Tempest - Book 1

- 15 -

The fever I had received from my pity party in the afternoon rain had not been worth it. 

The sickness had subsided after four days but the body aches and fatigue still clung to me desperately. 

I had been an absolute walking catastrophe. 

First a fever, and then a small fainting spell that had resulted in a tumble in the shower, my head colliding with the tiled floor. I had escaped a concussion but not a splitting migraine that lingered for a week. 

I had resisted food, my stomach painfully twisting in revolt at it's emptiness. I had only run once, my chest heaving greatly, heart swelling and I had to stop a quarter mile in as I felt I was about to fall dead on the hot sands of the beach. I only showered, stretched, screamed.

Slept. 

But today I woke up with a new sensation: Hope. 

Hope that sprung me out of bed promptly at 5:30AM and down to the soft bustling kitchen to prepare my own light fare, slowly enjoying the rapturous flavors. 

Hope that had me clawing through my wardrobe, eagerly grasping a silky black leotard and soft pointe shoes. 

And hope that had me pulling my hair into a tight knot, watching the sun cascade orange fire over the swaying morning waves. 

The last time I had laced these shoes had been a day before...The end of my life. 

They felt heavy, haunted almost. But still beautiful. 

They held so many memories. Tears and sweat and pain. Accolades and praise and awards. They were the keys to my get away car, slipping me quickly into the optimism of a better day. 

My ankle gave a satisfactory crack as I stretched my foot, garnering a soft moan from my lips. 

I was pleased that my body knew how to bend, even after being neglected for these long few months. 

It reminded me of the control I still had over my own body. 

The power. 

It brought a soft smile to my lips. 

I stood, flexing my legs in a quiet delight. 

The soft tempo of the music softly enwrapped me, gently lilting throughout the studio. 

the soft scuff of pointe shoes on the wooden floor ran an electric chill up my spine. A fine powder of rosin floated through the air like a fine sputtering of snow. 

My legs were stretched, arms reaching valiantly towards the ceiling. I felt the empowerment course through myself, body alight with burning passion of the erotic movement of my muscles. 

My hip felt tight as I transitioned into a developpe, wincing at the dystrophy of my muscles. Apparently they weren't as conditioned as I had so previously assumed. 

I reset, pulling my leg higher, welcoming the strong stretch of it. From there I smoothly flowed into a strong set arabesque when there was a slight waiver in my ankle and I fell out a count early. 

I shook my head, carrying on. I drew in a deep breath and turned, catapulting myself into a sharp Penche. 

My heel over-extended, my back painfully arching. I snapped my leg down and let out a hard breath. 

"Moy Yebat' "

I crossed my arms in angered silence. 

It was frustrating that my body betrayed me. It was supposed to be the only thing that was certain.  My discipline for this classical art was as sturdy foundation, one that seemed to be crumbling.