Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco

Time to Dance

by prettypoizon 14 reviews

Based on the songs "I write sins, not tragedies" and "time to dance"

Category: Panic! At The Disco - Rating: R - Genres: Drama, Horror, Romance - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2006-07-13 - Updated: 2006-07-14 - 1337 words - Complete

This is a very short story based on the songs "I write sins, not tragedies" and "Time to Dance" by Panic! At the Disco. I've always imagined the two songs to be connected. It's my take on the songs, anyway.


Sharpe- Sharp. Celeste- Cell-EH-S-TE. Carmichael- Car-MIKE-EL. Smyth- Smith. Antoinette- AH-N-TWAH-NET.

Proudest father, dressed and ready for his only daughter's wedding. He straightened his bow tie and smiled, ready. He turned to Celeste, all prim and pretty in her white silken gown and six-foot veil.
"Ready, Darling?"
"Ready, Papa." She smiled back.

Smyth paced the church corridor.
"Damn sister," he thought, "Today of all days to marry."
Friday the 13th. But Celeste had insisted, saying a Friday was perfect for the wedding. Their parents had scolded Smyth for protesting.
"There's no such thing as bad luck on this day." His mother had huffed.
But Smyth knew they'd be proven wrong. He heard voice wafting through an open door, and crept up to listen. Antoinette, Celeste's bridesmaid, and a waiter stood there. This angered Smyth, knowing the waiter should be in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
"What a beautiful wedding," sighed Antoinette, "Did you see the ballroom yet? Celeste's modeling photos line the walls."
"Yes, but what a shame. The poor grooms bride is a whore." The waiter answered solemnly, shaking his head, "I swear I saw her with the best man."
Antoinette raised a delicate hand to her mouth and gasped, shocked. This was too much for Smyth to bear; he stepped out of the shadows and into the room.
"Haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamned door?" he snapped, "And you! Back to the kitchen, there's work to be done!"
The waiter glared at Smyth but marched out of the room none-the-less. Antoinette fixed Smyth with a cool stare.
"You should not meddle in things that do not concern you, Smyth."
"Do accusations against my sister not concern me?"
Antoinette laughed cruelly.
"You are but a child."
Smyth's temper flared.
"I'm 16." He hissed.
Antoinette angrily pushed past him and disappeared into the dimly lit corridor.

Celeste stood at the altar, hands intertwined with Sharpe's
"...until death do us part." She was saying. She glanced over Sharpe's shoulder and watched Carmichael for a moment, then turned back to the minister.
"Do you take this man, Sharpe Saint Lawrence, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"I do."
"And do you take this woman, Celeste McAlastaire, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do."
"I pronounce you man and wife."
Sharpe wrapped his beloved in his arms and they kissed. The band struck up a lively tune and the couple turned and walked back down the aisle, followed by Antoinette and Carmichael. Smyth sat with his parents, watching them go. He glared coolly at his sister. Was she a whore?
The guests followed the new couple downstairs to the lavish ballroom, with it's gilded golden walls and chairs to match. Fashion magazine cutouts of Celeste lined the wall, reminding everyone of her modeling career. Smyth sat at a table alongside his parents and watched his sister at the head table. She was holding Sharpe's hand, but was engulfed in a flirtatious conversation with Carmichael.
"Whore." Whispered Smyth.
Dinner was served, prim and expensive escargot and caviar on silver platters. Smyth hardly ate, caring not for slugs and fish eggs. Finally, the tables were cleared and dancing began. Women in fancy ball gowns and men in tall silken top hats waltzed about the ballroom floor. After but two dances, Smyth spotted his sister and Carmichael disappearing into the hallway, and he slipped out too, unnoticed, to investigate. He stood in the darkened doorway, watching the two across the hall. He listened to the rustle of Celeste's skirts and the hush of their voices.
"As soon as I can access his money, we'll run away together." She whispered, playing with the collar of his tuxedo.
"I love you." Carmichael replied.
The two leaned forward, bride and best man, and kissed passionately.
"She IS a whore!" Smyth gasped quietly, and he turned and ran back into the ballroom. He found Sharpe and tugged on his sleeve.
"Sharpe! Come quickly!" he gasped, and the two rushed to the doorway. Smyth gestured down the hall where Celeste and Carmichael stood, too involved in themselves to notice. Sharpe's face fell as he watched his bride and best friend. He turned away and walked back inside the ballroom, Smyth at his heels. He collapsed into a golden chair, heart racing.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Because she's a whore." Smyth said sadly.
"Did...did you hear them...talking?"
"She's going to steal your money and then they'll run away together."
Sharpe ran his fingers through his dark hair, a made a decision. He stood up, tall and poised.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Smyth." He said, clapping the young man on the shoulder, and striding onto the dance floor. Smyth watched in awe. What was he going to do?

