Crazyqueen

She called herself Crazyqueen on the purple and red neon signs that blinked above the entrance of the Velvet Abyss, the most expensive and decadent club in the city.

Before, she was simply Marina.

A classically trained dancer who one day discovered that ballet doesn't pay the bills or satisfy the soul's desires. So she traded her pointe shoes for six-inch heels, her tutu for black lace lingerie and rhinestones, and the spotlighted stage for one bathed in ultraviolet light and thick smoke.

And then he appeared.

They called him The Prince among the girls in the dressing room, although no one ever knew his real name. Thirty-something, always impeccably dressed, with a gaze as sharp as a scalpel, and a black credit card that seemed to have no limit. He paid for four-figure bottles of champagne as if they were buying water, but he never got drunk. He just observed.

And when he chose you for a private dance… he made you feel like you were the only woman who had ever existed on the planet.

Marina became a Crazy Queen the night he placed a crown of thorns made of Swarovski crystals on her head and whispered:

“This crown is yours… but only as long as you entertain me.”

And she believed it was a promise of eternity.

The following months were a spiral of velvet and poison.

He would appear without warning, disappear for weeks at a time.

He would send her incredibly expensive gifts and then messages that said:

“You’re not up to par today.”

“I’ve seen better in Berlin.”

“Is that all you can give me?”

Every time she tried to create distance, he would return with an apology wrapped in diamonds and sex that seemed straight out of an erotic nightmare. And she would come back. She always came back.

The other dancers began to whisper:

"She's losing her mind."

"Look at her... she doesn't dance for the customers anymore, she dances as if he were always in the front row."

And one day she simply... stopped pretending.

One winter morning, with the club half empty, she went on stage without any music playing.

Her crown of thorns was crooked, her makeup smeared like black tears, her latex bodysuit ripped at the chest.

And she danced.

It wasn't an erotic dance.

It was a funeral.

A declaration of war against herself.

She spun as if she wanted to break her neck, she crawled on the floor as if searching for something she had lost under the lights, she tore out clumps of hair and let them fall like offerings.

At one point she climbed onto the bar, took off the crown, and smashed it against the floor until the crystals flew like shrapnel.

She screamed her real name for the first time in years:

“MARINA! MARINA ISN’T HERE! ONLY THE CRAZY QUEEN REMAINS!”

Security tried to remove her, but the regulars—those men in expensive suits—froze. Some were crying without knowing why. Others were recording with their phones.

That night, Crazy Queen ceased to be a stage name.

It became a warning.

They say she disappeared for three weeks afterward.

When she returned, she no longer accepted private dances.

She only danced on the main stage, always with the same shattered crown glued to her head with superglue, always with the same empty, burning eyes.

Some customers swear that sometimes, mid-turn, they see her smile at someone who isn’t there.

Others say they hear laughter that only she can hear.

Today, if you go to the Velvet Abyss after 3:00 a.m., you can still see her.

They call her the Crazy Queen. They call her Crazy Queen.

And when her act ends, before the lights go out completely, she always does the same thing:

she takes off her broken crown, kisses it with a sickly tenderness…

and leaves it in the center of the stage,

like someone leaving an offering to a love that now only exists in the broken mirrors of the dressing room.

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