MATCHSTICK [PJM]

10: Mercy

The man was back at practice. Sweat ridden shirts, a scratchy throat and baggy eyes had become increasingly common.

The long sleeved grey idly hung on his form as he gazed at his reflection. For a second, a hand moved to the back of his shirt and clenched it back to make the shirt fit his form perfectly, his figure outlined prominently as he witnessed the deep lines of his rib cage painted on his pale skin.

There was no flesh to the eye. Bones. Skin and bones was all he could see. He couldn't remember the last time he had checked his weight or taken a health check up.

For a moment, he couldn't look away, sticking to the idea of torturing himself with the depressing view of his body.

There's so much to change. Where are you going to even start?

Jimin let the voices pour in like rain as his eyes turned skeptical. Heart clenched and unclenched as it beat against his fragile skin. He could almost feel his spirits drop at every beat of his heart, afraid that the loud thumping of the organ would be able to form a crack on his bones, knowing how weak he had become.

The man finally ripped his gaze away from his frail his body as he let go of the shirt. A disappointing sigh left his mouth as he shook his head. A finger went to turn the music on as he positioned himself after.

The first few chords echoed as he stood in the middle of the room. The modified routine rushed back to his head like a stream of water, flowing in through his senses and then filling him completely.

He was dancing with nothing. He was left with nothing. And yet he felt everything.

The man twisted his upper body as one leg pointed out at right angles. His arms moved upward, fingers dancing individually. While in the process, he looked to his side and brought his arms to his back, thrusting them forward with agility and precision.

The calming percussion turned intense with bass as he lifted his feet, drumming them on the floor with every faint beat. The string orchestra emphasizing emotion as he felt what had never left him.

Passion. Jimin had lost a lot of things, but the one thing that had always stood by his side was his passion for dance. The one thing that kept him at bay, the one thing that could make him crazy if it wanted, the one thing he would lose his mind for.

His life was centered around dance. And so the mere thought of him being devoid of his fervor scared him more than anything. He knew, right then, he would die if that ever became a reality.

In the midst of his rushed mind, a point came where he pushed the left foot front instead of the right. The mistake had caught him off guard as he stumbled back and stopped immediately. A deep sigh left his mouth as he shut his eyes in disappointment.

The music was reset as he started from the top, trying with all his might to focus on every execution.

You've already made a mistake. The dance is tomorrow. You'll only end up making a fool of yourself.

Jimin tried to ignore the stream of echoes filling his conscience.

Focus on the dance. Focus.

You never listen to me. This solo will ruin your reputation.

Focus, Jimin. Don't listen to the negativity.

His arms spread apart as he lifted a leg to his mid thigh, spinning gracefully. With a steady pace, his arms closed in towards his body, above his head. The decreasing proximity of his limbs to one another increased his speed, turning with no bounds.

You will ruin it.

Sweat glistened on his forehead as the man let go of his facial expressions, the struggle evident on his face. The dancer worked to maintain balance between his physical and mental self. But when he left to cater to one, the other fell behind, pulling him dangerously to the closing edge.

This solo- Please- will ruin- Please stop- your reputation.

With the minutes rushing away and the song left to its ending chords, Jimin fell to the ground as the tune came to its close. The routine leaving him begging for air as he fanned his shirt over his clammy chest.

He had become so accustomed to these thoughts in his daily life, yet they always left a bad taste in his mouth. Voices that criticize with no bounds, tearing him apart when he was desperately trying to rebuild.

No mercy. Was there ever any mercy?

His eyes flickered to the clock as he realized that the sun had already begun to set. There were only a few more hours left for the final day. The day he would have to perform in front of an audience of magnitude.

Anxiety colored his veins as the familiar sense of elevation, unsettlement spread across his chest. His stomach rumbled as he began to feel sick.

Tomorrow was the day.

With those sudden thoughts, he took note of the amount of time he had spent in the inspection of his mind, cursing himself in the process.

The dancer made his way to the stereo to replay.

People will be watching you tomorrow, and they'll realize your nothing special. You're pretending to be something you're not.