life, taught me brutality and indifference to suffering. He forged me into a weapon, and I hate him for this.

But he also gave me the harmony of mathematics, the novels of Bronte and Pushkin, the poetry of Shelley and Keats. He gave me history and philosophy. Most of all, Father gave me dance. For this, I will always love him.

Have I mentioned I once watched Marie Taglioni dance? On a crisp night in October at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London. Father exposed me to culture, teaching me to fit in with society’s highest classes. A sort of camouflage. He brought me to a performance of La Sylphide. Taglioni moved like a spirit floating through the ether, pulling me from my world.

That evening I learned what was missing — and I learned how to find it.

This most angelic human being had achieved perfection. At that moment, the world’s reality revealed itself as an illusion. The hard surfaces and false colors of the theater melted away. Only the souls of Taglioni and her audience remained, shimmering and warm. She had bound them together, generating a light that flowed from her dance. The others in the audience shared this with her.

Not me. Dark and cold as I am. But perhaps if I likewise touch perfection, dance without flaw in the community of others, if I might lift myself to that ethereal plain where art reflects truth, then I might find my own soul. I might be made real.

I see no other way. How else to acquire this most human possession? Certainly not from my father. He needs me to remain cold and dangerous. Likewise, I hold no illusion such a gift might come from any god. No. Living in my father’s house has taught me not to expect a deus ex machina. I have always known that if I wanted a soul, I must take it through my own efforts. And so, I practiced. Day after day, filling in every stolen moment.

From across the dining table, Father pauses his conversation and calls to his guests. “The hour has just struck eight.” He directs his smile toward me. “Let’s take our brandy and coffee into the parlor. Katya will dance for us there.”

I had already arranged my father’s phonoautograph and several gas lanterns near a makeshift stage along the bookcases. While the guests find their seats, I take my place on stage, standing in the first position, toes outward. After they have all been seated, Father lowers the room’s lights, leaving me in the lantern’s warm spotlight. Hush fills the room.

Feet into the fifth position. Eyes at the horizon. Heart at center. My soul lies there, just ahead.

“Ladies and gentlemen. A pas d’action from La Somnambule.”

My arms beat gracefully, lifting then falling then up again, once, twice, a foot gliding upward, abductor muscles taut, free leg back and inline. And here a promenade en arabesque, once around my standing leg’s axis. I address the audience one final time.

“Our young maiden, still asleep, rises from her bed and wanders through the night.” Arms overhead like two graceful bows. An invitation to rapture, “The dance begins.”

En pointe. Arms rising straight out before me. Toes fluttering across the stage, a bourrée en couru, feet flying, a flurry of steps. The dreamer drifts across the earth. I remain en pointe. I have practiced countless hours; it’s not too difficult. I spring, then glide. My heart leaps with the music, and I open myself to perfection, the province of angels. A pirouette, a twist, an arch toward heaven, hands over heart. Like the somnambulant, my body takes over, recalling the motions and steps I have taken a thousand times. A thousand times. The dance lives inside me — not in the strings of muscle fiber, not in the synchrony of clockwork, but in the in-between spaces, the dark hollow within me that defies investigation. My mind opens and the dance fills me.

When the music ends, I lie on the floor, the dreamer in repose. I hold my breath, waiting for the applause that never comes. Except from my father. His hands hammer together slow and steady. A mockery.

Voices murmur. Unbelievable. Faultless. What in heaven’s name?

Ignoring them, I grasp at the moment, turning my attention inward. I search within for the warmth and shimmer. I danced without flaw, and now I listen, waiting for the angel’s breath.

Nothing. A girl unwound. A tarnished thing. I’m unable to leave the darkness.

Father steps to the stage, takes my hand, and lifts me to my feet. His heartbeat drums steady and self-assured, a pounding that will surely smother my words.

I whisper, “But my performance was perfect.”

A woman titters. My father holds up a hand for silence.

“Katya,” he says, the softness in his eyes belying the smirk on his lips, “it’s your perfection that gives you away.”

Confused, I look to him for an explanation. I have worked so hard. So hard. Countless hours of practice, moving through the forms until my feet bled and my eyes wept.

He places a finger beneath my chin. “Perfection is never meant for mortals. Faultlessness is the purview of angels.” He steps back to consider me. “And perhaps little automaton girls like you.”

The steam within me rises, threatening some hidden boilerplate. I believed for so long that I could be more than the killer he has fashioned. But it seems the saint now lays slain by the sinner.

“Then perhaps I shall become an angel, Father.” My amber eyes catch him in their fire. “The Angel of Death.”

More giggling from the room. Their pasty faces smear with condescending smiles; their eyes pretend to live.

He bends and speaks into my ear, “Eight-twenty-five.”

