Post by Emily on Oct 27, 2015 0:58:26 GMT -8
CAST: Hannah Fein (scalesenpointe@aol.com)
SUMMARY: Written in January 2015. In an effort to help her heal, Hannah’s ballet instructor dances her into a corner that she can only fight her way out of.
TW:
“Again.”
The broken ballerina stood at the barre in a studio on campus. She once knew one like it like the back of one of her hands, but hadn’t seen it in coming up on six months. Gold oak laid down in staggers stretched from mirrored wall to mirrored wall. It was the only warmth in the otherwise cold, silver room lit by fluorescent bulbs suspended in the darkness of the metal rafters high above.
There were worn areas and discolorations in the oak that she didn’t recognize. They weren’t made by her tireless pursuit of the mechanically perfect 540 degree battement en rond or technically difficult adagio. They weren’t made by her desperate need to express any of the many things that were in constant rotation through her head and overwhelming her energy centers. They were evidence of someone else’s passion.
Where was hers?
She sighed. Her head fell forward and her shoulders went with it. The black straps of her leotard, criss-crossing the gentle ridges of her spine, were a stark contrast to her near ivory pallor. The sick yellow-green of healing bruises still stained the left side of her chest, spilling over her collarbone and the cap of her shoulder like watercolors too watery to stay put.
Her stare down at black braces compressing what used to be well-conditioned muscle, ligament and tendon through blush tights — one on her left ankle and one on her right knee — was conflicted. They seemed so out of place against the shine of the satin ribbons securing pointe shoes to her aching feet.
Wispy tendrils of her new penny hair were falling out of the French braid they had been imprisoned with prior to class. They fell in waves around her face, which was flushed with the coral of physical exertion. Her eyes narrowed with determination as she lifted her head, straightened her shoulders and flexed her arms into a confident third position.
The extension of her right leg behind her and subsequent rise up into the toe box her left foot was supported by was forced and rigid. She remained in that position with an eerie, doll-like stillness until, finally, the muscles in her abdomen began to tremble with the effort it took to keep her balanced.
“You are regaining your strength,” observed her instructor. He was an aging cavalier who looked and sounded like he had fallen into a vat full of convenient stereotypes: lean build, flippant posture, thick-lipped Eastern European accent and the beginnings of salt in long, peppery hair that had been pulled back into a low ponytail. The works. “But you are delaying your progress with these… adventures of yours.”
He took her left hand in his and lifted it over her head. His right hand settled at the curve of her thoracic spine with the intention of being a guide. As he lead her forward, she hesitated. Her weight shifted forward onto the connection that the ball of her right foot made with the floor.
“I’m sorry, Alexei, I don’t think I can…” she began to object. Her determination wavered, giving way to demons that she had been hiding from everyone, often including herself. They wore late September’s pale-faced sneer, razor sharp teeth and no regard for her at all in brown eyes that she could have sworn once wanted her as much as she’d wanted them. Sometimes they were what pushed her. Sometimes they were what held her back.
“You can,” he cut her off.
Alexei’s right hand curled, fingertips digging into the hollow spaces between her ribs and spurring her forward. They lost all hint of the warmth and guidance they conveyed only a moment ago. He had been expecting her objection. Wild-eyed and confused, she whirled around to face him.
He set his jaw in concrete. “Move.”
Then he shoved her backward. Hard.
The forceful contact that the butt of his palm made with her right shoulder sent her torso into an unnatural twist, wringing her out as if she weren’t humanoid in structure at all, but rather an old wash cloth that had been left too long full of dirty water. She left messy splatters of surprised cry on the floor where she hit it, outstretched hands flat against impact that buckled her elbows and slammed her left hip into misalignment.
It didn’t take her long to retaliate once she’d recovered from her initial shock. She became every inch her middle name. Hannah Rose’s bloom from the floor was a soft, beautiful distraction from the thorns underneath it.
Her grief and anger were, like her, creatures of quiet and devastating grace. They manifested themselves in an onslaught of disciplined violence, beginning with a sharp pirouette that lent momentum to her first strike. The first knuckles on the back of her right hand laid a swift crack against the side of Alexei’s face.
His grip into her tender forearm was merciless. He wrenched her into another full rotation, then pushed her steps into retreat with aggressive strides into her personal space. She responded with a yank that took advantage of his advance and brought his solar plexus down into her thrusting knee. A pointed elbow to the back of her instructor’s head left him on the floor, giving her a chance to break free so that she could try to process his lesson.
Surely there was a lesson in this, somewhere.
Alexei managed to turn his position on the floor into a low lunge for her hips. Before he could raise his arms high enough to ensnare her, she had backed up far enough to take three running steps at him. She surprised him by throwing herself into a forward cartwheel, planting a hand on each of his shoulders and effectively turning him into a human balance beam.
A quick turn just off of her landing and the impact of her heel between his kidneys ended it.
“Hannah,” he gasped incredulous laughter, folding his arms under his forehead where he laid for a moment to recover. “Your problem; it isn’t physical.”
“What?” Her chest heaved with a madhouse of emotions. It was a rare moment of complete transparency for the guarded introvert. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “What are you talking about? You just attacked me! Have you lost your mind?!”
“If you can fight, you can dance!” Alexei’s crow was almost triumphant. In fact, he rolled over onto his back so that he could raise a closed fist into the air to punctuate his point. “What you must do now, zolotko…” Zolotko had been his pet name for her since their first lesson. It meant, ‘little golden one.’
