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Song Inspiration: Strawberry Fields, Eleanor Rigby, Here Comes the Sun
Title of One-Shot: Life Flows On
Pairing: Alice
POV: Alice
Rating: M (Language)
Word Count: 2,935
Summary: Alice has dreams of a future on the stage. After a crippling accident, she must come to grips with a tomorrow that doesn't include gossamer gowns and ballet slippers. A trip with her brother to NYC shows her that bones and dreams indeed do heal.
Life Flows On
It was the end of the world. My mother told me not to be so dramatic, my father looked at me with concerned sympathy, my brother wasted no opportunity to remind me that I had placed all of my hopes and dreams into a basket with no bottom. My brother was actually the easiest to talk to, when all was said and done. He understood the hopes and dreams thing; he had his own. Edward, though… Edward was a genius. If he broke his fingers and could never play piano or guitar again, he could just pursue a career as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a nuclear physicist.
I didn't have anything but dancing. My grades were average, at the very best. If I'm honest, my grades probably could have matched my brother's. I could have been the valedictorian of my class if I had applied myself. I could have had a future in medicine, or law, or nuclear physics. I didn't want any of that, though. I just wanted to tie on my pointe shoes and put on a sparkly tutu and become someone else.
Madame Forestier said that I had promise. She was the dance instructor that I visited three times a week in Seattle. Since I lived in Forks, this was quite a commute for me, but as long as I remained serious, my parents were willing to foot the bill for the travel and the top-notch classes. She was the one that suggested that I audition for the American Ballet Company. She was the one that boarded the plane with me that March and flew across the country to New York City for the most important day of my life. And she was the one that was with me when I read my acceptance letter.
My parents tried to understand. They really did. But my mother was a housewife and my father was a small-town doctor. Neither had felt the appreciation of an adoring crowd. Neither had dreamed of their name in lights. My brother, with his own piano lessons in Seattle, on different nights no less, was the only person that could even remotely understand my driving ambition. My desperate need to perform, to put a piece of myself on a stage. To find a way to live forever.
I'm the first to admit that my dancing was a mask that I wore. I joined the dance team at school, just to have a chance to perform. Any moment in the sun, I wanted that moment for my own. I despised the stupid sequined halter-tops and the ridiculous blue hot pants, and imagined that I was adorning myself with a gossamer skirt and rhinestone tiara. I was part of a team, but they all knew that I only danced solo. There was no question that I was the best dancer in Forks and that I would someday escape small-town life and make a name for myself.
Perhaps if I had tried to be a team player, my world would not be destroyed. If I hadn't told Jessica Stanley that she resembled a water buffalo on ice skates, she would have tried a little harder to catch me after the basket toss. If Lauren Mallory wasn't a demon from the fifth circle of Hell, she might have picked up Stanley's slack. Instead, they stood back and watched me hit the ground with a thud and a sickening crack. Three sickening cracks, to be exact. There was a crack for my elbow, a crack for my ankle, and a crack for my femur. If you're familiar at all with the femur bone, then you already know why the world ended.
It was an ugly scene, complete with blood, gore, an ambulance, and at least four people passing out, including Edward's gore-sensitive girlfriend, Bella. The compound fracture dictated that I would need an external fixator- read: plates, screws, and no more dance. Ever.
It was the end of the world. For four months, I wore a cast that reached beyond my hip. I had three surgeries on my ankle in the hopes that I would someday be able to walk without a limp. Not to dance again, mind you. Just walk without a limp. Apparently a fall from great heights can seriously fuck a person up.
I spent those four months doped up on pain medication, watching reruns of The Nanny, and calling for Edward or Bella to bring me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich so that I could stomach more pain medication. I didn't even really hurt- not in my leg anyway. My heart was a different story.
Madame Forestier called at least once a day to check on my progress. I had been her most promising student in at least a decade, and she had placed all of her hopes into my very broken basket, as well. I told her every day that I was feeling better and stronger; I would be dancing again in no time. She stopped calling the day my dad answered the phone and told her, in no uncertain terms, would I ever wear pointe shoes again. I considered taking more than my prescribed amount of Oxycontin that night, but I figured that I'd probably mess that up, too, and end up brain damaged in addition to crippled.
I wanted to jump and shout when Edward announced that he'd been accepted to a prestigious composition program in New York. It was a summer workshop in association with the Manhattan School of Music, and completion virtually guaranteed a position with any music school in the country.
