Drabble: dancing on needles (Black Swan, Nina/Lily, PG)
Title: dancing on needles
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: Black Swan, Nina/Lily, an alternate ending, for theroyal_e, PG. This was supposed to be about 100 words longer, but it refuses to budge. And who am I to argue with Nina Sayers? I'm a bit scared of her. I hope this satisfies the prompt, as it isn't exactly the end.
They throw the words at her, words like incompetent, unreliable, unsatisfactory, awful. And Thomas will not look her in the eye after the first act, he holds up his hand to ward her off, after that fool dropped her and she was alone, trembling on the stage, and face it, she may as well have been, they all saw her, the audience saw her, the company saw her, Thomas saw her, they saw how she didn't move, saw her eyes, and the way her knee bent, unpracticed, unskilled.
He should be worshiping her and readying her for the next turn, here in the wings.
Thomas rubs his thumb in Lily's makeup, smudging slightly, leaving his prints there, mired in her skin, and he grimaces into a smile and Nina can't, she can't possibly. There are rules for this sort of thing, aren't there, protocol, a set of guidelines at least, and Thomas (or perhaps a gust of wind, or a passerby) catches the hair at the back of her neck with cold fingers. "My darling Nina," he says, pressing his thumb against her cheekbone. "Don't you know that you were never good enough?"
The cold seeps in from the street, though the performance hall is packed full. Muscles atrophy.
A kiss falls on her lips from above, Lily standing en pointe, arms length away so she doesn't crush the tutu, her mouth gentle and soft. "You know this would be different if we could choose," she whispers, her voice like pink gravel, scented like her cigarettes and sugar. "It's just a game to him. We're just the dolls he winds up. Don't let it get to you, Nina." There, a warm hand on her shoulder, the costume slipping away, Lily's hand feeling like the way blood clings to skin. Sticky. She'll never wash off.
She still changes entr'acte, unable to stop the tears, wiping them underneath her veil, one eye at a time, like a widow. The makeup is waterproof. They must have learned long ago.
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: Black Swan, Nina/Lily, an alternate ending, for theroyal_e, PG. This was supposed to be about 100 words longer, but it refuses to budge. And who am I to argue with Nina Sayers? I'm a bit scared of her. I hope this satisfies the prompt, as it isn't exactly the end.
They throw the words at her, words like incompetent, unreliable, unsatisfactory, awful. And Thomas will not look her in the eye after the first act, he holds up his hand to ward her off, after that fool dropped her and she was alone, trembling on the stage, and face it, she may as well have been, they all saw her, the audience saw her, the company saw her, Thomas saw her, they saw how she didn't move, saw her eyes, and the way her knee bent, unpracticed, unskilled.
He should be worshiping her and readying her for the next turn, here in the wings.
Thomas rubs his thumb in Lily's makeup, smudging slightly, leaving his prints there, mired in her skin, and he grimaces into a smile and Nina can't, she can't possibly. There are rules for this sort of thing, aren't there, protocol, a set of guidelines at least, and Thomas (or perhaps a gust of wind, or a passerby) catches the hair at the back of her neck with cold fingers. "My darling Nina," he says, pressing his thumb against her cheekbone. "Don't you know that you were never good enough?"
The cold seeps in from the street, though the performance hall is packed full. Muscles atrophy.
A kiss falls on her lips from above, Lily standing en pointe, arms length away so she doesn't crush the tutu, her mouth gentle and soft. "You know this would be different if we could choose," she whispers, her voice like pink gravel, scented like her cigarettes and sugar. "It's just a game to him. We're just the dolls he winds up. Don't let it get to you, Nina." There, a warm hand on her shoulder, the costume slipping away, Lily's hand feeling like the way blood clings to skin. Sticky. She'll never wash off.
She still changes entr'acte, unable to stop the tears, wiping them underneath her veil, one eye at a time, like a widow. The makeup is waterproof. They must have learned long ago.