It didn't take long for my memories to come back. Those days that I spent in the ballet academy came back to me. It felt like swallowing glass. I let out a whimper.
I still remember, practicing the pas de deux, the partnered cheograpghy, with him. He leapt and came back, wrapping his arms around me. I focused too, on my my foot work, my pointe.
My toe bled underneath my shoe, yet I smiled and pretended to love the man in front of me, lifting me. He let out a grin all too familiar and that spark in the eye which wasn't too hard to catch.
I was the prey.
Time slowed as I watched him stare. Cold, calculating and distant. I watched as I fell from his grips onto the cold stone floor.
I screamed.
Intentions. That's what truly matters when measuring someone's actions. Not all of us have the purest intentions for someone else. I only learned that then.
Perhaps that's why I'm lying here today. My ability to dance... walk... all taken away from me.
Yet, I'm alive and I still do dream.
YOU ARE READING
Chasing Butterflies
Short StoryDreams.... art, dance and fleeting memories and music. That I can no longer make sense of. Maybe they never did. Maybe they don't have to. Yet, I've tried. Tried to peice them all together...to sew these.. endlessly t o...
