The theatre was never a place I thought of as familiar, though after so many visits I grew accustomed to the swirly, gold trimming and rich red curtains of velvet. I would sit in the dark, tension thickening the air and curtains - heavy and still. We, the audience; watching. Waiting.
With a flurry of Scarlett, those curtains flew open; a dim stage revealed. Shadowed figures cluttered its floor, and I allowed my eyes to shuffle over them, looking for you. Because it was always you I was looking for. Music - a steady stream of sound - began from somewhere to my left, and a spotlight fell over the stage. Your face looked porcelain in its intensity. Poised. Perfect.
You stood; fixed in pose as dancers relayed practised movements behind. Suddenly the music changed tone, and you swept forward with impossible perfection. I watched in fascination as you rose on pointe, your whole body in balance- in perfect harmony within itself. You contorted your body, surpassing all that should be possible. And all the while your face remained lifeless- detached. Because that beauty, like anything else, had a price relayed only in the fine print. Being beautiful is a twisted way to live. Everyone believes you to be selfish, while you were training, working, bleeding - to give them something pretty and dainty to look at.
They danced in sync, all in a charming little line, like dolls on a shelf; selling themselves to any who would buy. I looked on- another invisible face in the crowd. By then, I had well and truly sold myself to you. I would have given anything to sit next to you on that shelf, but instead, I was stuck looking in, pressing my face to the glass. An outsider.
I wanted desperately to look away from the limbs that had been chiselled, sculpted, calved into perfection- but you'd worked too hard, bled too much - my eyes refused to leave your skin, wouldn't cease in following those silk movements drowning out everything else in a haze of white noise and blurry shapes.
The music stopped and we all in the audience clapped automatically, though none were ready for it to end, and to be forced back out into the dark, ugly world outside. You bowed, a smile etched on your china face. All who were to catch any glimpse of you grew an insatiable hunger for your beauty, and you relished in that- of course you did, because the pain; the hours of pointless, mindless pain left you chasing the approval of strangers masked by darkness- for proof that it was all worth it. I spent hours of my life at those performances; my own, private thirst for you never quite being quenched.
The curtains closed and I stood, hurrying down the stairs. I had fixated on this day; your last performance. I would speak to you- break that invisible barrier between spectator and spectated. Eventually, I found a door marked 'Performers', standing tall and stern; cautioning me against opening it. No hint of hesitation- of forethought slowed my hand as I pushed it open.
The room sat quiet and bare and I froze, loss clutching my spine. I was too late. I let my hand fall from the door and heard it click shut behind me.
"Hello?" A voice uttered to my left. The voice reminded me of music- the way it seemed to drip from the speaker's mouth like honey. I looked up, my eyes seeking the source of the sweet sound, only to find a porcelain face staring back. Trousers and a jumper clung to where leggings and a tight, muscled chest should have been, but I knew it was you.
Your face seemed softer up close, and you had allowed blonde silken hair free from its updo; to cradle your face and blanket your shoulders. But the same perfect body peeked out at your neck and sleeve line- the same body blistered and burnt from the spotlight.
I turned, and you watched me with curious, empty eyes as I did so. Intricate eyes; the swirls mirroring that of smoke. It was clear that fire once roared in those defiant irises, but all that was left then, was the desolate chill of an extinguished flame.
"I-" my voice broke. Of course it did, because how could I talk to you- the picture of perfection? I let the strained sound die out in my throat. You sighed, disappointed. I didn't sigh, but I was disappointed too.
I let you turn and walk away, slipping behind a door labelled 'Exit'. I treasured the sight of your hand gripping the wood before you pulled it shut. And it too was gone from view.
I stood there for some time, thinking about how easy it would be to run after you- to stop you just before you left me completely. I thought about this long after you were gone, and long after you would have surely driven away.
I never saw you again after that day, though I went to every ballet performance I could afford- and even the ones I couldn't.
I searched the stage for your perfect silhouette and tired limbs. I promised myself, that if I saw you; I would bandage up your sorrows- return to you that righteous blaze that had been long lost. I would kiss your blood-tinted lips with my unworthy ones. But never again was I captivated by your spins, and jumps and detached smiles.
I never stopped searching, even as my hair faded grey. I was still looking, when my eyes fogged and clouded. My skin grew crumpled and wrinkled; frail bones worn thin. My mind grew wiser, having lived through countless misfortunes and prosperities, but there was always something missing. Something red and beating that you took.
I never knew your name, but sometimes, when the world was especially ugly, I thought back to those days from my youth, sat waiting for you to grace the stage, disgusted, envious - of your perfection.