Dance on Tombstones

Chapter 1

                                                                                           Prologue

She took her dress out of the closet and spread it on the bed again. It was the third time she did the same thing. And yet she did not dare to wear it. She knelt on the floor and pressed her cheek to the cold and soft mattress. She had the feeling that she was bathing in cold water under the light of the moon. The light of the crystal mushroom threw strange reflections under her open eyelids. Although it was still light outside, it was cold and dark in the house. All the curtains were drawn and only one light was on: the light of the lamp with a mushroom head.

She liked the dark... Yes, she liked the dark. For several months she could only live like this: in the dark and cold... like a mushroom... Just like her sister with a crystal head. Every morning, after Paul left for the hospital, she ran around the house and pulled all the curtains. It was the only pleasant moment of the day. Every covered window was a great joy for her. She played tangling among the heavy folds of velvet. If Paul had seen her, he would have called her a kitty, although she was nothing like that. And she couldn't even see in the dark like a kitten. Running around the house, she bumped into all the furniture she came across. Her hands and feet were full of bruises, but she didn't care. She didn't feel any pain, she was immune to such a thing.

Then, left alone in the dark, she took refuge in a corner of the bed. She crouched with her legs tucked under her and sat motionless for hours. She was thinking... She had a lot of things on her mind. When Paul came back in the evening, she already had all the lies ready: how she had walked all morning in the park, and how beautiful the roses were; how she had then wandered around the shops and bought a lot of things. Yes, of course she felt better, she was just convalescing. She had never been more cheerful and full of life.

The most beautiful lies were born from that wet darkness in which she had lanced all day. And it was really a pleasure to tell them to Paul. Although he didn't believe a word of it, she continued to lie to him fiercely. She lied to him to hurt him, and he was forced to listen to her in silence. His only reproach was mild and mute. He grabbed her by the back and pressed her head to his chest. She was small and frail, barely reaching his shoulders. If his huge hand had tensed for a moment, it would have broken his neck for sure. But he would never have done that. He treated her as if she was a crying animal in need of tenderness. From time to time a gentle reprimand was due. Then, he stuck her to his chest, in that long-known place. It was as if she could listen to his heartbeat and feel his rough beard pressed against the top of his head. And, then, it was finally quiet. It was a different kind of peace than the one she had had during the day, because at that moment she remembered everything again...

She startled violently, lifting her head from the bed. The light of the lamp hit her straight in the face, stunning her. She covered her eyes with his hands and began to shake her head. No, she didn't have to think about that... She jumped to her feet and straightened up, throwing her hair back. She decided at the same moment. She had to try one more time, even if it was for the last time. She untied the cord of his robe and let it slide gently down. Little by little, her body was revealed in front of the mirror. Her thin and beautiful body, with small and shy forms, gently shaped, that body that had once been that of a ballerina, was now that of an invalid... And she hated it.

Yes, she hated that body that no longer served her for anything. She turned her head disgusted... She didn't even want to see it anymore. She was afraid. She hated those hands and feet, especially the feet, and especially one of them. The one of which no trace of the wound could be seen now. It had healed, the scoundrel, but the wound had remained elsewhere... somewhere, deeply planted in her soul.

She threw off her robe and put on her dress with quick, almost angry gestures. It was the same dress she had on that fateful evening, the dress with which she had fallen to the grave... It was her funeral dress. She kept it carefully in the closet for months. From time to time she put it on and tried again to get over that terrible moment. But she never succeeded... Her whole life had stopped then, the moment she collapsed on the stage... A few quick pirouettes, followed by a high jump... very high. She always woke up on the floor, her head on her knees and her leg twisted under her... Just like that evening when she had seen the shiny floor of the stage so close.

No one and nothing could save her. A terrible obstacle had appeared in her life, which she could not jump over. And after each fall, she felt more defeated and more desperate. And her life always stopped at that moment, again and again, like a broken gramophone record. She had come to hate everything, her own body, Paul, and all other people. She even hated the light. She only liked those huge curtains that protected her from the sun and people's eyes.

She smoothed the dress on his body and tried to take the first step. She didn't even need music anymore, she had it in her head, and she always heard it there. The music and that black dress, the floor of the stage and that terrible pain, were her clichés of every day... for months. She started to turn, but it was hard, very hard. She moved like a disjointed doll, without any grace. Everything was forced and wrong. Even a mechanical ballerina would move better than her. The first pirouette followed, then the second and the third. She took off and jumped... She had to jump high... very high. She saw the spotlight again and fell down. She woke up on the floor in the same position: with her head on her knees and her leg twisted under her. Only the pain was missing. She felt absolutely nothing. For a long time, she didn't feel any other pain... only that pain from that evening. She was wrong... Again she was wrong... Tears were dripping down her bare leg and they were lost one by one in the soft plush of the carpet. Now, she knew that she would never be able to dance again... Only then she felt that howl of a wounded beast in her throat.