Good evening, everyone. =]
This is first of a few tryouts for Blair Woods, and I keep wanting to type Briar's Hollow, because they are very similar but 'at's okay. I very excited about a few of the characters, so I dunno if this is my first or whatever. But...
Heloise is probably the most successful out of all the girls. A former member of the Paris Opera Ballet, she was one of ballet's brightest, most determined lights. Then disaster struck-when riding on the L to class, she was mugged, and both her legs and arms were left broken. She has since healed, but the POB wouldn't let her come back, saying that she would be left weak and out of step. You can still see the fire in her eyes that she wants to go back, to prove she can be the best. She's in the ballet studio at Blair Woods all the time, just waiting for her passport to get out.
Model: Barbara Palvin
It’s been a long long while since I’ve felt really special. Everyone has a story, and a talent, but where my story starts, the one thing that made me who I was, and my life, ended. So I haven’t been feeling like my self in a long while.
To compensate, to try to stand out, I dress in fantasy frocks, like a princess waiting for something to take her from the castle. So at the very least, people will notice, and know me as that girl who’s always dressed for the ball, for the midnight strike. At least then, I have something.
But it’s not special. It’s just a garment and when I slip it off, you’re left with me. No talents. Average grades. Crushed dreams.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to be such a pity party. It’s just when you ask who I am, that’s where we have to start. The fact that I’m nobody now. But saying this, telling myself such, is just fuel. It’s just to help me get back to where I need to be.
I’ve been at this school for a while now, since my scholarship was stripped from me, all my privileges to study at the elite ballet academy, cadémie Royale de Musique et de Danse, excused from the Opera Ballet; my parents thought it be good to live in a different scenery. Somewhere where the reminder of my former grace and perfect form would never show. No relatives congratulating me on a performance that happened months before, no more we’re-so-sorry soups. I appreciate their thinking, but I dislike it here, and I dislike being sheltered. Not there’s any problem, really, with the other girls, or the teachers, or the fact that we are miles from civilization. They, my parents, send me clothes from Paris fashion shows to make up for it, which is how they’ve always expressed their emotions. And I like the clothes, but I’m tired, tired, TIRED to death of it all. I want to roll around in a dirty t shirt, and leap through the air and run like gazelle. They have to stop coddling me, so I can learn how to stop coddling my self.
In the studio, a hundred Heloises sit Indian style in a yellow dress, with half her high piled in bouffant, chestnut curls tumbling down. I hate to see me, a broken dollie on the ground this way, but it’s good to face your fears. It’s good to see a million yous, broken, but not dead. I stretch my legs and the million Heloises move with it; the scars are there, big nasty claw cuts up the side of each like jean seems, only crooked. There are smaller, twig like ones on my arms. There is one on my cheek and down my lip, from where he hit me. There’s another on my arm-pit shoulder blade in front, from the stab, where it just missed my heart. My right leg has a metal support inside, and though it’s been a year, I still walk a bit like a tin man.
I stand up, slowly, flexing my calves by standing on tip toe and raising my arms to the ceiling. “Beethoven was deaf...” I remind myself, as I raise my left leg--the flesh leg--to the bar. “And was one of the greatest composers in a human history.”
Stretching is easy, and in fact is what I was instructed to do by the doctor after the incident. Physical therapy. It hurt at first, but now it’s second nature.
“And he was deaf.”
Theirwords -- “You’re just not up to standard anymore”--haunt me. And I practice, jumping into a pirouette. I glide like tinker bell, and make my land. There’s a slight pressure pain, but nothing too bad, and I make another, and another, and another, and then--
I fumble, tripping and landing hard on my wrist. All the Heloises in the room fall around me. The pain is striking. I clutch my hand and sit up again, moving back to that Indian style on the floor. Beethoven was deaf, but Heloise Guerlain will never dance as she did again.
She’ll never be center stage, light glowing, flower throwing swan of Pair--ee.
She, will never be me.