Hey guys, this is a short story that I wrote this year from school and I altered it into memoir
There was a girl. In the end, there was hope. On the journey, there was pain. This dance tale was based on a true story of one of my amazing dancing friends. The names and places in this story are not real. A graceful and vivid memoir written as a short story by me.
“Pain has an element of Blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain” - Emily Dickinson
The thing about dancing is that it’s not you moving your body; it’s about the attachment inside you fabricationg in different directions and dancing within you. It’s like water trying to escape out of a balloon, even though it can’t, it’s still moving. And that’s the other thing, dancing is pushing. Pushingeverything, every despicable feeling or affection until there is nothing but just your body left. You, the air that you breathe, and your dancing.
Nothing ever seems concretely real here where I remain, a small city in the mid-east of sweet America.I live in a sketchy town with sketchy people who live pretentious, sketchy lives. Being legitimately real is facing the chilling, cold truth; not shrouding yourself in fabricated happiness and unshed perceptions. “And my soul from out that shadow lies floating on the floor, shall be lifted- Nevermore.” - Edgar Allen Poe
I hesitantly step into the desolate studio. Old scratches and marks sprawl on the floor from every single dancer who has danced here. When I first take my couple steps in, I insistently slap down on the floor calmly, and sigh distressfully. Even though the studio is ratted out, it’s the only “real thing” I familiarize myself with since I moved here a couple months ago. I glance at my book across from me, Looking for Alaska, and reread the last lines again. “How will we ever get out of this labyrinth full of suffering?” It says. Oh how I have been looking too.
A few weeks ago our entire dance company had a dance showcase to boast our confidence when performing on a stage. This was mostly for the petite children that attend the company, but there were a couple of teens my age that performed too. My eminence around the dance company was being exposed as the best dancer in the whole studio, the teacher's pet and go-to dancer. The other kids talk to me from time to time but everyone was mostly freightened to because talking to me is like talking to a legendary movie star.The worst part of my reputation in the studio was when people knew everything about me inside and out, especially my story. My story in short terms, was when my dad died in a car accident. He didn’t see it coming; it was almost like he intentionally did it, strait and fast, short and no way sweet. But to me, it was real in every way. Imagine having the people around you think of that bloody image when you stride past them. It was unbearable.
Thinking of that day of the showcase stirs my gut in an uncomfortable way. I slowly walk over to the new and polished iPod stereo and turn on my solo song to dance briefly. If you percieve a different feeling, the only way to bear the balloon is to keep moving and breathe some air. I learned that the hard and painful way.
We had the showcase in our company’s building within our biggest dance room. My solo was next and I walked out on stage as the “Goddess dancer” they expect me to be. I have never had stage freight or some kind of fear anxiety, but when I looked up and saw every one’s eyes, all the color drained from face. They were all looking up at me the exact same way, thinking me as the girl with her bloody story and the one who bubbles up her vulnerable little heart. They couldn’t touch me, but I still couldn’t feel my blood flowing back.
I heard my song crescendo in. I took a moment then enabled my mind to leap into my movements. My body jumped, turned, leaped, and stretched to the end of my fingertips and toes, but I couldn’t feel anything. There was something numbing inside of me that made my legs tremble as I upheld my leg, and almost tripped over my feet. My muscles got extremely tense and I caused too many mistakes, more than usual and It was clear that everyone noticed. Stress coursed through my body like a cobra’s heavy blood. Then swiftly I thought about my dad, how he died without suffering any pain; it was said he passed immediately, how he was everything but fake; and how when he died ,I felt that exact same feeling when I was dancing then.
I saw a couple of student’s with distressed faces. So much emotion filled me but it wasn’t pushing its way out! If it wasn’t pushing I wasn’t dancing. If I wasn’t dancing, I wasn’t breathing… And that was when all the air sucked itself from my lungs and gave out.
I slammed myself to the ground and sobbed out that I couldn’t breathe. I looked up for dear life and the same eyes were glued onto their faces. I couldn’t think or breathe properly as tears shed my eyes. My muscles were the most tense it had been and stress flowed in every part of my blody. Everything was closing in abruptly. There was nothing for a moment.
After an instant some of the teachers ran forward and did everything they could to help me. It seemed like forever until they actually came up to me. I cried out one last time and didn’t dare look back up. I felt that outside my little help circle, no one else around the studio moved a muscle. I bet they didn’t’ want to touch me because they probably couldn’t face the “realness” of everything in me right now. The worst part of that experience was the dead sound of the silence when I cried out on the floor. The silence was extremely loud and unbearable. They must have been thinking about my dysfunctional feelings and body, like my story. The embarrassment was tormenting.
I was still in shock that on the stage in front of the whole company I suddenly forgot to breathe. I couldn’t cry out anymore because my throat seemed too dry and closed up, but tears flowed out silently as I got back to my seat. That seemed to be the worst part of the whole night. Everyone mutely stared at me with the same look while they whispered like ghosts to nearby dancers. I couldn’t look at them, not like this. My emotional issues came up at the wrong time at the wrong place.
I smile at the thought of that day; I was miserably embarrassed, and weak. I let myself absorb within the audience instead of escaping the world and pushing my raw emotions out. I didn’t need to be afraid. It was like being dismayed by a spider on a window sill; you have an instinct to run, but you know it can’t touch you. You can look at the thing you fear most right in front of your face and not let yourself give them the power to kill you. All you need to do is move around, push it out, and hold on for life’s sake because it always gets better.
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune-- without the words, and never stops at all.” - Emily Dickinson. My name is Clary, I am real, and I built another kind of hope.
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