Broken Bones
by K. Slade
To dance is to die. Adela is the first, maybe the only dancer, to truly understand that. Her love for ballet is complete. She allowed it to consume her, burning away her body until only a charred carcass remained. But she knew something beautiful would bloom from it. Such beauty would make a home between the festering rot and soot, clinging to the remnants of her passion.
Adela’s made peace with it. Becoming a principal ballerina demands sacrifice. The chew of her skin, the drip of her blood, the length of her bones, she gives it all.
The methodical tear of her pointe shoes brings her comfort. This time, this space, is designed for her to create. To mold. To conquer. She’d take a knife to the cotton interior and snap the shank until the satin flesh gave way to her bony fingers. She would cradle her shoe in her hands, running the flat of her thumb against the smooth exterior. She’d press her nails into it, watching as she mars the pink hollow meat of the pointed box.
It reminds Adela of her own feet. Long, crooked toes sprouting from an arched foot. She’d massage her feet, usually as she curled up on her couch after a long studio day. Or, sometimes, in the dead of night when her brain became stuck on a suspended thought, looping around the lulls of sleep until her knuckles beat down on the protrusion of bone beneath her veined skin.
But, most often, it is before the start of adagio. Adela ran her fingers over the swollen blisters on the side of her foot. She wrings the hurt out through her hands, pinching, and pulling until the soreness soured into pain.
A little more pressure and she would feel the creak of her bones. Perhaps the slick rush of blood would spill through her fingers once they cleave their way through her tender skin. How it would ooze and bubble out onto the scuffed wood below her.
The squeal of the studio doors releases her from the thought. She shoved her feet into her shoes, lacing up the ribbons in time for Mademoiselle Juliette to slink through the doors. As she crosses the room to her chair by the stereo, the company dancers rush to the center. The silence doesn't stretch for long as music hums in the echoed space. Adela took her place in the adagio: the farthest right in the studio’s center, second row, and flanked between Eleanor and Maisie.
She could almost see it, the allure promised to her. Balancing on the warped box of her pointe shoes, Adela admires how her arm slices through the air. There is a finality to her movements. With each relevé, her arms strain taunt at her sides, and every plié sweeps them above her head. If she listened closely, she would hear the jut of her fingers carve out a space for her to exist.
In the mirror, Maisie’s eyes slide over Adela’s figure. They catch on the pudge spilling over the arm hole in her leotard. She glides over the light brown stretch marks etched into Adela’s upper arms. Maisie smiles, a sharp quirk on the corners of her lips before the choreography forces her in the opposite direction.
Adela’s right leg, muscle coiling beneath the strong curve of her skin, kicks through and lands her in an arabesque. Her stomach pulls tight, sinking deep into her ribcage. Her back bows downward until the notches of her spine disappear under her burgundy leotard. The leg in the air remains pointed and still, but her standing leg quivers.
Adela feels the sickness rolling deep within her; the weakness threatening to gut her open for the entire class to witness.
Breathe. Don’t fall.
In for 5. Don’t Fall.
Hold for 5. Don’t you fucking fall.
Out for 5.
The leg drops in tandem with the other dancers, brushing against the floor and propelling her forward into a labored leap and a stumbled landing. Sweat collects in the small of Adela’s back. Her leotard clings to her, bunching under her arms and around the swell of her thighs.
The sick drills farther into the depths of her stomach. By the time she lands, her face is hot and slick. Maisie’s eyes are straight ahead but she maintains her smile, a ghost of humor and mockery.
The dancers pull into a sous-sous, legs crisscrossing to become one. Adela teeters on the box of her point shoe as bends beneath her. They’re dead, the boning promising to give out and snap her ankle in two.
Breathe. You’re almost there.
In for 5. Don’t let her win.
Hold for 5. If you fall, you’re dead to me.
Out for 5. I’ll fucking kill you myself.
Smile.
Adela lifts the back leg out to the side and readies herself for a pirouette. The standing foot pushes clockwise as her right leg lifts and bends until the end of her point shoe brushes against her kneecap.
