The Blood of a Dancer

Note to readers: This is a story I wrote when I was about 16, so I apologise for it not being the best. The concept behind this story was a dystopian world where a technological, powerful regime controls everyone through little chips that are stuck into their heads. It causes them immense pain if they do not behave appropriately and efficiently, whether lagging at work or school or thinking negatively about the regime. The chip can detect anything that goes against the regime and then can cause physical pain. This story tells the life of a ballet dancer and her struggles with her bodily limitations in the face of a dystopian regime that does not consider such things an excuse for rest.

THE BLOOD OF A DANCER:

Death is what gives me life. The idea of a time when I am no longer bound by silk-covered shoes and a deep-rooted, programmed chip is what motivates me. If I work harder, I can die quicker, and I do hope it comes soon. I am brought to my feet by invisible strings, like a cursed puppet, created from my fear. I walk. No. I glide. I glide with grace across the white floor all the time, hearing the whisperings of my blush-coloured shoes. Chin up. Hands and arms are poised in mid-air as if time has been stopped.

The practice room is painfully silent despite the presence of other dancers. It will not last long. Slow piano notes bubble across the room on cue and trigger my performance. Inevitable movement encases my body, and my vision is blurred by tears and spinning. My numb feet continue. Fear always motivates my limbs. Fear is what makes up the salty rivers tumbling down my cheeks and stinging my chapped lips. It is an act of defiance, but a cruel jab in my chest overrides all other feelings. It is the Order reminding me to continue. The grand performance that waits for me tomorrow requires this pain, but the supposedly lifeless chip can sense my reluctance. I know I must not falter, or the ache will become intolerable. A sort of mind-numbing ice spreading through my blood.

As I dance, I use the pain to push beyond my body’s limits. I can feel blood blossoming across my pointe shoes, tainting the perfect fabric like an unholy flower. Another predictable act of defiance. I bruise and bleed and sweat and cry every day. I leave crimson tracks wherever I go like a twisted breadcrumb trail. Of course, they do not last long. The blood will be cleaned away. I wonder where my stained pointe shoes go when they are thrown out?

I let the thought engulf my brain as I finish my routine, hold my pose for a few required seconds and then crumble to the floor. I appear as a wounded animal as I crawl back to my fellow dancers. They clap while I struggle to breathe. I hope that tomorrow I can save the crawling till backstage. I spy my dance instructor nodding in approval, but I glare, disgusted, at his cowardly, fear-driven actions. However, I cannot help but soften my face as I see a familiar terror in his eyes. I am staring into a mirror. I quickly look down at the floor. For a second, I do not understand why I see so much red.

The lesson twirls by, and I soon find my feet are leading my tired body out of the studio and towards home. I pass strangers all imprisoned by the demon Orders perched next to their hearts. A nationwide curse. The people would all look like shiny tin soldiers if it were not for the classic red shade staining their clothes like a wild lover’s kiss. I wonder what they do to look like that at the end of the day. I suppose it is a secret battle that never ends. An enemy has breached their borders, but still they march blindly, bullets ricocheting off nothing. I cannot be bitter towards them, though. I am the same. I also aim my gun into the darkness.

My mind wanders into a daydream as I ghost through the battlefield streets in my white clothes. My chest is tense, but still, I think about supposedly sinful desires. I think of sleeping in tomorrow morning, the sun streaming through my windows at midday instead of the usual bluish hue I receive at six am. The Order burns my heart at my corrupt thoughts. It knows where my mind is leading me. I think about going out and running through the streets. Another burn, this time stronger. The Order is panicking at my rebellion. I think about gathering flowers and leaves and littering them through the streets, my version of vandalism. Burn. Creating a bonfire made of tutus and pointe shoes that lights up the sky like a second sun. Burn. Burn. Burn.

The pain finally commandeers my body and forces it to melt to the ground. A breathing, living, tortured puddle lying in the street. A sight that all people are accustomed to in this city. I lie motionless until the pain in my chest subsides, and I can gather my senses and stand. I take a deep, forced breath and stumble forward. Glancing behind me, I see my scraped knees have bled onto the white concrete. A rose in snow. I allow myself a tiny, triumphant smile and hobble the last couple of streets to my apartment.

Walking towards my door, I notice the one opposite me yet again has blood spread across the front like a satanic mural. I silently applaud my neighbour's stained front doorstep. I wonder if she also loves to see the one-hued rainbow streaking across the walls. Nonetheless, I leave a bloody handprint on my own entranceway. It is a tradition I have taught myself. An out of place reminder to not let my mind get chained into submission by a constant clean-cut world.

