odette weiss : capitol : fin

Once people know you as something, it's hard to get them to think of you as anything else. The word "dancer" has been branded across my forehead since I was a child. According to my parents, I was a natural, meant to grace the stage. I accepted my title for twenty-one precious years of my life. Even when my world came crashing down on top of me, people were still convinced I was the dancer I used to be. I'm trying, really, I am, but I'll never be the star I was.

My wife watches from the doorway as I practice my pirouettes. I make one, two, but I stumble on the third. She's over in less than a second, grabbing me by the waist before I can fall. "You okay?" She asks. I nod. She hauls me back onto my feet.

I'm a small thing. My limbs are like twigs, and I just barely hit the five foot four mark. Pretty useful for a dancer, but not so useful when you're trying to make it as a normal human. Often times, my wife has to grab things on top shelves for me. She's much stronger than I am. Even though she's got height and muscles, she's still absolutely gorgeous. I envy her for that sometimes. She doesn't need all the makeup that I pile on every morning. I stick in my color contacts, and I cake my face with powder after powder, and I twist my hair into fantastical styles, but I could never compare to her.

Her hair is naturally orange. She keeps it that way. Going natural is kind of a big deal around here. I think she's so brave. My hair has gone around the rainbow so many times that I've forgotten its actual hue. A few days ago I dyed it brown- Like, a natural brown, so I could feel as brave as my wife. I think the brown ended up contrasting nicely with my pastel wardrobe. I love dressing in light pinks and blues. I even match up my contacts with my color of the day. I still mostly wear skirts and dresses, as those are what I wore on stage. Old habits are hard to break.

"You've been practicing for a while. You should take a break," my wife tells me.

"I suppose," I reply. I want to keep practicing, I want to get this right. There's an immense amount of pressure on me right now. Once the doctor announced that I was "fully recovered", I was swarmed by people all asking the same question: "When will you be dancing again?" They all expected me to bounce right back, but that wasn't the case. Being bedridden for three years takes a toll on your body. If I could have it my way, I would give up dancing for good, but I can't. I don't want to let anybody down. They all believe in me. Giving up would be selfish.

Before I got sick, I had a big ego. A rightfully earned one. I was a brilliant dancer, and people were lucky to watch me perform. And then I lost it. I lost what I had spent my whole life working for. I was left with a warped sense of self. Who am I, if I can't do what made me myself? Who am I, if I'm not what everybody knew me as? My confidence plummeted. It's still sitting at the bottom of a ditch somewhere, waiting for me for rescue it.

My wife takes me downstairs, where one of our Avoxes is setting up dinner. She must have ordered them to do it while I started practicing. She's so sweet. I think her compassion is beginning to rub off on me. Before, we were like polar opposites. She was the nice one, and I was the cold one. Going through what I did made more sympathetic to others. It's like I owe a sort of debt to the people who helped me when I was sick. Since they were so good to me, I feel like I should repay their kindness.

We sit and eat and hold hands under the table. Every time I look at her feels like the first time we met. She was an apprentice for the fashion designer who was creating my costumes for a show. The minute I saw her, I completely melted. Nobody had made me feel that way before. She didn't talk to me like I was an object. She talked to me like I was human.

I had been raised as a dancer. It was in my blood, I was told, even though nobody in my family had ever been one. My parents saw some potential in me and got me started right away. At six, I was being featured in ensembles, and by twelve, I was in starring roles. Prodigy. Perfection. I loved all of the attention. It went to my head, of course, but my parents encouraged that. They wanted me to be absolutely positive that I was the best of the best.

When I was eighteen, the company I was with helped me create my own solo show. That was where I met my wife. We got married the next year, in an extravagant wedding my parents paid for. They paid for our home, too. On the top floor they built me my very own dance studio. I was free to practice without having to travel to the company's studio. It all felt like a dream.

I spent the next two years at the top. I was married, I was constantly performing, I was flocked by attention. When you're that far on top of the mountain, nobody expects you to come tumbling down. I remember the day so clearly. It was right after a performance, a quiet matinee. I collapsed on my way to my dressing room. I woke up in the hospital, and they told me something was wrong with my kidneys. Kidneys? I had never given any thought to my kidneys. I was more concerned with my legs.

It took the doctors three years to get the tumors out. My downfall was highly publicized. People were telling me I "should have seen this coming". Now, these are the same people who are hounding me about my stage return. It's funny how people turn around so quickly. My wife was by my side the entire time. She seemed to be the only person with any sense. She told me it was okay if I never danced again, because she loved me no matter what.

The hospital released me around a year ago. The doctors were proud of me for pushing through, which is more than I can say for my parents. I haven't heard from them since I was admitted. I must have disappointed them. My wife tells me not to let it get to me. She thinks they only cared about me when I was bringing them attention. I figure she may be right.

Very recently, I started practicing again. I had an Avox clean the dusty studio and got to work. I haven't managed to get past a sloppy pirouette yet, but I'll keep working at it. Everybody expects so much of me again. They want a success story. It's not what I want, but I'm only a performer. I have to do what the public wants.