Our Solemn Hour


“Sanctus Espiritus, redeem us from our solemn hour.
Sanctus Espiritus, insanity is all around us.
Sanctus Espiritus, is this what we deserve, can we break free from chains of never-ending agony?” ~ Within Temptation

It’s just another day of learning a new routine and breaking my limits of my feet. When you are younger, you are constantly standing on your toes wanting to be as tall as everybody else. As you continue to grow with age, you stop doing it because after so many growth spurts you are either fine with your height or use high heels to make yourself taller than the average person. As a dancer, you need long legs and you feet need to pointe out. As a dancer you need to realize your size, height, and feet need to be perfect. Nothing needs to be out-of-place. Everything that you want has been to about ballet and mastering that routine. It’s not just about the lights, costumes, and the pain that comes with working for that one shot in the spotlight. Some of us see it as a passion, we saw when we were little. And then, there are some such as myself, see it as a way of life. After the life that I’ve had. I don’t want anything else. I just want to dance and feel the pain in my legs and feet to make me realize that this is all I’ve strived for in my life. You can either understand or ignore it, It’s your choice.

There is no end to the day or night, when it comes to practice. For an amateur, everything makes you want whatever you’re working on to turn out perfect. It’s like working on a painting. If you are painting on a wall that has been covered with the design and you mess up just once and the line is on the other side of the perfect design, you can’t continue on, it’s already ruined. And there’s no point of painting over it because that memory of knowing you had to repaint it because you made one single mistake haunts inside your mind. So your unfinished masterpiece sits inside your room and all you can do is stare at it and remind yourself over and over, how much that one little line caused so much anger inside of you. Of course, they say nothing and nobody is perfect. So why do we continue to work on ourselves, change ourselves, or the little things we want to be perfect? Who points out our mistakes? Why do we put lies in our minds to helpfully make ourselves better? When we pray to God to make everybody to like us, does he grant our wish? When the sun sets and the moon rises, how does look so damn perfect in the dark sky? Why does death make others so happy? So many questions left unanswered.

The blue tutu reflects from the freshly waxed wooden floor. The dancer does the routine about a hundred times on the floor and in her mind. Going over every detail, making sure she is right. When strips of her hair come out of the bun in the back of head, she looses focus and collapses on the hard floor. She shrieks as she falls and her body drops down on the surface. She groans and rolls over on her back and picks up her hand to push back the fallen strands of hair over her ear and as she went to put it back down, she turns it to the right and sees a small cut on the side of her pinkie. Blood was running slowly down her hand. She laid there, memorized at the sight of the small cut with the small trail of blood dripping down. Once a drop hits the floor, she raised up from her position noticing even more pain that was shooting from ever angle in her body. She stumbles to the sink and washes off the trail of blood, which the water has now turned into a nice pink color. She scrubbed her finger with soap and water and dried it off to find there was no cut anywhere on her hand. Even in the sink, the pink stream was gone. She looked down and found a small drop of blood and it had dried up like it was nail polish that was spilled on the floor. There was no way of getting it out of the floor now. After a few minutes, her body no longer hurt to move and she shrugged off the weird feeling and went back to her routine and started counting in her head.

The prima ballerina is what he saw, nothing else. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He dreamt about her again, even though he has never met a ballet dancer in his life. She had visited him in his dreams before. He falls asleep in his bed and finds himself alone in a big theatre and hears an orchestra playing loudly but nobody but the instruments were there. And then the curtains swayed back and the show began. He continue to look for signs of life, but nobody was there, but the dancer. She looked as though, she wasn’t dancing alone as the man saw her. She was risen into the air and held in position as one would do with a partner. In her perspective, she saw nobody in the stands and only saw a man dressed in costume¬†and danced around her. It was a strange scene to do without anybody around. Like it was a rehearsal, for only her and the other dancer. Once the music stopped, then everything got worse for her. She went to make the last spin and the male dancer disappeared and then she heard a lone clap from the seats underneath her feet, but again saw nobody there. The man watched the female dancer give a slight smile as he continue to applaud her and then all of the lights went off and they awake from their beds to find ¬†themselves stuck wondering what happened.

She died in her sleep they say. She lost her battle of the thoughts in her mind. They took over everything and caused serve pain. She damaged herself and her body to the breaking point. They also say she haunts the old dressing rooms. She can be seen in the mirror as the performance as ended. When the performers have finished, and they go to take off the beautiful costumes you can see her silhouette at the sides of the mirrors striking a horrified pose. Blood dripping down the pink stained tutu and her hair in perfect placement. She has a knife that she keeps to her stomach and when her next victim starts to freak out, she shakes her head back and forth and gives a sinister look to the performer like it will be her last performance ever. As the others pack up their things, the young dance slows changed her clothes and removes her makeup, but never her eyes never leave the pose of the dead girl in the mirror. She doesn’t understand anybody can’t see her when she is clearly on the glass with a grin on her face. The others leave the room and the young dancer is shaking underneath the table. The dead girl finally speaks to her in a soft whisper, “nobody can me, it’s just you. I would do things in front of them, but there are already rumors about me.” The sacred dancer, still looking at the mirror, says “are they true?” The dead girl stand still and then there’s a lone tear going down her cheek. The young dancer wants to comfort her and apologize, so she quickly flips around and sees no one. Then there is tap on her naked shoulder, she turns slightly and then there’s a sharp pain in her chest. “No need to feel sorry for me.” She pulls out the knife from the young girl’s chest and softly bends down to say to the dying girl, “you took my place in the company. I needed to get rid of you once and for all.” The girl looked pale, but still had strength to tell her, “but you’re dead too, why would you kill me?” The dead ballet dancer speaks once more before plunging the knife into her stomach, “because I can.”