Her last spark of hope had been reduced to ashes. She finally realised, even though she’d known it all along, that her love was futile and unrequited. She made her way toward her handmaiden with a certain – finality – in her step. With a ceremonious grace, she unsheathed the dagger her handmaiden gave her.
A flicker of trepidation crossed her face for just a moment. But the moment was felt by all around her as they anxiously watched in the shadows, waiting for the inevitable. Grasping the hilt with both hands, she raised the sword, bringing the feeling of impending doom up with it. It felt like an eternity, but nary a beat had passed, and she aimed the dagger into her chest.
It almost seemed as if had missed its target, but as she pulled it from her breast, the red wash of blood seeped across the light fabric of her kimono-styled attire. She staggered, still graceful even in the last throes of death, dancing a good-bye to the world.
With the last, lingering strains of music, she fell dramatically onto the floor. The heavy crimson curtains closed on the scene and the entire concert hall was filled with thunderous applause.
As the curtains began to open, the dancer got up. She was smiling triumphantly, and her eyes, which was only a moment ago welled up with unshed tears, brimmed over with silent glee.
Edit 25/4/2011: This was written after watching Madame Butterfly, performed by Singapore Dance Theatre. The ending is the way I wish that Black Swan had ended.
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
