Sara stared at herself in the mirror. Curly red wisps had escaped, framing her face like a ginger cherub. She tried not to think about how she hated the way her nose turned up, or how her eyes squinted behind too large plastic frames. Her cankles, tankles had long since disappeared; still, she couldn’t help but wait for the familiar sound of snickering kids and swine calls. Cold panic started rising in her throat, she stifled a silent scream as she looked away from the waiting eyes and hid her shaking hands in one elegant movement, running her fingertips down her hips, extending her claws in feline glory.
Breathe, she thought. Just remember to breathe.
With a nod the music started, lilting out of the ancient record player in the back corner of the room. Time had taken its toll on the recording, faint scratches and scuffs marred the instrumentals. Sara started, right foot then left, trying still to not look at herself. She had been cautioned against closing her eyes, she would surely have to repeat this agony if, even for a second, her focus dropped back inside her personal fortress of solitude. After all, as the teacher so often liked to point out, Sara was hardly Superman and Nietzsche had no place in this studio.
Each step swayed with the soft rhythm, crimson red brushing gently along polished grain, whispering under the floating notes. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara noticed what, at first, she thought were tiny dragonflies hovering near the speakers. The tempo sped; the swarm grew larger, adding more and more black wriggling shapes. They drifted towards her, a miniature ocean of darkness carrying the music, waves washing over her ankles, former tankles, and weaving up her shaking knees. The darkness enveloped her body, glove-tight, and commanded muscles no longer under her control. Sara opened her mouth to scream as her vision faded and lungs filled with sharps and flats.
She twirled, faster and faster, legs flailing and chest heaving. Every note clawed its way into her body, hooked and pulled her in a thousand directions at once. Her toes pointed and flexed, arms posed in long lines. She leapt through the air in her living bodysuit, forcing improvisation to a tune which she no longer heard. Rests and key changes sewed her lips together, barring her from screaming for help. Her body pulled upwards, high on her toes towards the ceiling, and released, a million little half notes and quarter beats falling with the tink-tink of a crystal chandelier on the hard wooden floor.
Gasping and shaking, Sara opened her eyes to the stunned faces of her peers, Degas’ self-indulgent smirks wiped from their faces with a few random brushstrokes. A slow, steady staccato penetrated her confusion and she realized the teacher was clapping, black liquid streaming down the deep lines in her cheeks. Sara dropped her arms, fell into a shy curtsy, then quickly retreated to her customary corner near the studio door. The other dancers performed, clumsy interpretations of classic movements which left the teacher shaking her head and spewing insults in her native Russian. Sara edged closer to the door with each song, glancing to the floor as the eyes of her fellow students locked hers with burning hatred.
She wept quietly to herself, knowing this would be the last time she ever danced in her short life. Bad things happened when she lost control. It would be best for everyone if she were to avoid repeating the experience. As the final girl danced, knees jerking and elbows locked in rough approximation of a soldier’s march, Sara pulled her bag to her hollow chest and eased out the door. The cold air slapped her still-wet cheeks, stinging, and the door banged shut behind her, the echo bouncing off the walls of the dark alley. A chill rushed over her; a crumpled entertainment section tumbled down the street.
Go back inside, he whispered. Or, turn around and let me look at you. It has been too long, my love.
She froze, refusing to turn around. His lips brushed her neck, ruffled her ginger cherub curls falling from their band. With a single sob, she ran and leapt onto the idling bus, swiping her card and curling into a stiff seat. She dared one glance, a peek out the window at her former lover as cold mists swirled around his sky-blue eyes, fading to black with the coming night. She traced a heart into the moisture from her breath, and silently cursed the figment of her vivid imagination.
She was still alone, and he was never real.
Previous Sara Stories:
Dancing with Invisibility (prequel)
Maybe Tomorrow will be Yellow
Swing Away, Girl
My Fight with Food
15 years ago
