An Act of Revenge by Valeria Koziarenko

The smell of sweat, mixed with dreams

that didn't come true, filled the air. There were three of us in a huge hall: the ballerina, who ended her career a year ago, her partner and the choreographer, who is going through a long period of creative inactivity, but still has posters of his successful productions and the habit of ordering "Jack Daniel's".

I came earlier to measure the diagonal of the hall with pirouettes. Forty-four. Still.

I've spent twenty minutes looking at myself in the mirror. A year ago, the day before the premiere, I tortured my partner with a dance lift; I wanted everything to be perfect. And everything was, only without me. I still remember how I jumped into the split, feet, and knees - one straight line, triumphant smug look, barely raised nose reflected in the silver-colored glass of the mirror. It seemed like it couldn't get any better, but he didn't catch me.

My bed and the National Opera stage were 40 kilometres apart, but a cacophony of applause rang in my ears, even though I wasn't able to hear them live. An empty hall — I am surrounded only by my reflection in hundreds of mirrors.

"You're not Odette! You are a chicken that saw a swan in itself for a second and then snapped its own neck."

"You're breathing with fire! Odette loves herself, though, and it's fascinating. You hate everyone and will never be able to take a step towards love. You will not become Odila."

"You are a chicken, everyone expected a golden egg from you, but a small and vile mouse - your constant insecurity - quietly waved its tail - and the expectations of neither grandparents nor the chicken itself did not come true."

That's what I saw when I closed my eyes.

I was thinking over and over in my mind those seconds of the dance lift for weeks. I do not know of any cases when ballet injuries were incompatible with life, but I would have better received such an injury. Or to be a dancer who died during the performance on stage, it would be a magical triumph.

A triumph that has never been in my life. And I have to get it.

To get back in shape, I stood at the barre the other day, working out the passes, batman, fondue, and plie, waking up every morning not from the alarm clock but from the crepitus that pierced my body through with thousands of nails. In pointe shoes, I rubbed my legs "to the bone", sat down in the split and shouted louder than the whales in the ocean because of pain. And still, I couldn't look myself in the mirror. I covered mirrors in the bathroom and hallways with black cloth. People do this when someone dies. In my case, I died to myself.

And here I am in this hall again wearing a black ballet dress, black pointe shoes, Tchaikovsky. For him, it was a matter of honor, for me - an act of revenge. The smell of sweat, mixed with dreams that didn't come true, filled the air. The smell of blood is about to be added.