“Focus, Adela!” The music halts beneath Mademoiselle Juliette’s shrill voice. “Stop. Just stop.”
The dancers pause, slow turns stumbling out until all eyes stop on Adela. Adela settles and watches Mademoiselle Juliette move to the center, her feet slapping against the floor.
“Why are you here?”
“Ma’am?”
“Why are you here wasting my time? Does it bring you joy? Fucking with me? My choreo?”
Adela didn’t let her eyes stray from the woman in front of her. “No, ma’am.”
“Then why?”
Adela hears shuffling behind her. She can feel the smiles of the others. The brutality of their teeth, bare against her neck. Waiting to tear out her throat and revel in her failure. Vultures. She can hear those vultures squawking.
Mademoiselle Juliette juts her chin up. “Why?”
“I’ll do the adagio again.”
Adela moves to the front, a few steps away from the mirror. She stares back at herself, blinking away the sweat in her eyes.
Mademoiselle Juliette moves to the side, reflection swimming in the edge of the mirror. “If you dance like a child, I will treat you like a child.”
Adela nods.
Should I hold your hand while you dance? Maybe the next time you piss, I’ll be outside the stall encouraging you. Would you like that?”
Adela shakes her head.
“Begin.”
Adela’s reflection matched the flow and ebb of her movements. She begins with a plié, arms opening above her head and falling to her front, the sides of her hands reaching the middle of her thighs.
The adagio begins.
Adela smiles and breathes.
She sails through the starter choreography. Leaps transform into glides that cut through the stiff air. Her legs swing and her feet arch.
Not one stumble.
Not one squawk.
She floats through the arabesque with practiced legs and swings straight into another jump. Her weight bounces on the collapsed box of her pointe shoes. Two feet hit the ground and ankles cross to prepare for the sous-sous.
Feet push against the ground and carry Adela to the tip of her toes. She waits a moment, following the imaginary tempo pounding against her skull. Her eyes flicker down to spot red blooming on the side of her shoe. It overtakes the pink satin. Her toes feel the wetness pooling into the shoe’s box. A bubble fights its way through the thick fabric and rolls down the slope of the shoe. Steadily, the blood puddles on the floor.
Adela’s back leg stretches to the side and bends, right foot angles next to her left knee and her left foot spins her. The right leg extends and slides back on the floor, left foot flat in front. Adela’s blood is smeared on the floor, chasing her movements.
“Again.”
Right foot rises in front and Adela steps through the turn.
“Again.”
Left foot rises. Right leg guides the turn. She lands.
“Faster.”
Another rise. A turn. Land.
“Again! Faster!”
Rise.
Turn.
Land.
Squawk. A laugh bubbles from behind her but Adela is too dizzy to see.
Rise. Turn. Land.
The room dances around her. A mix of browns and white, lights and reflections bleeding together into a blinding gleam.
Her head rolls down, focusing on the floor. A ring of blood traps her. It wells under her shoes and smudges the floor.
Rise.
Turn.
Land.
Crack.
Adela hears the impact before she feels it. There’s a ringing in her ears and she can’t see. The wetness comes first. In her haze, it feels like sweat dribbling down her forehead. Thick. Slimy.
Pulsing.
Gushing.
A burst of red spurts onto glass shards beneath her. Adela tries to pull herself up, but her hands are too slippery. Even now, she hears them.
Those fucking vultures.
Squawking.
Get up.
Licking their claws.
Now.
Saliva and filth dripping down their beaks.
Get the fuck up!
Adela’s head snaps toward the mirror. Part of it is missing, fractured, and scattered around her. But she catches a glimpse of herself. Her head is a mess of hair and gore, sliding down the strange shapes of her face and splattering on the backs of her hands.
She doesn’t move. She refuses to move.
She will not fail.
She will not let them win.
Adela stares back at herself before the blood takes over her vision, waiting to see which one of her will be the first to fall.