Damion Bennett stands near the door. Even from here, a blown kiss might deliver the toxin.

In truth, I have prepared for this killing as much as the dance. As part of my studies, I have learned algebra, Charlemagne’s history, the bard’s plays — and the art of assassination. Yet, this evening, I’ll not engage in assassination; an assassination is cold, distant — nothing personal. Tonight, I’ll commit murder. Murder implies emotion. Do you see? Passion is linked to the act — jealousy, greed, fear. Anger.

’’Father encourages the guests to applaud my performance and with good humor they comply. I understand this to be a distraction, a chance for me to dance an encore circuit around the room. When I reach Bennett, standing like a stoic, I bow, then straighten and exhale the toxin — but as with Madam Cordelia, I release a minuscule amount. With a chain of chaîné, I turn shoulder upon shoulder until I reach my father’s side.

He steps forward to address his guests. “Earlier this evening, I promised you great power. You are people of position, people who know the cost of maintaining their power. No one here is without enemies. What I’m offering you is a way to eliminate your worries, to neutralize those enemies. And to become investors in a technology that will shape our world.” He reaches back and pulls me closer to his side. “I give you the most advanced weapon.” He pauses for them to quiet. “It’s true. Katya has already killed one of you, a critic I have long held as enemy.”

The guests stir and murmur. They wonder who has been marked to die.

Father holds up a hand for silence. The floor clock chimes the half-hour. Eight-thirty. “And now,” he says to all, “Mister Bennett will die.”

At that moment, blood bursts from Bennett’s nose. He snatches a kerchief from his pocket to staunch the bleeding. His eyes flare. The guests gasp as poor Bennett works the cloth into his nostrils. After a moment it becomes clear he suffers no additional symptoms.

“I doubt,” says Bennett, cloth covering his mouth, “I’ll die of a bloody nose.” He stomps from the room, and his exit is followed by the guests’ relieved laughter. In truth, a bloody nose won’t kill him this evening. I have delivered a non-lethal dose.

Father’s anger grows thunderous in my ear.

I whisper to him. “I have saved the toxin for you, dear Father.”

Basking in his fear, I scan the room. I turn toward him, failing to notice the prepared kerchief he has pulled from his own jacket. I turn into his palm and gasp. The chloroform’s sweet smell fills my head, passing through the veil of my organic brain. I inhale again, and the room spins and blurs into shadow.

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I wake to the morning sunlight gleaming through rose-tinted windows. This is the first light of the vernal equinox, which in this room shines otherworldly. Father has removed everything I might use to kill him. I lie on the bed across swan-white linen sheets. The room’s chill air pricks my skin.

A key scrapes in the lock on the door. Father enters and sits on the bed at my side. His cold-blue eyes gaze down on me.

He says my name with such warmth I expect him to follow it with, I love you. Instead, he says, “My little pretend girl.”

He leans forward, secure in his physical advantage over me. “The toxin has been removed. Nothing here can be used as a weapon.”

He turns toward the vermillion light streaming through the stained glass. “A final morning; perhaps, I owe you that.” His fingers play along the bedsheet’s edge. “I take the blame for your failure. I created an artist when I should have created a soldier.”

A smile pulls across his face. “I should thank you, my dear.” He says this with genuine tribute. “You have taught me much.” He looks down into my unblinking eyes. “I’ll need to salvage the parts within you, of course. So, in a sense, you will live on.”

His threat is real. I shift beneath him. He leans an arm across my chest to pin me to the mattress. I struggle beneath his weight.

“Stop fighting,” he snaps, and his weight shifts toward my throat. I gasp and clutch, kicking for release. No use. His bulk and force too great. My head turns, and a rosy glint shifts across his face. I turn again, and the light flares into his eyes. He squints and eases up. In that moment, we both realize the light’s source.

A smile flows across my lips just as his own smile ebbs. The silver comb within my hair — he’s forgotten to remove it.

His face darkens with complete understanding and sudden revelation. He knows what I’m thinking. He knows. The truth is written in the subtle rise of his body temperature, in the elevated pulse at his wrist. He knows. His face softens with a wistful expression of resignation. He understands that in a moment he’ll be dead.

Meanwhile, I hold a plurality of thoughts to ponder his death. I’ve considered this moment in the past, but now that I’m faced with its actualization, I’m struck with indecision. I find my resolve when he moves to escape.

He attempts to spring from the bed. I have already pinned his elbow. I roll my weight as a counterbalance — his shoulder the pivot point. At the same moment, I pull the comb from my hair and place its teeth at his throat’s soft flesh. He lies on his back; I straddle him, my hair dangling into his face. Blood trickles into his collar.

