Reverie - Michael Jackson Imagines

Pas De Deux✨

Jacksons Era

You patted your foot to the dreamy melody of Tchaikovsky's Garland Waltz, your trained eyes watching each leap and twirl with dancer's precision. You feel your muscles twitch with each step, the memory of the movements returning to you only you know your limbs will never fall in rhythm again.

The track ends with a climactic finish, the dancer's spinning into their final pose, all holding their breath for your critique.

You purse your lips together as you bear down on the handle of your cane and slowly rise from your chair.

"It was good," you speak slowly. "But it could be better,"

A chorus of breathy, languid signs of exhaustion and protest fills the room.

"Look, I know you all are getting tired but we can't afford to lose energy. The Spring recital is one week away. This could be our best production of Sleeping Beauty yet,"

Your words of motivation go ignored as the tired ballerinas unlace their shoes and collect their bags.

"Don't forget tomorrow's practice at noon," you shout over the shuffling. "Twelve O'clock sharp! Not twelve-fifteen,"

Many of the girls had sprinted out of the studio to avoid your continuous lecture but you set your sights on the blonde, statuesque prima ballerina who busied herself tugging on a sweater.

You slowly stride over to her, making sure to put most of your weight on your good leg. The sound of your cane hitting the hardwood floors causes her to meet your gaze.

"Julie," you start softly. "You were sloppy today. What's going on?"

Julie gives her eyes a roll before untying the ribbon that secured her bun, her fine blonde hair tumbling down her back.

"Can you get off my case already, Y/N?" she replies curtly.

You sigh, annoyed yet accustomed to the sharpness of her tone. Tensions were always at a high in the weeks leading up to the recital.

"I just don't want anything to distract you. You're out Aurora. The show can't go on without your best work,"

Julie Prescott was the best ballerina in your class and possibly the best you'd ever seen. She reminded you so much of yourself when you were a dancer. Graceful, poised, and lissome, able to tell a powerful story with her body.

You saw her as the successor to your prematurely ended career.

"This ballet is wrecking my social life, okay? And stop pressuring me! Just because your leg got crushed doesn't mean you get to live vicariously through me!"

Her sentence is punctuated with a final huff before she storms out of the studio, leaving a burning sensation in your chest.

Her words were harsh, nearly hateful, and as much as you tell yourself they don't matter, you know that Julie was right. You'd been so close to a perfect ballet career when it had all been abruptly snatched away from you.

It had been over a year and you still hadn't come to terms with your new fate.

As a young girl, your parents enrolled you in ballet lessons to keep up the image of their middle-class suburban life. It was easy to enjoy the pageantry and glamour of ballet but as you fell in love with twirling around in fluffy taffeta tutus you'd also developed a deep love and passion for dance.

There was nothing you loved more. Your body felt one with the music. You felt invincible when you were dancing. It was almost a religious experience.