Adela’s made peace with it. Becoming a principal ballerina demands sacrifice. The chew of her skin, the drip of her blood, the length of her bones, she gives it all.
The methodical tear of her pointe shoes brings her comfort. This time, this space, is designed for her to create. To mold. To conquer. She’d take a knife to the cotton interior and snap the shank until the satin flesh gave way to her bony fingers. She would cradle her shoe in her hands, running the flat of her thumb against the smooth exterior. She’d press her nails into it, watching as she mars the pink hollow meat of the pointed box.
It reminds Adela of her own feet. Long, crooked toes sprouting from an arched foot. She’d massage her feet, usually as she curled up on her couch after a long studio day. Or, sometimes, in the dead of night when her brain became stuck on a suspended thought, looping around the lulls of sleep until her knuckles beat down on the protrusion of bone beneath her veined skin.
But, most often, it is before the start of adagio. Adela ran her fingers over the swollen blisters on the side of her foot. She wrings the hurt out through her hands, pinching, and pulling until the soreness soured into pain.
A little more pressure and she would feel the creak of her bones. Perhaps the slick rush of blood would spill through her fingers once they cleave their way through her tender skin. How it would ooze and bubble out onto the scuffed wood below her.
The squeal of the studio doors releases her from the thought. She shoved her feet into her shoes, lacing up the ribbons in time for Mademoiselle Juliette to slink through the doors. As she crosses the room to her chair by the stereo, the company dancers rush to the center. The silence doesn't stretch for long as music hums in the echoed space. Adela took her place in the adagio: the farthest right in the studio’s center, second row, and flanked between Eleanor and Maisie.
She could almost see it, the allure promised to her. Balancing on the warped box of her pointe shoes, Adela admires how her arm slices through the air. There is a finality to her movements. With each relevé, her arms strain taunt at her sides, and every plié sweeps them above her head. If she listened closely, she would hear the jut of her fingers carve out a space for her to exist.
In the mirror, Maisie’s eyes slide over Adela’s figure. They catch on the pudge spilling over the arm hole in her leotard. She glides over the light brown stretch marks etched into Adela’s upper arms. Maisie smiles, a sharp quirk on the corners of her lips before the choreography forces her in the opposite direction.
Adela’s right leg, muscle coiling beneath the strong curve of her skin, kicks through and lands her in an arabesque. Her stomach pulls tight, sinking deep into her ribcage. Her back bows downward until the notches of her spine disappear under her burgundy leotard. The leg in the air remains pointed and still, but her standing leg quivers.
Adela feels the sickness rolling deep within her; the weakness threatening to gut her open for the entire class to witness.
Breathe. Don’t fall.
In for 5. Don’t Fall.
Hold for 5. Don’t you fucking fall.
Out for 5.
The leg drops in tandem with the other dancers, brushing against the floor and propelling her forward into a labored leap and a stumbled landing. Sweat collects in the small of Adela’s back. Her leotard clings to her, bunching under her arms and around the swell of her thighs.
The sick drills farther into the depths of her stomach. By the time she lands, her face is hot and slick. Maisie’s eyes are straight ahead but she maintains her smile, a ghost of humor and mockery.
The dancers pull into a sous-sous, legs crisscrossing to become one. Adela teeters on the box of her point shoe as bends beneath her. They’re dead, the boning promising to give out and snap her ankle in two.
Breathe. You’re almost there.
In for 5. Don’t let her win.
Hold for 5. If you fall, you’re dead to me.
Out for 5. I’ll fucking kill you myself.
Smile.
Adela lifts the back leg out to the side and readies herself for a pirouette. The standing foot pushes clockwise as her right leg lifts and bends until the end of her point shoe brushes against her kneecap.
“Focus, Adela!” The music halts beneath Mademoiselle Juliette’s shrill voice. “Stop. Just stop.”
The dancers pause, slow turns stumbling out until all eyes stop on Adela. Adela settles and watches Mademoiselle Juliette move to the center, her feet slapping against the floor.
“Why are you here?”
“Ma’am?”
