The Dancer

It is time to fear yourself when you no longer fear the darkness.

The room was quiet and for the first time in hours, I was finally alone.  They had taken my phone when I came, so I had nothing but the music in my head.  It had been far too long since I had practiced this dance.  Yet for some reason, it kept coming back to me.  At first, the steps gently lapped at my memories, but slowly the tide came in upon the entire routine and over the course of several days, it became almost impossible to resist.  

I found my head and my arms absently finding their marks and drifting beautifully along the arcs of movement.  I would hastily stop for fear of losing the privacy of such a dance until I could be alone.  Of course, this happened to be at a juncture that disallowed me any true privacy. Until this moment.

In the late sunning of the western wing, I discovered the unused room, just a few doors down from where I slept.  In that moment, I had made the silent promise to allow myself to fully undulate and blossom by the moonbeams now shining in and reflecting faintly in the gleam of the tables and metal-backed chairs. 

Moving into first position, then smoothly into second, I then went to my toes, and stood waiting for the moment of the music to begin.  Like an overborne levee, the music broke.  My left foot swept en pointe in a slow steady arc scarcely above the surface of the disinfected laminate. 

I felt like a long-forgotten instrument; wheezy and sadly out-of-tune.  My joints ached and creaked but warmed as the music took my soul and molded it into the refined dancer I once was. 

It was a somber silhouette of the choreography I once knew. Taking an angel by the wings, Sia sang words into my mind that felt hopeful.  But in the timbre of the melody, true grief and sorrow was profound. It was in that moment, in that dance for the moon alone that I discovered it was my final plea to live, to feel, to be.  The song was not a hope, it was desperation.

My body swayed right to left, my arms moving up and down like slow ribbons unfurling their beauty.  My feet were up on my toes and back bracing the floor for support in my quickening spins back up onto my toes.  It was a sweet and intoxicating song, drawing in my body and drawing out my torment-

And there was clapping behind me.

I froze and dared not move. I could only think of what I knew in movies, would they lock me in a silent room with padding, drug me, hold me down in a bed? I had little experience with these types of places.  Was this a hospital technically? They called it a rehabilitation center, but I wasn’t on drugs or alcohol or anything such as that.  I was just- what was I? Depressed?

That sounds so trivial and not at all like a problem.  The very word downplayed everything in my head. But I guess, yes, that is what you would say.  At least until they had a better word for it.

The clapping finally slowed and stopped as I put my arms slowly down. I was vulnerable. This dance was not for you, I thought. It was for my mind. To quiet it down. No one was supposed to know or see.

I turned to the door. A nurse stood at the door. She had a smile on her face. Smiles seemed so fake. I knew they weren’t. Rationality told me that. But my mind screamed the fake mockery of it.

I hated myself and I did not like her. Because she had stolen this from me.  I could never attempt it again. I was finished. She finished me.

“You dance?” she asked simply.

I hesitated. I didn’t want to chat. I didn’t want to converse. And yes or no was not sufficient. I grunted, “Used to.”

“Well, it’s not lost on you,” she smiled again.

I shrugged now looking at the floor, wishing I was back in my shared room with six other beds, two others of which were occupied.

Her sweet tone slid into a more business-like tone, “As beautiful as that was, you are not allowed out of your room after hours, except to use the restroom.”

I gave a half-nod and immediately headed back to bed, passing her without much of a look.  She will always know, my thoughts heavily admitted.

Back in bed barely a minute past, my mind wavered and crumbled at the thought I had been found out.  She will forever know this. And now I am out. No longer within my small bottled-up world.  She has broken me. 

Curling up into the smallest ball I could manage, I attempted to stop anything else from leaking out.  The battle was a miserable failure.

End of Part I