Pulse of Purpose

Strophe

The girl in front of me enters the dark room, only illuminated by a weakly glowing, red 0. The shaking participant glances one last time back at me wishing to switch places, even though that would only prolong the inevitable. The door closes.

Through the screen above the door, I and all the people lined up behind me can see what is happening inside. The girl begins her dance.

I wonder what song she picked. It seems to be classical music based on her performance thus far, which lies in stark contrast to the pop song I picked.

She is wearing a close-fitting red dress, with hardly any accessories, except for a gold-silver tiara that seamlessly transitions into her blonde hair knit tightly into a braid. Her clothing works perfectly to complement the many spins and twirls she incorporated into her performance.

A glance at the other participants in line reveals that most of them are wearing similar outfits, with a suit mixed in occasionally. They all seem so intricately planed, while I simply went for the favorites out of my wardrobe including a long red scarf with small patterns nit onto its soft surface. It reminds me of home due to its unique aroma of my mom's dishes.

A gasp by the audience pulls me out of my daydream. I quickly glance at the TV. The dancer seemed to have messed up one of her moves. The number at the center is at 91 now. Not a particularly good score so far. Even though she still has time to reach over 150 her blunder might have cost her that chance. The girls dancing is noticeably shakier, but she must grab any chance of getting more points even if it is only grasping at straws.

Before long, her dance concludes with her performing one last pirouette and coming to a halt with one leg stretched into the air while balancing on the other. Even through the TV you can see her chest oscillating up and down and her legs quivering. The score is at 130. You can hear the buzzing of the lights only accommodated by silence. The number increases to 134. My heart gives of a faint beat. 143.

The dancer stays frozen, but the score does not change anymore. She hesitates another second and then collapses.

A dull scream echoes through the hall, originating from what I thought to be a sound-proof door. A guard passes me, opens the entrance, and approaches the girl.

"Please, give me another chance! I can do better," She clutches her dress, her voice breaking between each word: "I... Please." Tears welled in her eyes, escaping one by one and dripping down her cheek.

The man grabs her wrist, but the girl twists around and knocks his hand off her "I deserve another change!" she barks. No response.

Unperturbed the guard, now with a tighter grip, drags her out the room as she continues to plead: "Please, no. Please, please..." Her voice echoing against the narrow walls. The line watched in silence their faces reflecting a mix of fear and disbelief.

I have to go next.

I reluctantly walk through the entrance, my stomach twisting and turning. It is freezing in here. I look back at the person next in line. It is a boy staring me horrified into the eyes. The door closes, leaving me with silence. It is hard to tell where the room ends and the walls start, because everything around the bright spotlight at the center is pitch-black. Only the humungous faintly glowing score, which has turned back to 0 gives a suggestion as to where the back wall is. I step into the blinding spotlight and glance back one last time in hopes of seeing anybody except for the closed door. To no avail.

I should stay calm, since I have prepared this performance for months on end, but so has the girl before me and probably everyone here. Suddenly my song starts playing and I jolt back into position to start my dance.

My limbs felt awkward, uncoordinated, betraying the weeks of practice that had led me to this moment. I move tentatively, as if my body refused to sync with the music.

The score still at 0, but I beat on.

However reluctant at first, I let go of the fear and embrace the music, allowing it to dictate my movements. The hesitant steps transform into confident strides, the awkward twirls morphed into graceful spins. The pop beats became my partner, a companion guiding me through the intricacies of the dance.

I catch a quick glance of the score. I ignore it.

As the song progresses, I gain a growing sense of liberation. The stage, once a daunting battleground, became a canvas for my expression. I lost myself in the music, my body moving in harmony with the beats. As the rap part of the song kicks in, I completely break free from the shackles of my choreography, using it as creative support rather than a set-in stone guide.

The final notes echo and I stand breathless. The room falls into silence again and I only now realize what happened. Staring at the score a jolt runs through my body, I start breathing heavily and my inner workings erupt into chaos. My head starts spinning. I need to sit down, but trying to move, I notice how sore my body feels. My vision gets blurry, so I can barely make out the number anymore. But I already know what it is: 142.

Every misstep, ever moment of hesitation replays in my mind like a relentless loop. Suddenly the score jumps up to 181, then 229. What is happening?

It continues to raise and a wave of excitement hits me. I wipe the tears of my face in disbelief, only one thought away from slapping myself to confirm it is not a dream. I check the entrance to make sure I am not the only one seeing this, but the door is still closed. I glance back at the number. It comes to a halt at 354.

Before I can even begin to process this situation, the guard enters and drags me out. "Wait. Did I do something wrong?"

No response.