A Matter of Inspiration

Black Swan (Part 1)

Everything hurts. My toes. My ankles. My knees. My hips and back. My head.

Everything.

Art is pain. Life is suffering.

A favorite maxim of the Director's. She is watching. I can feel her eyes on me. On every movement of my trembling limbs and I beg God that I do not fall. That I do not stumble or slip, because she will only make me do it again.

I dance to earn a meal and a bed. But that is not my gift, and she knows it.

Pirouette. Pirouette. Assemblé.

The positions run through my head, less thought than instinct, I have done it so many times.

It happens. My ankle gives. It has been straining for the better part of the hour. I topple to the ground, tucking my shoulder and rolling harmlessly forward. I stop just inches away from the front of the stage and stare down into the empty orchestra pit.

My breath rasps in and out. In and out. Every inch of my body trembles. My skin is slick with sweat. I wait for her to snap the dreaded "again".

When it doesn't come, I dare to look up. The Director is not alone. 

She is walking down the main aisle, a man beside her. He is not one of hers. Not one I recognize at any rate, which I suppose really means nothing. The Ruska Roma is a large organization. I can hardly be expected to know all of her toughs.

As they come nearer, though, I realize he is not the usual sort. He is far too elegant for that, even cut and bruised as he is. He walks with far too much grace despite the fact that he is limping a little.

They walk by the stage, and I do not look away, even as his dark eyes pin me in place.

That is the best description for this man. Dark.

Not just because of his suit or the shine of his black hair. He moves like darkness. He seems moments away from simply slipping into the shadows and disappearing into nothing. Like a ghost.

Like Baba Yaga.

And instantly, I know who this man is. And I realize that I am meeting his quiet eyes. 

His gaze roams down to the bruises on my legs, making me lift my chin as his eyes narrow thoughtfully. Or perhaps in recognition. They are not what he thinks. I have earned those bruises. Then they are moving past, and I can feel his eyes on the massive tattoo on my back.

One he shares.

When they are finally past, I realize I have been holding my breath, and I let it out slowly before I wobble to my feet.

The guards still talk about him. Our martial arts and dance instructors ask why we do not aspire to his perfection, even though we do. We all aspire to be like the most legendary hitman in our world.

John Wick.

I turn slowly, wanting to catch a glimpse of his back. Light ripples off his black hair. His shoulders are square. Broad in a way that fits the neat frame of his body and warns of the strength and skill he possesses.

Then they are gone, and I shake my head at myself.

I have seen a legend in the flesh. It reminds me of the fact that I wish to be a legend in my own right, and that wanting to be a legend requires work.

The joints of my toes throb and my ankle aches horribly as I hobble off the stage and push silently through the doors the Director and Mr. Wick have just disappeared through. The other girls are stretching or cleaning blood from their feet. Oksana has finally managed to pry that dead toenail loose.

"Did you see him?" she asks me, her somber brown eyes darting from me to the doors leading deeper into the theater where the boys are currently practicing. She is bent over her feet, dabbing away blood and cleaning the mangled nailbed. 

I nod, using the back of my hand to wipe the sweat out of my eyes.

"He looks like I imagined," she comments offhandedly. 

I suppose he does.

"Are you done?" Oksana looks up at me, doubt written across her pretty face.

We are all pretty to a degree. I wonder if the Director does that on purpose or if our people are simply blessed.

I shake my head, making some of the other girls glance at one another in bewilderment. They do not understand. Not yet. They have not taken the Director's maxim to heart. They still believe a life here in America will save them from the suffering they endured starving in a country picked over by the Soviets like a carcass.

Art is pain.

But dance is not the only art I study. It is not the art that burns like fire in my soul.

I slip across the room, forcing my body into the fluid, silent way of moving all aspiring assassins must master. The effort of rolling my ankle through each step hurts, but it doesn't matter.

Life is suffering.

I push through the doors, pleased when none of the boys look up from their practice. They don't notice me until I let the door fall shut with a bang behind me. A few of them look up, expressions startled before they sneer and return to their take-down practice.

Those are the boys I tend to beat.

Nikita throws a boy to the ground with a loud thump before he tosses me a wink as he brushes sweaty hair out of his face. I roll my eyes, then grace him with a small smile. Niki and I are about even, a constant source of irritation for the both of us.

"He's upstairs," Niki calls across the room. "Waiting."

"I know," I respond, making some of the boys laugh. The sound isn't particularly friendly.

I have heard the rumors—they believe the master allows me private lessons because I allow him certain...liberties. But the master has no such interest in me. I know because I made the offer. He rejected it.

No. I suspect he spends the time because he sees the same potential in me that I see in myself sometimes.

"If you need a sparring partner—"

"I know where to find you," I respond. Nikita gives me that infuriating half-smile of his before I make it through the other doors. I can hear the crackle of the fire and a man's raised voice, demanding his ticket be torn.

I do not linger. It is dangerous to eavesdrop on the Director. Turning sharply to my left, I start up a hidden staircase, pausing only when I hear the hiss of burning flesh and a grunt of pain. The skin between my shoulder blades itches sympathetically.

When I finally make it to the small room I share with Oksana, I am tempted by the idea of simply collapsing onto my narrow bed. But that is not an option.

There is no rest to be had. Not here.

So I fight my way out of my sweat-drenched leotard, unlace my pointe shoes and tuck them neatly away. Then I pull on a skintight tank-top and cuffed sweatpants before leaving my room and climbing another two sets of stairs, making my way to the roof escape.

The air is cool, smelling of rain to come.

I stop and rotate my sore ankle a few times, hoping it will hold up to whatever the master has in mind. Then I walk across the roof of the theater, toward the flat square of concrete where he drills me in the art of killing every day.

But today is different.

Today, the master isn't alone.

The following parts contain !!SPOILERS!! for the third John Wick movie. Just as a heads up ;)