100 and under
Ariadna’s Bouquet
The dance of life and death
Her pointed toes were anchored to the floor. Then suddenly she leapt, high in the air. It was the music that carried her jump. Adriana always made it seem like she was the music. Her ascent sliced through the musky air on stage. The crowd willed her higher and higher. Her muscles tight like violin strings played the notes of the orchestra. That’s why the crowd loved her. They saw music in her and heard her in the music . She held her breath in the air and with it all time stood still. Gradually, reality woke up and floated her back to the ground, the crowd elated, as she delivered them. Ten seconds later she collapsed to the floor. Ariadna had a heart attack.
The pain waved through her body, the burning tsunami waking her up in the ambulance; her mind in a fog, tentacled out searching for the familiar. The siren was piercing through her ears. She wanted the bouquet that was waiting for her at the performance. It was Ariadna’s bouquet. It was her life’s opus and her hours spent on the floor preparing for it. The pain became sharper now, more focused, cork-screwing its way through her. The memories of her choreographers pushing her ever forward, drawing out her talent, were now drowning with her in the background. The cold bright lights seared her eyes and the smell of alcohol singed her nose. She panicked and tried to tighten her grip on the escaping reality. The doctors in the operating room were yelling and then she faded away.
Three hours later the worst was over and she had survived. But not quite.
As she woke up the next morning, dazed and confused, she weaved together the many little pieces of what had happened and what she remembered. The doctors were around her. That couldn’t be good. She didn’t have much time, they said. She needed another operation to save her heart, to save her life. There was a price. After the operation, she wouldn’t be able to dance. The bouquet was gone. She had 24 hours.
Her mind was racing. A flurry of images were nibbling at her, each taking a piece of her with them. Her heart sunk in the quicksand of her lost identity. Hope left her eyes. Just then, as all was lost, just like so many times before, her training kicked in. She was not going to give up. Not today, not ever. Her mind was made up.
“Shove it,” Ariadna yelled at the doctors. There was not going to be an operation. She had always flown to beautiful music for her dances, somebody else’s music had dictated her life. Now her life was in her own hands, and she was going to fly to her own music.
