Break of Day

4) The Warm Beverage Theory

The bright glow of a full white-gold moon lit the sleeping world below, reflecting off the pale stones Maria decorated the walkway with. No longer hidden beneath a blanket of pale grey clouds, she took her place in the heavens, a centrepiece to the innumerable winking stars. A smile played with the corners of my mouth as a soft breeze brushed through my mussed hair, dancing on my skin and drying the sweet. The pale clouds crowded the moon, framing its warm milky glow like a picture frame, as if the sight of it could become a song in the eyes of anyone willing to raise their head upwards.

I used to hate running.

As the nightmares grew harder to remember, it became a lifeline. As my feet kissed the land, sweat staining my skin like a gentle rain, I found a sense of freedom that had been taken from me when I was young. Sending me back to a time before Mare broke her ankle.

My arms glide through the air as my strides lengthen, devouring the distance between me and my house, hoping to have left behind the lasting panic of my nightmare. The worst part about them was that I could never remember them. As my breathing becomes a rhythmic cadence, steady and controlled, and my feet pound on the hard dirt, reverberating through the sleeping world as they find a drum-like rhythm, I feel like I'm ten again.

As the thrumming rhythm of classical music whispers into my ears, I am transported back into that ballet studio. Between strides, when I am fully airborne, it feels like the first time I was placed in front of the dance, not the lead, but visible. Seen. As my partner's hands held my waist, euphoria crashed through me as I was lifted into the air in a twirl, my skirt whispering around me.

I missed it.

The elegance in the dance and the pride in my mother's eyes when I stood centre stage was a dream. For years, my nights were filled with thoughts of those movements. In my dreams, I was the lead. The audience was held captive by my impeccable poise and regal posture that defied gravity as I leaped through the air, making the movement look effortless. My eyes shone with determination and passion, luring viewers in, inviting them to share my world for just a moment as my fingers, like delicate brushes, painted the air. My feet became instruments, narrating a story through precise pointe work and gentle, delicate landings.

I used to possess an otherworldly lightness, as if I were weightless, floating through space. As my feet glided across the floor with a whisper, each step meticulously placed, I became something else, someone else.

I wish I never quit.

Maria has never let me forget the decision to follow my sister. If I hadn't quit when she broke her ankle, I would have grown up prettier, thinner.

For that reason alone, I am glad of my decision. At some point, the beauty, the joy of dancing would have been tainted with Maria's desire for my thinness.

Now, as the wind rushes past my face, whispering secrets of the world around me, and my feet once more echoing the beat of my heart, I was free again.

Running is a symphony of power and freedom, a harmonious dance with the earth and the wind. It is a manifestation of raw energy and determination, propelling me forward with each stride. Once I would have complained about running so far so fast, but as my heart thrums against my ribs like butterfly wings, all I found was solace. A momentary escape from the chaos of a world that I could not control. When everything slipped away from my control, I had running.

It is not graceful like dancing, but it allowed my mind to breathe, finding a rare peace as my world crumbled before me.

My skin tingles with a sheen of sweat as I slow to a jog, eyes squinting against the light shimmering through the window.