“Why are you here wasting my time? Does it bring you joy? Fucking with me? My choreo?”
Adela didn’t let her eyes stray from the woman in front of her. “No, ma’am.”
“Then why?”
Adela hears shuffling behind her. She can feel the smiles of the others. The brutality of their teeth, bare against her neck. Waiting to tear out her throat and revel in her failure. Vultures. She can hear those vultures squawking.
Mademoiselle Juliette juts her chin up. “Why?”
“I’ll do the adagio again.”
Adela moves to the front, a few steps away from the mirror. She stares back at herself, blinking away the sweat in her eyes.
Mademoiselle Juliette moves to the side, reflection swimming in the edge of the mirror. “If you dance like a child, I will treat you like a child.”
Adela nods.
Should I hold your hand while you dance? Maybe the next time you piss, I’ll be outside the stall encouraging you. Would you like that?”
Adela shakes her head.
“Begin.”
Adela’s reflection matched the flow and ebb of her movements. She begins with a plié, arms opening above her head and falling to her front, the sides of her hands reaching the middle of her thighs.
The adagio begins.
Adela smiles and breathes.
She sails through the starter choreography. Leaps transform into glides that cut through the stiff air. Her legs swing and her feet arch.
Not one stumble.
Not one squawk.
She floats through the arabesque with practiced legs and swings straight into another jump. Her weight bounces on the collapsed box of her pointe shoes. Two feet hit the ground and ankles cross to prepare for the sous-sous.
Feet push against the ground and carry Adela to the tip of her toes. She waits a moment, following the imaginary tempo pounding against her skull. Her eyes flicker down to spot red blooming on the side of her shoe. It overtakes the pink satin. Her toes feel the wetness pooling into the shoe’s box. A bubble fights its way through the thick fabric and rolls down the slope of the shoe. Steadily, the blood puddles on the floor.
Adela’s back leg stretches to the side and bends, right foot angles next to her left knee and her left foot spins her. The right leg extends and slides back on the floor, left foot flat in front. Adela’s blood is smeared on the floor, chasing her movements.
“Again.”
Right foot rises in front and Adela steps through the turn.
“Again.”
Left foot rises. Right leg guides the turn. She lands.
“Faster.”
Another rise. A turn. Land.
“Again! Faster!”
Rise.
Turn.
Land.
Squawk. A laugh bubbles from behind her but Adela is too dizzy to see.
Rise. Turn. Land.
The room dances around her. A mix of browns and white, lights and reflections bleeding together into a blinding gleam.
Her head rolls down, focusing on the floor. A ring of blood traps her. It wells under her shoes and smudges the floor.
Rise.
Turn.
Land.
Crack.
Adela hears the impact before she feels it. There’s a ringing in her ears and she can’t see. The wetness comes first. In her haze, it feels like sweat dribbling down her forehead. Thick. Slimy.
Pulsing.
Gushing.
A burst of red spurts onto glass shards beneath her. Adela tries to pull herself up, but her hands are too slippery. Even now, she hears them.
Those fucking vultures.
Squawking.
Get up.
Licking their claws.
Now.
Saliva and filth dripping down their beaks.
Get the fuck up!
Adela’s head snaps toward the mirror. Part of it is missing, fractured, and scattered around her. But she catches a glimpse of herself. Her head is a mess of hair and gore, sliding down the strange shapes of her face and splattering on the backs of her hands.
She doesn’t move. She refuses to move.
She will not fail.
She will not let them win.
Adela stares back at herself before the blood takes over her vision, waiting to see which one of her will be the first to fall.
K. Slade is a Black gothic and speculative fiction writer pursuing a BS in Digital Journalism and a Japanese minor at Appalachian State University. She currently serves as Visual Managing Editor for The Appalachian, her collegiate newspaper, and specializes in multimedia journalism. Horror media deeply inspired her love for the craft and, in the future, K. wants to write a script for a horror game. You can find more of her work at https://kmslade12.wixsite.com/peculiarblue.