Étoile | Yuri Plisetsky

Chapter 3 | Plié

To bend. His soul was used to bending every day; bending to a breaking point each time and yet remaining adeptly integrated and it was all thanks to the sense of perfectionism, which was imbued in his performance. Life was a skating rink and whatever he did should've been utterly and ultimately perfect.

His mind revisited the memory of the recent ballet lesson with Lilia. It scratched his brain and damaged his already withering pride, refining the tragedy with each and every thought that occurred to him. He polished the memory with his thinking; his oh-so-mindless thinking that weakened the traces of resolve he had left.

He was no longer Yuri Plisetsky. He bore that name, yes, although Yuri Plisetsky sounded more like a title he lost. The same name was nothing but an insufferable burden on his shoulders. He missed being him, he missed being a champion, a brat who knew nothing but success, an athlete whose vocabulary consisted of every word but that of "failure". He missed that. The carefree attitude, the falls that hurt his body more than his mind, the hectic schedule, the late practice sessions, the competitions, the awards and the praise, all seemed like a faint glimpse into the realm of a vivid dream.

He was kneeling on the marble floor of his living room with his dance bag tossed next to him. Breath ragged from exhaustion and eyes widened from shock, he took a moment to compose himself while gripping his shirt tightly and pushing his clenched fist against his throbbing chest. He wished he could disappear off the face of Earth after his mediocre performance. He knew he did not belong to the skating community anymore, he knew the ice would no longer claim him, and the rink had no room for him. In the same sense, the dance studio could not embrace him; and frankly, he didn't want it, he did not claim it as his passion. It used to be a medium to conquer greater heights in figure skating and nothing more. He thought he should've seen it coming. After all, if you don't have any inspiration left, you're as good as dead.

What should he do now? Where should he go? Who should he turn to? He realized he was alone, and it hurt him deeply. Now that he felt stripped of everything he thought composed his worth such as competitions, performances, certificates, trophies, medals, the media, he felt as though he didn't deserve to reach out to anybody. He was so used to being perfect that the tiniest hint of a flaw would murder his ego. In the past, he would find strength in pride, rooted in his constantly inflating ego. But who would help him now that he had no strength to spare? Who would waste their time in understanding him and his struggles?  

His chest ached all the time; all the damn time, and he was getting tired. The state he currently defined as laziness was eating him inside out and the more he explored this feeling, the guiltier he grew, and the more he wanted to scream while ripping off his own pained heart in desperation.

A nap would help, a nap always helps, he thought. He stripped down to his underwear, tossing his clothes freely across the floor, making his way to the oddly comforting accommodation only his sofa was capable of offering. His skin was still damp with sweat, adhering to the cotton cover of the furniture. He closed his eyes, urging the day to go by quickly; and it did. About the time the majority of his neighbours would have finished supper, Yuri had just woken up. 

The first to greet him was, of course, the usual neck pain he'd get for picking the couch over his bed, which only gathered the wandering dust as he refused to sleep in his room. The boy rubbed his sore nape and stretched out his neck before getting up.

Strangely enough, he thought of revisiting Lilia's studio. Even though she judged him harshly, she was the only person whose opinion of him mattered less ever since. He couldn't get back to the rink, because he was scared of Yakov, overwhelmed by Viktor's work and comments, and stressed from Popovic and Mila constantly questioning him. However, Lilia's studio was different. It was hell, but it wasn't as stressful as the rink. The torment would sit heavy upon his body and mind, urging him to constantly offer peak performance and graceful features, dismembering his soul and putting it back together, piece by piece until his image was nothing less than perfect. Lilia had made it clear: ballet was not for beginners.