She woke to an empty room, a swollen leg and a pulsating red scar. She was wheelchair bound for three months and had to care for herself in this strange land. The way she recollected it was so matter of fact, I had to focus intensely on the words she was saying to comprehend what had actually happened.
There is something much more tragic about a ballerina in a wheelchair than a normal person. Fuck, I mean as programmers we sit on chairs with tiny wheels all day, aren't those essentially wheelchairs? I have a friend at work whose chubby body has almost become one with his chair - he propels himself around the smooth linoleum floor with soft duck-like paddling with his toes. But I digress.
If you remember what Ostrava is like, just imagine a Cassie pushing herself over the tram tracks in the shadow of the blackened buildings. And this was what, she fought for? This was what ballet dancers spend years training and starving themselves for?
As she nursed herself back to normality, her dance troupe pushed on, harder than ever in that theatre. All she could do was wait on the outside, figure out how to walk and make sure she had enough money to last until she could dance again.