Dance, sweetheart, dance.

She thumps her fist hard on the barre in front of her, frustrated. She glares at her own reflection in the mirror. Her eyebrows meet in the middle, almost touching. Her face is flushed and tear-stained. Her tight bun remains in the hairnet, but a few strands push out of their tight-knit group and fall limply across her face. Her tear-filled gray eyes glare angrily back, reflecting her exhaustion.

She drives her fists into her eyes, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. She had been practicing the same routine for months, failing to perfect it. Endless lectures and warnings of not putting in enough effort had done a lot of damage to her insecure soul. She worked even harder nonetheless, spending at least three hours in the basement, torturing her strained muscles and exerting herself to the extremes.

Inhaling deeply, she places her left ankle on the barre and straightens her back leg, feeling the muscles being pulled. Arching her back, she slowly bends forward, holding her left foot. Letting out a groan, she lets go of her foot and collapses backwards, landing roughly on the wooden dance floor. She rubs her sore calf. A tear slips down her hot cheek.

After the pain has subsided, she leans back and lies down flat on the floor, limbs sprawled. She breathes in and out slowly. She closes her eyes and soon drifts into a world where legendary dancers live. She imagines herself there, dancing en pointe, with graceful steps and a perfect posture. Soft whispers fill her calm soul, telling her to "Dance, sweetheart, dance."






Jessica