The smooth tones of the piano float around you as you dance across the room on nimble feet, bending and twirling in perfect synchronicity with the two dancers behind you. Anticipation builds as the melody goes slow and quiet, on the verge of the emotional release the performance has been building towards. You raise a leg as the sounds melt into silence, curling your body inwards into the perfect manifestation of frozen agony.
You hold your position for long moments, the entire weight of your body centered on a single toe. A few more beats, and the music will crescendo, going straight into your favorite part of the whole routine. 3… 2… 1….
The world goes red.
When you return to your body, the music is still playing in the distance, the frenzied notes extremely angry and distinctly Russian. You are standing over a pile of bodies, bloody and torn, knives and guns strewn across the floor. You don’t need to look at the deep stains seeping up your slippers to know this is your doing; you know without a doubt that the object in your right hand is a long, thin blade that matches the hole in this man’s chest, and that there is more than just his blood dripping from its silver tip.
You don’t run, you don’t scream. Hell, you aren’t even surprised anymore. You bend down calmly to clean the blade on the man’s shirt and slip it back into the elegant twist in your head. The blackouts are a part of your life, and as long as you keep from panicking, you will live to see the next one.