Tarantism, Tarantella and The Tarantula

[Tarantism; noun]

A psychological illness characterized by an extreme impulse to dance, prevalent in southern Italy from the 15th to the 17th century, and widely believed at the time to be caused by the bite of a tarantula. The cure of which was believed to be the dance dubbed The Tarantella.

Starring:
Jongin as ‘Tarantism’,
Yixing as ‘The Tarantula’,
&
Kyungsoo as ‘The Tarantella.’



 
Act One.

There was a time that Jongin could recall with sparkling clarity, his thoughts and memories iridescent in pale swathes of nostalgia. But that was long ago, before he met him, before he gasped through exertion which snapped at his brittle bones, only to expel bloodied pirouettes. His mind now was more of a tangled spider web, trembling through the onslaught of dreams and exhaustion and dance, Jongin, dance.

When Jongin had begun his dance classes; a doe-eyed teen, giddy with the excitement of his acceptance, he was able to separate dance and himself. They were two isolated entities; Jongin could dance until the last rays of sunlight seeped through clouded windows, then pack away his shoes and routines for another day. But after his introduction to Yixing, his sharp angled, stoic worded, but breathtakingly striking dance instructor, Jongin pushed. He pushed his body to the limit, preening and glowing with a soft, curling satisfaction when Yixing called him a "dance prodigy, my protégée." But it wasn't enough, not until he was pressed heavy against the cool lake of the classroom mirror, with a mouth hot against his collarbone and oh, protégée gasped thickly and echoing on hardwood floors.

Jongin was content for a while, turned a blind eye to whispered: "Well, we know why he's he favourite.”  because Jongin was separate, and did as he always did, and left dance behind. But soon Yixing's stoic expression turned into stoic words, tripping and pushing Jongin, even when he was in class. Then stoic words turned into a stoic fist, a harbinger of blue and purple bruises. Jongin recoiled at this, fell somewhere along the way, believed that it was true; my protégée needs whipping into shape. A firm hand, Yixing had spat, will never crush the strongest flowers. Right now, Jongin's dancing left him nothing more than a weed.

So he pushed, pushed, pushed until it hurt to breathe, until violet skin glistened in sheens of sweat; opalescent Jongin dry retching against familiar mirrors. But it's not enough, his thoughts said, you're not enough, Yixing's knuckles said. And he believed it, because it was impossible to think of anything other than dancing, to take his mentor's biting words as anything other than law.

(Somewhere along the line, Jongin forgot to eat.)
 

Intermission

He awoke to a gentle beeping, in a white room, with his lips dry and throat parched. He took a moment to comprehend that he was in a hospital, to his chapped lips, before his stomach plummeted.

He needed to dance. Now. Yixing would be fuming, so angry and Jongin wasn't sure he could take it and then, suddenly, Jongin couldn’t breathe. His lungs became impenetrable, cotton balls clogging his airways and the once gentle beep became a frantic pulse. He threw off the suffocating covers, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, before a gentle pressure on his shoulder made him halt in confusion. He found the pressure to be a hand, soft and reassuring. He followed the hand up to the concerned face of a male nurse.

"Please," The Nurse said, wide eyes urgent, "remain in your bed, Mr. Kim."

Jongin does as he's told because his movement leaves his head spinning and The Nurse's doe eyes bind his spine to the hospital mattress; open the floodgates to fresh oxygen. The Nurse nods in satisfaction and pulls the duvet back over Jongin's knees.

"Your doctor will be with you in just a moment," The Nurse informs him, “Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Water?" Jongin croaks, the syllables foreign and harsh.
 

Act Two

The Nurse pours his water as The Doctor enters the room; a man with frizzy hair and a deep voice. His name was Cho- Chal- Chan-; Jongin finds it difficult to recall his name. He finds it just as difficult to answer The Doctor's questions about dehydration, exhaustion, eating disorders. He doesn't understand anything, but knows the heavy pounding in his skull is commanding he refine the routine Yixing had prepared for him. He tries to tell The Doctor this, but thinks he fails to convey anything other than fragmented nonsense and desperation. Even so, The Doctor listens with his lips pressed tightly together, watching as Jongin's gesticulations get wilder. It's only when The Nurse takes the polystyrene cup from his hand, which apparently had been shaking violently, judging the pool of watering his tray, that Jongin stops.

"I-" Jongin gasps into uncomfortable silence, "just need to dance."

The Doctor is silent for a moment, the curls of his hair fluttering slightly in the oscillating fan, before he speaks.

"Mr Kim, I am going to refer you to a specialist, I believe that you require psychological assistance," he fixes him with a kindly smile, "Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Kim?"

No! Jongin wants to yell, I'm not crazy; I just want to dance. But The Nurse's gentle gaze burns thought his hospital gown, leaving Jongin with a slither of clarity that he lost long ago. That clarity, like overexposed Polaroids, flickers with images of blossoming bruises, hollow bird bones and an aching hunger in his stomach. Jongin raises a shaking hand to his ribs and recoils when they poke him back.

"Y-yes."

"Then please remain here for a while longer until we can decide the best course of action. Otherwise, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Nurse Kyungsoo."

Kyungsoo smiles brightly from where he is stood by the side of Jongin's bed, giving him a thumbs up.

Jongin, without realizing, smiles back wobbily, the pull of muscles unfamiliar over his protruding cheek bones. He tries hard not to focus on the yellow tinge to his once-olive skin, ignores how Yixing's voice reverberates around his skull, laced with threats and frighteningly violent promises. Instead his raises his eyes to the assuring ones of Kyungsoo and, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, separates himself from dance.

 

Curtain Call

Years later, when Kyungsoo has his chin tucked into the crook of Jongin's neck, The Dancer’s mind sparkles with the lucidity of doe eyes and slow dances in cradling arms. He is positive that, together, he and Kyungsoo make the strongest flower the garden has ever seen, tarantulas be damned.