Edward would live his dream. He would see his name in lights. And I would be lucky to teach beginning dance classes at the Forks Academie of Dance. What ridiculousness. Like they're so much better because they use a French spelling in their name. When everyone tried to console me with the possibility of teaching instead of doing, I just wanted to puke on their shoes.
As a true glutton for punishment, I insisted that I accompany Edward over Spring Break to visit the campus of the Manhattan School of Music. I really wanted to see Lincoln Center and pretend like I was going to be a student in autumn, as I should have been. There was much discussion and consultation of physicians. My cast was to come off two days before the trip, so I was given the okay to fly. I had to be sure to get up and walk around the plane once an hour to keep clots from forming, and do all sorts of silly physical therapy exercises once we landed. Edward was thrilled to know that I would accompany him, so he promised to act as slave driver and make me use my crutches at all time.
It was the end of the world. The fountain in front of Lincoln Center was covering me in a fine mist as I took in the gracefully arched windows. At barely five feet tall, most things towered above me. Lincoln Center? It completely dwarfed me. It wasn't just the sheer size of the buildings that surrounded me. No, it was the majesty and power that they housed. The greatest dancers in the world took this stage! No one had ever promised me my time at center stage; I had merely assumed that I would some day be there. Never once had I considered the chances of physical impossibility. I was born to dance and, therefore, I would dance.
My useless leg made itself known at that point. I had accidentally-on-purpose left the crutches at home, which caused Edward to go into all sorts of conniptions when he realized that he was already utter fail at making sure that I was taking care of myself. In retaliation, he had forced me to endure thirty extra minutes of physical therapy each night in the hotel. Our tourist neighbors probably assumed that I was being abused in some form or fashion.
I hadn't wanted to follow Edward into the administrative offices where he would get all the details about his dream-come-true moment. Instead, I chose to drag myself over to the fountain and torture myself with all of the what-might-have-beens while scowling at anyone that looked like they might possibly be a member of the dance school. It was childish, and I knew it, but I didn't care at all. My life was over. My dreams were shattered. They got to wear pointe shoes and a sparkly tutu, while I got a collection of scars and an ankle the size of a softball.
By the time Edward reappeared, I had been sitting for almost an hour. I was convinced that I could walk again when I stood up, but the intense pain immediately reminded me otherwise. He was all gung-ho about finding the Dakota building and Strawberry Fields in Central Park, because he was certain that John Lennon was a musical genius. I might have agreed with him, but I certainly wasn't going to let him know that. He was already getting everything he wanted in life. Why should he have this tiny victory from me?
I did what any annoying little sister would do. I limped along behind him, grumbling the whole way about how he had working legs, and how he could walk at five miles per hour if he wanted to, but I was lucky to get across the street before the "walk" sign turned back to "don't walk." I'm sure he was wondering why I had even agreed to go to New York in the first place.
To be honest, I'm not even sure myself. It seemed more like a form of torture, really, to look at all of the places where I should have lived and danced and worked. The coffee shop that I was passing might have been where I got a job on the weekends, just to have a bit of pocket change. The walk-up apartments next door could have been the perfect place to live, with their proximity to the school, my job at the coffee shop, and the park.
For a moment, I considered John Lennon again. We were nearing the famed Dakota, where he had lost his life. The man had written more number one hits than anyone else in history, except for his own band mate, Paul. He had certainly lived his dream, but someone cut it short. Jessica Stanley hadn't exactly shot me, but I kind of felt like she might as well have.
Perhaps this is a bit dramatic. All right, so there's no perhaps about it. Comparing my non-existent dance career to the second-most prolific songwriter of all time could be just a bit much. I was hurting, though, and reaching for anything that might give some meaning to my pain. John Lennon managed to live on, though, in the hearts of everyone, even thirty years after his death. In a way, this offered me some solace. Not much, mind you, but some.
I could see Edward ahead of me. He'd literally run ahead of me to reach the Dakota, and I wanted to kick his ass, but that would hurt me more than it would him. He was touching the wall with a loving hand, and it looked like he was crying. I rolled my eyes as I huffed toward him, feeling like a seventy-five year old lung cancer survivor. I was utterly exhausted from dragging my leg behind me, and I felt like I could curl up on the sidewalk and sleep until the apocalypse.
