equinox [h.s]

one

1994
-

The light following me is a little bright on my eyes, though nothing I wasn't used to by now.

My legs are wrapped in soft pink tights. The matching wrap skirt ending way above my knees, and the black leotard seamlessly slipping underneath it. My hair is smoothed into such a tight bun that I'd had a headache the moment I'd secured the last wrap-around of the elastic.

There are bobby pins sticking in all kinds of directions in my hair, though dark ones to blend in, so nobody would ever know. My feet are wrapped in my pointe shoes. I found to kind of like the subtle ache that came with standing on the tips of my toes for so long.

It reminded me of what I was capable of.

The soft piano keys flee throughout the auditorium. I normally try not to set my gaze on the fact that the entire middle row is taken up by serious men wearing leather. I never saw the need of why they all had to come, the whole damn club. Dad had insisted, and as prez, everybody knew to follow.

I focus forwards— it wasn't my fault that the Filthy Freaks always took up the line of sight where I usually spotted. With my shoulders pinned back, eyes steady on the far wall, I recall the end of the routine that I'd had to have memorised for this very moment.

I get into fourth position, bending slightly so that I was then in a plié. Rising onto the ball of my left foot, I push off with my right and begin my pirouette.

Spinning and spinning and spinning.

My eyes don't leave their spot on the wall. Hands staying clasped together in front of me as I then gradually rise them over my head. Counting the piano notes, I begin slowing down until I find myself back in fourth position. 

I then angle myself the way I need to be, doing a jeté until I land softly on my feet, and I stretch my body out until I'm in vaganova's first arabesque position— my right leg raised behind me, right arm extended towards the audience as my gaze follows the length of my left arm, which is pointed outwards to the front left corner.

I keep myself stagnant in that position while the piano fades, as do the lights. I only have a few seconds before they turn back on again, and so as I begin to be surrounded in complete darkness, I take that cue and scurry off the stage neatly with the noise of crisp applauses pounding my eardrums loudly.

My chest is heaving as I hobble backstage in my pointe shoes, going past the girl who is next to dance and giving her a smile. I continue down the long hallway of the institute that is my university. Trailing my hand along the wall to steady myself as I push open the first door on the left and enter the practice studio.

As soon as the door closes behind me, I drop to the floor like a newborn baby calf. "Fuck." I exhale, catching my breath as I lay flat on my back against the cold floor.

I needed to regain at least a little bit of energy since everybody was going back to the clubhouse. My body shivers at the thought of being surrounded by all the things I couldn't be bothered dealing with. I really just wanted to knock the fuck out, right about now. I always did when it came to the end of my recitals.

It had taken six weeks to learn the routine I'd just whipped out. Even though technically it was being assessed for my classes, I treated each and every one of them like my babies. Taking the time to learn it, understand it. Now I had to be ready for the next one.