yelena puts in her airpods , turning the music up on her phone to drown out the mindless chatter of fellow commuters on the subway . it was better this way ; better she didn't pick up private conversations or hear a noise that might trigger a PTSD episode . she presses her head against the dirty , smudged and half-heartedly cleaned glass ; hands tucked into the pockets of her winter coat . heavy wool , military cut and adorned with buttons of the feodorovna coat of arms embossed into the metal .
her commute is a long one ; at least this evening was intended to be . a wave of exhaustion comes over her , the bruises from her day spent at the boxing gym starting to ache beneath her skin with the thrum of her pulse . though yelena fights valiantly against the the urge to sleep ; the motion of the car lulls her into a soft sleep .
of the silk threads of candy cotton pink ballet slippers sliding thru her fingers ; of the scratchy material of the white tights against her thighs . of the soft plucking of piano keys , the soft haunting song of the string symphony calling to her ; luring her to the stage . of the thin knife she secured to her thigh beneath her tights . even in her dream-memory she can feel the cool kiss of it . she adjusts the small tiara braided into her hair , applies a last coat of frosting pink lipstick and follows the other ballerinas out to the darkened stage , taking position .
when they symphony reaches its crescendo , you know what to do . the guttural voice of her handler rakes a small shiver down her spine as she recalls it with the perfect cadence of his knife-sharp tone . she is a bolshoi ballerina . she is the white widow . there were very important politic people in the audience tonight — she'd heard the other girls tittering about it earlier in the night . front row . box seat one and three . you know what to do . she can still feel the ache in her toes as she rises and begins to dance ; spinning until the gossamer silk and glittering adornments are all she sees ; reciting the dance by muscle memory alone , attention held by the music . the build of the crescendo aligns with the war drum pound of her heart until fingers are reaching artfully for the knife and she is hurling it through the air with marksman speed and accuracy —
yelena wakes with a gasp , her heart pounding in her chest , the violent shift to a state of hyper alertness making her head pound as she cast her hazel gaze around her like a frightened , feral , cornered animal . only barely resisting fight or flight because she was still trapped on the subway train , firmly seated in the window seat she'd taken when the elderly woman beside her had gotten off two stops ago .