I leave my exhaustion in my reddening bathtub that evening. My brain is numb as I pull on my pale nightdress and collapse into my pale sheets. I imagine that I look a bit like a ghost. Drifting off into sleep, I dream in black and white. I cannot escape the lack of colour even in my rest.

The following day is filled with unspoken tension as we prepare for the performance in the evening. Rehearsal after rehearsal blocks out any other thoughts as I tiptoe through the day. Before my battle, I slip out of my burgundy shackles in my dressing room and soak my feet in a tub of ice. The pain is a twin to the burn of my Order. So much so that for a minute, I believe that the chip is the one stinging my body. I fumble through my bag, looking for my clean pair of pointe shoes, but my hands end up grasping at nothing but hairspray and makeup.

I feel my chest seize up in a panic as a faint image paints itself in my mind. Pale pink perched on a table. I gasp as I realise they are at home, buried underneath bandages on my nightstand. My breath quickens, and I trip out of the basin, spilling ice cubes across the floor. Ignoring the mess, I sprint out of my cell, downstairs and into the cold evening air. Without hesitation, I begin to race home, feeling stings at every footfall. The Order is urging me to continue so that I can end up on stage and fulfil my role.

However, when I reach the hallway leading to my door, I skid to a halt letting pain drape across me like an invisible spiderweb. There, standing at her front door is my neighbour. She is looking at her daily mural of blood with a dripping rag in her hands and a bucket of water sitting next to her. The wall is half clean. Half white. She is stripping away her artwork, replacing it with the white concrete that lies beneath it.

I have never seen her do this before. I furrow my brows, praying that this woman will not continue her sinful act of obedience, but she raises the rag and scrubs at the wall. With each sweep, my mind strays deeper into shock. I thought this woman was a fellow soldier in the battle against reality, but she’s like all the others. She gave up.

The Order is stabbing at my heart like ever before, and despite my feeling of sadness and betrayal, I grab my pointe shoes from my apartment and leave the building. A moment later, I am sitting in front of my dressing room mirror, back where I started. Back to where I always find myself. My eyes are bloodshot, and my hands shake while I rip my hair into a tight bun. There is no one there to comfort me. I am alone.

A tear falls down my cheek as I look into the mirror. Staring at my pitiful reflection, a feeling like no other envelops my body, one consisting of rage, desperation, and pride. My skin feels like a prison cell, and it takes all my strength not to start ripping it off my bones. A clock ticking echoes across the room, reminding me of my purpose. I am not here to mourn. I am here to dance. To live.

I smile at my reflection and swear I see fangs. Spilling my makeup onto the countertop, I begin painting a story across my face. As I swipe at my eye shadow, I picture my hands tracing a smear of blood. Clawing at my lashes, I see myself picking a bouquet of roses. Tracing my lipstick, I imagine how the red would look stained across someone’s cheek.

A call from the hallway alerts me to my inevitable present. I promptly slam my palettes closed and glide out of the room. The halls are empty. It is my time. The wings of the stage create a safe bulb around me, but my rage shatters the illusion. The sounds of the audience can be heard as I take my place, and a spotlight illuminates my circus animal persona. There are hushes of whispers as they acknowledge my presence, and I allow myself to exhale.

The music falls from the rafters and wraps around my joints and limbs. Embracing the strings, I begin to do what I always have done. Dance. Like an excited child, I leap around the stage, slowly creating a mirage for the onlookers. It blocks out the truth of my tear-streaked face like an obedient little filter. With every jump and pirouette, I feel my toes break more and more, yet still, I dance.

For the first time, I am not just moving, I am telling a story. I delve into my deepest emotions and act them out. I pour every ounce of energy into each arabesque and grand jete to paint my life on stage. I forget about the audience as I transport myself. I am an angel reaching out to my beloved heaven, yet still, sobs rack my body. The tears are a built-up poison, and I cannot further build my dam.

As the final music notes pass through my limbs, I glide into my ending position. My face is wet with tears, but my whole body is shaking with exhilaration. I have finally done it. My own purpose has been fulfilled, to live with passion, not the purpose that the Order programs me to want. I fall onto my knees and then my side. My face is turned towards the audience to let them see the mirage fall, but I force myself to look down at my body eventually. It has done so well. It has been so strong. My eyelids start to flutter, and I notice blood creeping up my pointe shoes. I exhale deeply, finally content to leave, knowing that my body has truly given its last act of defiance.