Yay Black Swan. Yay fanfiction. Yay reviews. Booo mental illness.
She runs in the break between night and sunrise, feet throbbing and eyes bleary as she pounds the sidewalk, a steady pattering of feet on concrete. It is not yet December, but frost already rims the grass, and her breath comes in short, white gasps.
It is cold (so coldcoldcold, though she had piled on layer after layer of wool and cashmere), yet still she runs. Runs, until her heart gasps in tandem with her lungs, until she is all aches and can scarcely bend her knees in the chilly air.
All this, of course, before the dance begins.
At home, she changes from cashmere into silk and satin, industrial sneakers to sleek pink shoes and silk stockings. Applies mascara, eyeliner; looks, twice, in the mirror, runs cold fingers over the hard lines of newly protruding collarbones.
Breakfast is coffee and exactly one quarter of a grapefruit.
"My daughter, the Swan Queen!"
She smiles, and then slowly, the smile slips, as her eyes widen in fear.
"Just this once," her mother says, smiling, the knife still in one hand as she holds it out. White, like snow or feathers or the diamonds in Odette's tiara.
Please, she whispers, a silent prayer. Then, out loud:
"My stomach's still in knots."
Please.
Her mother's smile disappears.
"Fine."
"No, mama, don't -"
Please. Please.
Just this once, she tells herself as she opens her mouth, trying not to cry as she smiles, chews.
In the morning, she wakes an hour earlier and runs.
"Seduce us," he tells her, "seduce us, Nina! Goddamn it, seduce us!"
She tries. Tries, pirouettes en pointe on bruised toes, executes fouette turn after fouette turn with painstaking precision, lips red not from lipstick but from where her clenched teeth have broken skin. Dances, arabesque, ignoring the pain that makes her tremble as she lifts one leg high above her head.
This was good, wasn't it? Wasn't it?
She meets Thomas's eyes, tries, weakly tries to smile. But he is already shaking his head, and there is something more than disappointment in his slate grey eyes.
Later, in the bathroom, she watches as it flushes away, vomit and blood and cool, clean water. Tears have bitten through her mascara and powder, making dirty tracks down cheeks still the color of snow.
She holds onto the bathroom counter as the world whirls around her, watches as tears slowly trickle down her cheeks, and, reaching under her shirt, touches the faint outline of her ribs.
"Hey, Nina?"
She continues dancing, ignores the call. She knows it is her, her. The black rose, the black swan, the girl with poison lips and a black heart who would do it, take this smallest bit of victory she has ever known from her.
"Nina?" Lily asks, slowly sauntering into the darkened practice room. In the dim light, she lights a cigarette, slowly sits on cat feet and smiles.
"Shit, Nina, it's late, though, isn't it? Shouldn't you be home?"
She dances. Does not answer. Lily will not distract her. She will not.
A shrug, a bored pout. Out of the corner of her eyes, conscious and unconscious, she watches it, sees the way full lips purse together.
"'Kay, miss Swan Queen. Too busy to talk, I see."
Long after Lily leaves, she dances. Dances until there are holes in her worn pointe shoes, practices until the aches do not come out no matter how long she stretches.
Because she will be perfect. She will. She will.
She dances. Dances and dances and dances.
She is the White Swan, she is the Black Swan, the purest of snows and the blackest of nights. Born at the dawn, she lives in the twilight, the space between day and star streaked night.
Pirouette. Fouette en tournant. Grand jete.
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
Perfect.
"You've lost weight."
She nods, does not look up as the tailor runs her thin tape measure across chest, legs, waist. But silently, she smiles, a faded half moon of pleasure as she lets the warmth of the words sink in. And she holds them close, a trophy, a small phrase as beautiful as diamonds or Odette's wings, presses the words like feathers close to her heart.
The ballet is in two weeks. And when it comes, she will be ready. She will dance, White Swan, Black Swan lost in a whirl of silk and satin, bleeding together like day and dusk. She will dance, dance with all the melancholy of the White Swan, dance with all the painful passion of the Black Swan.
And she will be perfect.