“A final prayer,” I say. “Perhaps I owe you that.”

He huffs a laugh. “I’ve created a monster. I should have known I’d die at your hand.” He tilts his head back, insolently opening himself to my wrath.

Defiance fills his expression; yes, but something more. Regret? More likely, I’m reading a reflection, my own guilt for turning on my creator. After all, he offered me many kind moments — walks through the countryside, smiles like gifts, acts of protection.

My father’s weakness, his faults and limitations, lie bare before me. His arrogance. His cruelty. His own lack of soul.

“What are you waiting for?” His voice trembles, but its volume challenges.

In his sudden defiance, I recognize my own rebellion. He’s made me in his own image.

I should end his life, but some moment of force turns my thoughts, cog by cog, gears meshing and reducing through ever-finer circles of mercy. Even when the music no longer plays, something of the dance remains — a measure towards grace.

I hold out my free hand. “Keys,” I say.

He places them onto my palm.

Holding the comb’s teeth at his throat, I stand. As I withdraw the silver, I slash across his forehead to handicap him. Blood spurts and flows into his eyes. He clutches to staunch the bleeding and gazes at me through blood-filled vision.

“Killing is for your kind,” I say.

“Weak.” His single reply.

I step towards the door and open it. He remains still.

“If I’m not human and I’m not angel, then perhaps I truly am a monster.” My fingers loosen on the silver comb and it drops to the floor. “But I’ll be something unique in this world — a monster who steps from the shadows and walks in the light. One day, dear Father, I may find a soul — the shiny, beautiful thing you’ve discarded so easily.”

“You talk like a child,” he says, sitting at the bed’s edge. “A soul?” He spits the words between us. “Angels won’t protect a little clockwork girl. I’ll find you.”

I keep my voice even and empty of emotion. I need him to understand the consequences of a mistake. “Follow me, and I will kill you.”

He glances at the comb on the floor, looks back into my eyes. His shoulders fall into a slump before he turns away.

I lock him behind the heavy door and move to find my clothing and possessions in the next room. The house is quiet as I descend the grand staircase into the main foyer. A cold goodbye slips from my lips as I leave his home.

In the distance, announcing the day’s new beginning, the cathedral bell tolls through a morning made fresh with the promise of spring. Just across the Thames sits Her Majesty’s Theatre. A thirsty passion forces my feet into an assemblé — a bend, a leap, a graceful movement that mimics a heart. With eyes on the horizon, I step into a new life.

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Host Commentary

…aaaaand welcome back. That was THE SOMNAMBULANT by SAM W. PISCIOTTA; it was his first time on an Escape Artists show, but not his first story, so if you enjoyed that, check out his website at  Tired of the Same Old World? – Sam W. Pisciotta

Sam sent us these notes on the story: “‘Somnambulant’ is my retelling of the Frankenstein story. Katya lives in a grotesque world where she searches for and finds beauty. She is given life, knowledge, and a destiny. Ultimately, she chooses art and uses it to change that destiny.

Katya’s art is ballet, which I knew absolutely nothing about when I began writing this story. I spent hours watching videos of ballerinas at work, listening to classic ballet compositions, and learning the vocabulary of dance and movement. I came through the other side of this research with the utmost appreciation for this art form. Ballet is so beautiful and the best dancers are nothing less than world-class athletes. I absolutely loved writing the scenes where Katya dances.”

Thank you, Sam, for the thoughts and the story. Musings on art being the seat of the soul feel particularly timely in this, the year of our generative-AI pyramid schemes. I doubt I am alone among this audience in feeling like the only time I transcend my brief, mortal self is when I create something that did not exist before–that, ironically, I only feel connected to eternity when I create something ephemeral, be it a story to be read, loved then forgotten, or a photograph to snatch at time’s relentless march, or even a moment of roleplay among friends. The one thing that dims that flame is the contemporary capitalist urge to monetise–to derive economic value from every moment of our lives and every movement of our souls, to view everything through the lens of content. It’s perhaps strange to state this from the outro of a pro-paying market, I guess–I never was any good at knowing when not to run my mouth–but then I think there is a difference between that pressure to proffer everything up to the free market, versus us paying writers and narrators so they can afford to devote the time to their art, in a world where there is, haha, relentless pressure to earn money, a pressure primarily created through artificial scarcity and the coercive threats of starvation and homelessness.

Katya, though, is free from that particular coercion–though she certainly labours under others–and her particular chosen art, ballet, can only ever be ephemeral, can only exist in that one moment and never again, never exactly the same. A third irony in this outro, then: that it takes a machine girl to remind us–to remind me–to try and revel in the act for its own sake, above all else; to not love it for what it can buy you, be that trinkets or food or even a soul, but to love it for itself.