I floated above them, unnoticed, forgotten. For a time, the pretty girl in the burgundy, blood-red dress grasped me, clutching me by my string, cutting off my breathing. I know something they don’t know, but I can never tell them, and I don’t quite understand. After all, I am without words, without suffering- simply a peach balloon strung up on their lavish table, left to watch their never ending spectacle.

The haute-couture, highly strung ladies around this table do not realise this is not the first time they have been punished. But each time they fall for the same charade, beckoned by the vibrant, charcoal-grey haired lady in emerald, her seemingly sweet smile twisting into a snarl as the richest women and girls from the world step onto the floating platform. Their high heels clack onto the stone, cobbled circle, something one would see in the finest streets of Verona, set atop the clearest, crystal blue lake. None of the party stopped to consider why the water was still, as if frozen in place- watching them greedily as they carelessly leapt into its trap.

I do not know how these proud, hideous creatures came to be on this floating dinner table, only that each produced a letter to the leader, the one in emerald, as they approached. One letter sits there now, scrawled handwriting on the front, half covered by a fingerprint of rich chocolate. It reads ‘Duchess Immelda’, stamped with a golden, glistening seal. Atop the table sits decadent pastries, fizzing champagne and tiny, pretentious cupcakes with cherry hats, dripping with velvet syrup. One girl, flicking her blonde French plait onto her pale back, reaches her short, stubby fingers toward the largest pastry, crumbs flying over the table as the emerald woman flares her nostrils in disgust.

The older ladies grasp each other’s arms, laughing hysterically and shaking the round table atop the floating platform. Still, even now, they share stories of their palaces, their newest diamond trimmed gowns, each attempting to sound more lavish than the last. The wind sways me for a moment, turning me to stare wordlessly at the emerald woman. She smirks, quirking her lip, watching as these horrific beasts dig themselves a deeper and deeper grave…

Suddenly, from bedside them, the emerald woman taps her encrusted silver spoon against a champagne flute and rises, gliding out of her chair with a grace that can only indicate power. A short cough rings through the party, silencing the ladies and vibrating through me uncomfortably. “Ladies, thank you for your attendance at this dinner party.” Her voice is honey, trickling through the cracks and pores of the hideous women encircling her. “You are gathered here, again, because a lesson has not yet been learnt.” The brunette Princess beside her raises her eyebrows, starting to open her mouth in protest; a fat, shining strawberry is still poised between her polished talons. The honey voice silences her. “Many times you have been called share your wrongdoings and confess your guilt, to look beyond this table and to those in your countries, cities and villages who suffer while you bathe in your wealth and pride.” The disappointment hums through the wind, turning and circling the round platform slowly, deliberately, menacingly.

It seems that the royalty are now like me, they cannot speak or protest, cannot move. Only their wide, dilated pupils tell me their fear. “When you learn your lesson, you will be set free, released into the world.” The emerald colour seems to seep into the leader’s skin now, bleeding into her, making her other-worldly, powerful. A punisher.

“Until that time comes. RESET!”. The last word comes out as a bellow, signalling the start of the same, unyielding, unending torture for the devils around the table who deserve their purgatory. As each of their heads hit the table, the clank of tiaras rings around me, and I feel the grip of the red headed woman holding me softly release. First terror, then realisation, washes over me. You will be set free. Learn your lesson. You are gathered here, again. I understand now.

I am rising, lifting, floating upwards, staring down at my own regret. It is etched in the lifeless faces of the dinner party guests, it is furrowed in their brows, it is shining in their golden jewellery. It is all I can do to watch, as the emerald woman stares at me, stretching further and further away as I leave this torture behind. I wish I could say I was sorry. Her green irises tell me she already knows.