I shouldn’t have been surprised that she wore her tutu; she never took it off if she could help it. She lived for the escape which dance gave her even long after her trembling limbs were robbed of their natural grace.
I remember watching her dance, just after the first time we met. Her movements were so sure, so smooth. She told me afterwards she danced with her eyes closed, feeling her way through the movements by instinct. There was nothing in the world she loved as much as the moment the rhythms flowed through her, she once told me. Not even me? I asked her. She just laughed.
There was little left of that grace in the frail creature she became. Unable to walk or hold objects, she had become translucent. Uninterested in eating and unable to sleep, she was never truly awake to living the way she once had been. It was as if, without the dance, there was nothing of her left. She shrivelled into herself.
Even now, she had an unearthly elegance. Frozen in the doorway, I watched for the last time, her body pirouetting from the neck down in a final breathtaking performance of lifelessness.
* * *
Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost. Purchase Rebecca’s e-books on Amazon.com now: Fever Book One: Fever in the Blood and Fever Book Two: Blood Lust; visit her WordPress blog here.THE DANCER by Rebecca L. Brown,