A Night To Remember

22. the dying swan

Azrael Carmen

I raised on tiptoe, my arms folded. Le Cygne thrummed through the studio softly. I circled the place, gliding my hands up in the air. The old record player spun to the slow music notes from the corner. I felt it on my skin. A burning pain on my bare feet inside the unbreakable pointe, it sliced up my legs to the very center of my chest, splitting me inside out.

Sweat trickled down my face. I gritted my teeth as I bent to the music before emerging again to mimic the strive toward the horizon, as though a moment more I was going to fly and explore the confines of space with my very soul. Except I knew I would not fly anywhere. I did this tragic routine a thousand times over.

I was always dying with the swan. But, some death was meant to be celebrated.

The air turned eerily cold, humming from outside into the windows. It sliced through the thin layer of my leotard. I listened as notes gradually relaxed and sank to the floor, my skirt fluttering the side of my thighs and my arms waving faintly as in pain. Then, I stood up again and faltered toward the edge of the studio. My bones quivered like the strings of harp and by one swift forward gliding motion with my right foot, I sank again to my left knee.

It was coming to an end. The swan struggled between life and death against earthly bonds. I slid my arms down my leg and bent to accept the everlasting torment. And, there, transfixed by pain, the aerial creature died.

I felt very still but my body trembled frantically as the music died into a screeching scratch. The room shrank down thrice its size. My leotard suddenly felt too tight and I could barely breath. I dug my nails into my skin as I brought my legs up to my chest and broke down in the middle of the hauntingly cold ballet studio.

I cried for the ballerina in me who couldn't dance. Angry tears streamed down my cheeks at the woman who broke me. Former Prima ballerina assoluta, Melanie Carmen, stared down at me from the picture I religiously kept hanging on the wall with her icy eyes that matched mine. Even in her death the woman was taunting me, cutting me into pieces.

"Happy death anniversary, mamá." I glared at her, abruptly standing straight up. I stalked toward her picture like I did every years since I was seventeen and yanked it off, smashing the frame and shattering glass until I felt better.

It was a never ending cycle. I only ever danced twice a year. The unfortunate event of her birthday and the day she died. I could not handle doing the thing I loved most anymore. Not with her haunting every leap I took. Her soft spoken criticism still drummed inside my head. Dancing used to free me and now it was my death by a thousand cuts.

My father said she cursed me. But, I knew I just wasn't strong enough.

Except the times I danced for Elliot. As much as I hated his stupid face, he anchored me to the ground and under his gaze I didn't feel like I was breaking apart.

Maybe because his cocky grin reminded me that someone needed to stay strong and humble his fucking ego.

I glanced at the clock at the thought of him. A calming sense wafted over me because this time I didn't have to come home to an empty house where my own puppy was half ignoring me. I wiped my face and could not change out of the costume fast enough, hurrying back.

Then, I drove back to the city while the flame ate my leotard and pointe shoes. And, the abandoned dance studio where I buried my mother under disappeared from the rear view mirror.

The townhouse was silent and dark. I dropped my keys into the bowl and strode though the empty hallway to the kitchen. I absentmindedly opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Turning around, I leaned against the sink and drank the water. Elliot and Oakley must be on their evening run again. It was absolutely absurd how they became best friends in a span of four days. I even caught the grumpy puppy played with an actual dog toy instead of chewing on my heels. Everything was changing and I wasn't sure how to feel about it.