When I reached Edward's side, he pulled me into his arms and hugged me until I thought my eyes might pop out of my head.
"It's just so senseless, Alice," he mumbled into my hair. "What happened to him… What happened to you. There's no rhyme or reason to it, is there? Just one moment, and life is different."
"Over," I whispered. "Not different. Over."
"It's not, though. It doesn't have to be, Ali." I could hear the tears choking his voice, and I was surprised at the emotion. He almost sounded as if his heart was… breaking. And for me! Not for John Lennon, long dead, but for me!
"How can you understand this, Edward?" I demanded. "How can you stand there with your perfect legs and your perfect hands and your dreams still intact and have any fucking clue how I feel?" I was both touched and irrationally angry. He shouldn't have had any idea how I felt, and yet he had managed to cut straight to the marrow.
"I'm your brother," he whispered, pulling me even tighter against his chest. "Maybe we're meant to annoy the shit out of each other for the first years of our lives, but we're always tied to each other. When you're happy, I'm happy. When you cry, I cry. Always. I was at your very first dance recital-"
"I know," I interrupted with a snort. "You stood up and announced in the middle of my solo that you had to 'go peepee.'"
"I was six. Stop interrupting me. Even then, Alice, I could see that you were different from the other girls. You shone while the others just struggled not to get tangled up in their tutus. You've always sparkled, Sis. And you always will, broken leg be damned."
I didn't even try to respond. Instead, I soaked in my brother's love and cried it out again onto his t-shirt. I wanted to believe what he said- that I would find some way to make my mark on the world, even if dance wasn't involved anymore. Could I find some way to ascribe to the "everything happens for a reason" school of thought? My whole life had been about dance, so how could I start again so late in the game?
"Ready to go?" he asked after a moment.
I glanced across the street toward the park and sighed. I could go out of my way to get to the crosswalk and use up valuable energy, or I could jaywalk and take my chances at getting hit by a cab.
"I could carry you?' Edward offered quietly. He recoiled from my glare.
"You'll do no such thing!" I announced. "I can get my own self across the street, thank you very much." With that, I stepped into the street and began a long and painful trek across five lanes of traffic, in addition to two parking lanes. It doesn't sound like a great distance to someone with healthy legs, but for me, it might has well have been six miles.
To Edward's credit, he walked right next to me the whole way. When the dreaded cab did almost mow me down, he didn't even flinch. Instead, he glared at the driver and flipped him off, because I was using all of my energy just to reach the other side of the road and had none left over for righteous anger.
"Need a bench," I gasped, when we reached the entrance to the park. The walk was lined with colorful flowers, and they seemed to mock the blackness that was creeping into my vision. My ankle and thigh felt as though they were on fire, and I fought back tears and unconsciousness as we searched for the nearest available bench.
Edward had wrapped his arm around my waist and was supporting the entirety of my weight, but he didn't dare lift me off the ground. I was determined to reach my resting place on my own, even if I passed out the moment I reached it. My teeth were grinding together against the pain, my hands were shaking, and tears were streaming down my face.
Suddenly, almost like a mirage, Strawberry Fields was before us. The mosaic in the sidewalk was ringed with flowers and candles- a testament to a life never to be forgotten. The blackness that had threatened to overtake me slowly faded, and in its place, everything became brighter. I can't even explain it properly, what happened in that moment. It was almost as if the world just went silent for a moment, and everything stood still. I couldn't feel any pain or exhaustion for that brief second, just before everything jolted back into motion.
I could see from Edward's expression that he had felt it, as well. I looked into his eyes, and I could read everything. My answer was here. Life flows on within and without you. I didn't protest when he scooped me into his arms and carried me around the flickering candles to the nearest bench. It wasn't entirely empty, but its lone occupant took up less than half.
"It's you," I said to Edward. He looked startled by my statement, but I shushed him quickly and smiled. "Like you said, Edward. We'll always be tied to each other. When you shine, and you will, I'll shine, too. I'm not saying that I'll always be okay with that. I'm sure that I'll be pissed off on occasion for pretty much the rest of my life. But I can be happy for you and your success now."
As I spoke the words, I realized that there was so much truth in them. When I boarded the plane to New York, I had felt that I was along for Edward's journey toward fame and fortune, riding his coattails while spitting envy and greed. The reality of the situation, though, was that he had been along for my journey.
It wasn't the end of the world, after all.
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