Wasted youth. 


She gripped her chest, showing her tear stained face to the audience, holding her heart. Her knees were bruised and the bandages wrapped around her calves and thighs began to turn to crimson red. Desperation. Red. Blood. 


“Please give me one more chance.” she stood up, her elbows fading to red.


Her instructor pursed her lips and towered over her. From her shadow, the girl’s eyes locked into her instructor’s and from the look of desperation creeped out anger and madness. Hunger. Urgency. Red. Madness. Blood. Red. Passion. Anger.


“You suffered so much to be perfect,” her instructor said, “such a shame you never even got close.” She choked in a cold whisper, stabbing her words into the girl’s throat, leaving her gasping for air.


Anger. Anger. Anger. Red. Anger. The instructor backed away, her lips still pursed and her arms crossed over her chest. The curtains closed. The girl’s tears of desperation stopped falling down her cheeks. Instead, consumed by gnawing fury, her shuddering breath grew louder and louder. Her chest moved up and down so frequently and noticeably. Anger. No, insatiable anger. She felt her lungs release and collapse once again as she expelled and sucked in the air of the theatre. 


Though the bandages around her legs overflowed, letting the blood trickle down her leg, staining her never-even-close-to-perfect legs. She spun, again and again. To the beat of the music in her head, she spun. And as she spun to the beat, she breathed to it as well. And it became faster. So she spun faster. And faster.


The violin that kept playing the same note in her head got louder and louder, droning out all the pain of her heels, the blood trickling from her thighs and the flesh ripping off of her knees. 


She wasted her youth by dedicating all her power and blood to becoming successful. Such a dumb, pathetic excuse was “I pulled a muscle at last night’s practice,” making her miss another 4 days of training. So she kept spinning, to punish her body for not being even close to perfect or even close to a small amount of praise given to her hard work and talent. So, she spun – so she could feel the raw and angry blood flood out of her wounds and spill down her legs. This all that she could prove she has what it takes to be successful – and truthfully, she would not settle for anything less.


Writer –Maria Secara
Editor – Caitlyn Blaauw
Artist – Bruce Zou

–May 2024–

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