Dancer
Ballerina
1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4.
Chaines turn, chaines plie. Attitude leap, turn out.
No. It wasn’t right. Start again.
1, 2, 3, 4. Perfect pirouette.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Routine took over her body as she threw herself through the oh so familiar steps. Faster, harder. Twist here, turn there. She’d done this a million times over, never reaching perfection, never getting it exactly right. She would keep trying until she did.
1, 2, 3, 4. Chaines turn, again, again, again.
Still not good enough. Start again.
She’d shown him the day before. Danced her unfinished dance, let the music flow through her, arms and legs flying in a display of delicacy and grace. It was as close to perfect as she’d ever been.
He stared at her, cold blue eyes unblinking, an almost contemptuous look on his face. Her eyes glared at him, her own penetrating stare every bit as strong as his. They stood, father daughter, immersed in an insane staring competition, like two birds both after the same piece of seed.
Competition. Everything was a competition. Everything could be won or lost, people split into winners and losers. The winners, the elite, the achievers. The perfect. She was a winner by blood.
Winners were strong. She showed no weakness as he criticised her oh so carefully choreographed routine. She kept the same indifferent expression as he told her it wasn’t good enough, held her head high as her heart was broken into a million tiny pieces, like the shattering of a stained glass window, breaking the peace of the chapel as she was broken inside.
1, 2, 3, 4. First, third, first, fourth. Triple pirouette.
Her mother had been a dancer. Long, elegant legs under a tiny torso – the perfect figure for the perfect woman. Her mother had danced the stages of the world, admired by many and loved by few. Those perfect ballerina legs had been everywhere – Paris, London, New York, Vienna – just to fly across the stage in swanlike fashion.
Her parent’s love story was almost sickeningly cliché; ballerina meets businessman, marriage, baby, devastating death. Her death ever so unfortunate, their marriage perfect in everyone’s eyes but their own.
1, 2, 3, 4. Jumptwistland. Attitude leap, arched back, arms in second position.
Of course, such a gorgeous woman travelling alone would rarely remain alone. Her mother was a famous dancer, but her acting skills were even more impressive- so skilful was she that her many amours were only discovered on the unfortunate occasion of her death. A car, a Parisian hotel, no seatbelts. Conspiracy theories all around, none of them proven and not one doubting her involvement with the wealthy politician – not one, that is, but her husband’s.
Of course, all of his business trips were undoubtedly not as innocent as he proclaimed.
1, 2, 3, 4. Pirouette, first, third, first, fourth, double pirouette.
Naturally, neither knew of the others hidden escapades, though neither was particularly observant; both were perfectly happy living their seemingly consummate lives. And so her mother danced the world and her father monopolised the planet, art and business coming together in one charming relationship, where both could manipulate and neither could win.
Side leap, stretch, hold. First, third, first, fourth.
But her mother’s untimely death left her father in shock and her five-year-old-self neglected. It made all the papers; photographs of the mangled car wreck on the front page for all to see, like a rumour in a high school. What the cameras didn’t see was the awkward parenting of the widowed husband, the little girl dragged around to various houses while her father was away for ‘work’, the father and daughter drifting further and further apart.
And now it was just her, the girl with the body of her mother and the mentality of her father, the girl who could easily hold her own. The girl determined to win, but more so the girl desperate to be perfect.
Pirouette. First, third, side leap. First, fourth, quad pirouette.
And so she danced. She danced on the memory of her mother, throwing determination and willpower into a bowl. She danced for the approval of her father, tossing stubbornness and scepticism in there as well. She danced with all the skill she had accumulated, adding grace, elegance and delicacy. She danced every emotion she had ever felt; love, anger, sadness and joy joined the combination. Mixed together she had a beautiful saltation, but it was still not good enough.
She danced for perfection, a perfection she would never reach.
Pirouette.
Chaines turn, chaines plie. Attitude leap, turn out.
No. It wasn’t right. Start again.
1, 2, 3, 4. Perfect pirouette.
Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Routine took over her body as she threw herself through the oh so familiar steps. Faster, harder. Twist here, turn there. She’d done this a million times over, never reaching perfection, never getting it exactly right. She would keep trying until she did.
1, 2, 3, 4. Chaines turn, again, again, again.
Still not good enough. Start again.
She’d shown him the day before. Danced her unfinished dance, let the music flow through her, arms and legs flying in a display of delicacy and grace. It was as close to perfect as she’d ever been.
He stared at her, cold blue eyes unblinking, an almost contemptuous look on his face. Her eyes glared at him, her own penetrating stare every bit as strong as his. They stood, father daughter, immersed in an insane staring competition, like two birds both after the same piece of seed.
Competition. Everything was a competition. Everything could be won or lost, people split into winners and losers. The winners, the elite, the achievers. The perfect. She was a winner by blood.
Winners were strong. She showed no weakness as he criticised her oh so carefully choreographed routine. She kept the same indifferent expression as he told her it wasn’t good enough, held her head high as her heart was broken into a million tiny pieces, like the shattering of a stained glass window, breaking the peace of the chapel as she was broken inside.
1, 2, 3, 4. First, third, first, fourth. Triple pirouette.
Her mother had been a dancer. Long, elegant legs under a tiny torso – the perfect figure for the perfect woman. Her mother had danced the stages of the world, admired by many and loved by few. Those perfect ballerina legs had been everywhere – Paris, London, New York, Vienna – just to fly across the stage in swanlike fashion.
Her parent’s love story was almost sickeningly cliché; ballerina meets businessman, marriage, baby, devastating death. Her death ever so unfortunate, their marriage perfect in everyone’s eyes but their own.
1, 2, 3, 4. Jumptwistland. Attitude leap, arched back, arms in second position.
Of course, such a gorgeous woman travelling alone would rarely remain alone. Her mother was a famous dancer, but her acting skills were even more impressive- so skilful was she that her many amours were only discovered on the unfortunate occasion of her death. A car, a Parisian hotel, no seatbelts. Conspiracy theories all around, none of them proven and not one doubting her involvement with the wealthy politician – not one, that is, but her husband’s.
Of course, all of his business trips were undoubtedly not as innocent as he proclaimed.
1, 2, 3, 4. Pirouette, first, third, first, fourth, double pirouette.
Naturally, neither knew of the others hidden escapades, though neither was particularly observant; both were perfectly happy living their seemingly consummate lives. And so her mother danced the world and her father monopolised the planet, art and business coming together in one charming relationship, where both could manipulate and neither could win.
Side leap, stretch, hold. First, third, first, fourth.
But her mother’s untimely death left her father in shock and her five-year-old-self neglected. It made all the papers; photographs of the mangled car wreck on the front page for all to see, like a rumour in a high school. What the cameras didn’t see was the awkward parenting of the widowed husband, the little girl dragged around to various houses while her father was away for ‘work’, the father and daughter drifting further and further apart.
And now it was just her, the girl with the body of her mother and the mentality of her father, the girl who could easily hold her own. The girl determined to win, but more so the girl desperate to be perfect.
Pirouette. First, third, side leap. First, fourth, quad pirouette.
And so she danced. She danced on the memory of her mother, throwing determination and willpower into a bowl. She danced for the approval of her father, tossing stubbornness and scepticism in there as well. She danced with all the skill she had accumulated, adding grace, elegance and delicacy. She danced every emotion she had ever felt; love, anger, sadness and joy joined the combination. Mixed together she had a beautiful saltation, but it was still not good enough.
She danced for perfection, a perfection she would never reach.
Pirouette.