Celeste and Carmichael returned to the ballroom separately, but were dancing together in a matter of minutes. Sharpe disappeared for several minutes and returned wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He strode up to his wife and stole her away from Carmichael. The music picked up, and the couple danced a lively foxtrot. He kissed her gently and they tore away. Sharpe reached into his pocket and pulled the shotgun from his pocket, and he held it low.
"When I say shotgun, you say wedding." He whispered into her ear.
"What?!" she exclaimed, stumbling backwards.
"Or whatever comes to mind." Sharpe shrugged.
Celeste's bloodcurdling scream echoed through the ballroom, and the music came to an abrupt halt.
"NO!" cried Carmichael, lunging forward and catching Celeste as he slumped backwards, scarlet soaking her silken gown.
"Oh, dear." Smirked Sharpe.
"You bastard!" gasped Celeste, clutching her stomach.
"You whore." Sharpe replied coolly.
Smyth rushed forward, fearing for his sister's life, but Sharpe pushed him back, not even looking at him. Carmichael was screaming at Sharpe.
"What in bloody hell is wrong with you!" he screamed
Mr. McAlastaire, Celeste and Smyth's father, slowly crept towards the exit...
Sharpe did not hit the old man, but he sprayed the photos of Celeste with bullets.
"No one will be leaving." He said calmly. He turned to Carmichael and looked down at him coldly.
"You and Celeste are to tell the guests what you did, or you will be shot as well." He said, calm as ever. Celeste's eye shone with hatred.
"We...kissed." She gasped.
Sharpe shot several more pictures.
"I believe you did more than that, Darling." He hissed.
Carmichael looked around the room.
"We...committed adultery." He said quietly.
Now Carmichael lay on the floor, next to his lover, his chest spurting blood.
"LOUDER!" Sharpe cried.
"WE COMMITED ADULTERY!" he gasped hysterically.
Antoinette fainted, but no one dare move to aid her.
"Now, Smyth, tell everyone what you heard in the corridor." Sharpe said, turning to Smyth, gun aimed.
"I...ah..." he stammered, "T-they were to sss-steal your m-money and run aw-w-ay..."
The crowd gasped.
"Now, isn't this screaming 'photo op'?" smirked Sharpe, gently kicking Carmichael, "True love, dying side by side?"
"You're a monster." Gasped Celeste, blood pooling on the golden floor.
"Boys will be boys, Baby." Sharpe shrugged.
The two lovers writhed in pain, death approaching.
"Oh, dear, dear, Celeste, have some composure! Where is your posture? Model, indeed." Mocked Sharpe. He stepped forward and knelt down, whispering in Celeste's ear;
"Next time, when I say shotgun, you say wedding, alright?" He stood up, smoothed his suit, and strode over to the doors. He turned the handle and stepped out. No sooner had he closed the gilded golden doors did Celeste' heart stop beating. Carmichael cried out in agony. Slowly, his breathing stopped forever. Smyth turned and fixed his weeping mother and trembling father with an accusing stare.
"Friday the 13th, dear parents," he whispered, "NOW do you believe me?"
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