Alcove in the Grand Staircase
The first sensation that he was conscious of was pain. It was intense beyond description. Searing, burning, thrashing lines of cold and fire, cutting, twitching knives he couldn't see and couldn't defend himself from, even as he lifted his arms in a vain attempt to block them. Something was wrong with his body. His clothes billowed and dropped away from him into rough folds more characteristic of a burlap sack dyed black than what would generally be considered 'clothing.' His body twisted sharply; swelled, warped, hardened, bled.
He blinked a few more times, breathed roughly, and found obstruction at his mouth. When he reached up to feel it, his hand was gloved. The bag over his face had holes to see through and nothing more, just a sack that obscured whatever horrible thing had happened to the features underneath. His breathing was labored. His gait was limping. What had happened? Why this?
He shambled past the dancers, single-mindedly dragging his agonized body along, setting small goals to keep himself from simply stopping. Every time he thought he couldn't go another step, he thought: Just a few more steps. Just up the next flight of stairs. Just to the shadows on the other side of the stairwell. If he could only find an alcove to hide in, and try to make sense of what had happened.
It felt like hours of wending his way past dizzyingly happy revelers to finally reach one of the quiet nooks surrounded by a curtain. Gloved hands pushed clumsily through it with relief. He collapsed onto one of the cushioned benches inside, breathing raggedly. His whole body felt as if it was on fire. He could sense gaping wounds under the billowing black robe and cloak, and something tugging and tearing on his face every time he moved. Now that he had found a quiet, dark place, he might become a statue and never move again.
He had stopped trying to put together what had happened, and he was not curious enough to pull off his gloves and see what was underneath. The pain cooled, dulled to an ache. He rested the back of his head against the wall, shut his eyes behind the crude mask, and listened to the sound of the orchestra outside. It might as well have been a thousand miles away.