“…is figure out why you would rather fight than dance.”
SUMMARY: Written in January 2015. In an effort to help her heal, Hannah’s ballet instructor dances her into a corner that she can only fight her way out of.
TW:
“Again.”
The broken ballerina stood at the barre in a studio on campus. She once knew one like it like the back of one of her hands, but hadn’t seen it in coming up on six months. Gold oak laid down in staggers stretched from mirrored wall to mirrored wall. It was the only warmth in the otherwise cold, silver room lit by fluorescent bulbs suspended in the darkness of the metal rafters high above.
There were worn areas and discolorations in the oak that she didn’t recognize. They weren’t made by her tireless pursuit of the mechanically perfect 540 degree battement en rond or technically difficult adagio. They weren’t made by her desperate need to express any of the many things that were in constant rotation through her head and overwhelming her energy centers. They were evidence of someone else’s passion.
Where was hers?
She sighed. Her head fell forward and her shoulders went with it. The black straps of her leotard, criss-crossing the gentle ridges of her spine, were a stark contrast to her near ivory pallor. The sick yellow-green of healing bruises still stained the left side of her chest, spilling over her collarbone and the cap of her shoulder like watercolors too watery to stay put.
Her stare down at black braces compressing what used to be well-conditioned muscle, ligament and tendon through blush tights — one on her left ankle and one on her right knee — was conflicted. They seemed so out of place against the shine of the satin ribbons securing pointe shoes to her aching feet.
Wispy tendrils of her new penny hair were falling out of the French braid they had been imprisoned with prior to class. They fell in waves around her face, which was flushed with the coral of physical exertion. Her eyes narrowed with determination as she lifted her head, straightened her shoulders and flexed her arms into a confident third position.
The extension of her right leg behind her and subsequent rise up into the toe box her left foot was supported by was forced and rigid. She remained in that position with an eerie, doll-like stillness until, finally, the muscles in her abdomen began to tremble with the effort it took to keep her balanced.
“You are regaining your strength,” observed her instructor. He was an aging cavalier who looked and sounded like he had fallen into a vat full of convenient stereotypes: lean build, flippant posture, thick-lipped Eastern European accent and the beginnings of salt in long, peppery hair that had been pulled back into a low ponytail. The works. “But you are delaying your progress with these… adventures of yours.”
He took her left hand in his and lifted it over her head. His right hand settled at the curve of her thoracic spine with the intention of being a guide. As he lead her forward, she hesitated. Her weight shifted forward onto the connection that the ball of her right foot made with the floor.
“I’m sorry, Alexei, I don’t think I can…” she began to object. Her determination wavered, giving way to demons that she had been hiding from everyone, often including herself. They wore late September’s pale-faced sneer, razor sharp teeth and no regard for her at all in brown eyes that she could have sworn once wanted her as much as she’d wanted them. Sometimes they were what pushed her. Sometimes they were what held her back.
“You can,” he cut her off.
Alexei’s right hand curled, fingertips digging into the hollow spaces between her ribs and spurring her forward. They lost all hint of the warmth and guidance they conveyed only a moment ago. He had been expecting her objection. Wild-eyed and confused, she whirled around to face him.
He set his jaw in concrete. “Move.”
Then he shoved her backward. Hard.
The forceful contact that the butt of his palm made with her right shoulder sent her torso into an unnatural twist, wringing her out as if she weren’t humanoid in structure at all, but rather an old wash cloth that had been left too long full of dirty water. She left messy splatters of surprised cry on the floor where she hit it, outstretched hands flat against impact that buckled her elbows and slammed her left hip into misalignment.
It didn’t take her long to retaliate once she’d recovered from her initial shock. She became every inch her middle name. Hannah Rose’s bloom from the floor was a soft, beautiful distraction from the thorns underneath it.
Her grief and anger were, like her, creatures of quiet and devastating grace. They manifested themselves in an onslaught of disciplined violence, beginning with a sharp pirouette that lent momentum to her first strike. The first knuckles on the back of her right hand laid a swift crack against the side of Alexei’s face.
His grip into her tender forearm was merciless. He wrenched her into another full rotation, then pushed her steps into retreat with aggressive strides into her personal space. She responded with a yank that took advantage of his advance and brought his solar plexus down into her thrusting knee. A pointed elbow to the back of her instructor’s head left him on the floor, giving her a chance to break free so that she could try to process his lesson.
Surely there was a lesson in this, somewhere.
Alexei managed to turn his position on the floor into a low lunge for her hips. Before he could raise his arms high enough to ensnare her, she had backed up far enough to take three running steps at him. She surprised him by throwing herself into a forward cartwheel, planting a hand on each of his shoulders and effectively turning him into a human balance beam.
A quick turn just off of her landing and the impact of her heel between his kidneys ended it.
“Hannah,” he gasped incredulous laughter, folding his arms under his forehead where he laid for a moment to recover. “Your problem; it isn’t physical.”
“What?” Her chest heaved with a madhouse of emotions. It was a rare moment of complete transparency for the guarded introvert. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “What are you talking about? You just attacked me! Have you lost your mind?!”
“If you can fight, you can dance!” Alexei’s crow was almost triumphant. In fact, he rolled over onto his back so that he could raise a closed fist into the air to punctuate his point. “What you must do now, zolotko…” Zolotko had been his pet name for her since their first lesson. It meant, ‘little golden one.’
“…is figure out why you would rather fight than dance.”