SILHOUETTES ─ jason todd

No. 1: Allegro guisto

NOW

Darkness descends deliberately. A spotlight slices through black space. In its beam, a dancer materialises, fair-skinned and pure.

          Let me tell you a story.

Most of Gwen's time passes like this, in darkness, in her head, in the reality carved out of time and space where only a moment within this string of seconds exists. Inhale, exhale. Her eyes snap open.

          There was once a simple girl who lived on her knees, scrubbing floors for a dime.

She builds the shoes first. Black satin swirls outward from under her fingers, ribbons of darkness slipping like water over her bare feet, her bare and broken feet, bruised and mangled from all her time dancing on her toes. She fastens the ribbon at her ankle. Ballet shoes. She's done this so many times it takes only seconds, and when the darkness sets, they look so real Gwen aches to run her hands over the silken shell, but knows that if she does, she threatens the integrity of the illusion.

          And there was once a cruel man who lived in a house of marble and ivory, and his floors were always gleaming. You already know how this goes. Let me tell you another.

Thread by thread, she builds the tutu next. In her mind's eye, her clothes slough off her body like snow, and around her the shadows bleed up her skin, over the crests of her muscles. She imagines the wings, dark lines painted down her arms, across her back.

          There were once two little girls who lived in a house of dust and broken windows. Though they wore the same face, one was made of light, and the other of shadows. Their mother loved one, and despised the other. Despised—and feared.

Hands running up her midriff, Gwen stitches the body of her dream from the dark. Then the feathers, the texture of the body piece, the dark glimmer between the smoky shades. Brushing her fingers out, flaring like a brushstroke, she weaves the skirt. Between her hands, the darkness seethes, forges, and she brings the headpiece to the crown of her head. I am the Black Swan, Gwen thinks, I am the dark side of the moon, the shadow under the crown, the dark impulse beneath the perfect veneer.

          "You have your father's eyes," she said to the shadowed girl, once.

          "But I have your face," the girl responded, not understanding. "And I look just like my sister."

           "You have your father's darkness," said her mother, her lips twisted in disdain. "And you are just as terrible as he."

Lastly, at the helm of her centrifuge, she builds her stage. Shadows cut into shapes, penumbras. Like a carpet unfurling, the darkness flared outward, sprawling across the floor. Rows of seats, a crowd, an orchestra at her feet.

          There was once a house of marble and ivory. It sits high on a hill, surrounded by the sun, and though I'm told that I'm my father's daughter, its iron gates have never opened for me.

A singular spotlight lights the centre stage. There exists a moment where the shadow lets you know where the sun is streaming in, an odd limbo where light and dark often meet. You see it because one can't exist without the other. You see it because without one or the other, you are blind. At its core, Gwen teeters on the precipice, watching the cryogenic dust fall into the yolk of the moment.

          Now, I'll admit. I'm not exactly the picture-perfect representation of sanity. Look around you. Look around me.

For that moment, that one breathless moment, she lets herself take it all in. Wishbone arms outstretched at her sides, a bird poised to take flight. This pocket of time, this liminal space, this dark, shadow world she's built for herself. Her stage. Her spotlight. It's the only place she knows nothing bad would happen.