• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 12

The Performer or The Fallen Dancer

Her body and soul are broken in so many places.
Legs and arms come out of her head.
Her body spreads across the cracked planks of woods on the stage floor.
The spotlight, hanging above, highlights her pain and discomfort…contorted joints, dismembered limbs and humiliation.
Under the curved sinuous shadow lies her broken soul (which hurts a lot more…), while the silent screams are growing louder inside.
She contains her expressions and sounds (she is a performer after all), while still trying to stay beautiful, if at all possible.

The royal blue tulle skirt covers her sex, gently touching her crotch. And her light pale pinkish breasts lie down flat over her motionless torso filled with broken ribs.
The music keeps playing for a few minutes, which feels like infinity, and a reminder of the absurdity of this moment.
From where her head is placed, she can only see the adorned ceiling of the old French Vaudeville theatre, which reminds her of fresh cream cake decorations.
For a few seconds she forgets all her misfortunes.
Her body is trained to perform, bringing pleasure and beauty (to the boisterous audiences), but from distance, it looks like this scene came from a car crash or a horror movie.

But it is the soul hiding underneath the shadows, that really hurts the most.
The grimy smile, the (face tinted with) heavy make up, the long unglued eyelashes, all conceals the real tragedy that she has carried internally.
There is a momentary relief that she no longer has to pretend to be perfect; her body finally matches how she feels inside.
Suddenly, her expressions become peaceful, almost (content) happy.


The Performer or The Fallen Dancer

She thinks, ”You are seeing me now, for the first time…” And her life stories bleed out of her wounds (continuously, incessantly), without excuses or apologies (without pretences); without trying to be soft or innocent; without trying to conform or fit in.

Finally her voice breaks into a wild (loud) howling, echoing across the stage.
By the time the paramedics arrive and put together the parts of her body on a stretcher, she knows, she will never be the same again.

The clown faces stare pitifully at the fallen dancer.
And she dreams that the next dance will be around the burning fire under the bleeding moon, while her bared feet touches the coarse wet sand.

They silently collect all her pieces, and take them away.
I never hear of her again.