𝗧𝗪𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗣𝝠𝗧𝗛𝗪𝝠𝗬𝗦-𝗠𝝠𝗭𝗘 𝝝𝗙 𝗪𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗗 ➳ TMR

Chapter 10- A dream?

A/N: Normally I would write Author's note in cursive however it's easier to tell that this isn't part of the story 'cause it starts in cursive (and keeps going in cursive) btw I wrote this on my class trip and on my phone so don't come at me for this chapter (kinda proud I pulled of this long of a chapter). Little warning tho, there will be sh, mention of ed and mention of torture.
If you're struggling feel free to contact me and Ik a lot of other ppl love to help you out of this situation you're in. YOU CAN DO THIS!
Enjoy!

I walked down a blank hallway.

Every step I took was thunderous and echoing through the air reflecting on the floor.

Where was I?

What is this place?

I want to run.

But every step I take isn't my body, well it is but it's not me who is moving my muscles.

Not me who is contacting the foot to the ground. Not me who's bearing the body weight. Not me who's doing any of this.

It felt distant but at the same time just inches away.

The only thing I could tell by feeling it was that my hair was in a sleek-back bun and I was wearing something snug, like a second skin, no sleeves with thin straps, the material covering the torso from shoulder to the top of my thighs. I was also wearing even tighter tights.

Was I a ballerina of some sort starring in a white hallway?

Well this has to be a dream, right?

But normally I can't think straight in dreams, no normal thoughts at least.

Fortunately I'm reaching the end of the corridor; a big massive, chunky door.

My hands, which aren't the ones I'm used to, those are really just skin and bones, reach out in a shiver for the handle.

With hesitation I pull the handle down, as if I'm scared on what will expect me behind that door.

I slip into the room almost like a shadow.

"Ms. Janson, fancy you're joining us today too."

Janson, as in me?

A middle aged man was the one who scared the crap out of me, unexpectedly my dream me didn't even flinch, she didn't scold him nor curse, she was looking in shame down to the floor.

I will not refer her as me no more.

I'm fashionably late.

But what scared me even more was when I spoke.

"I am so sorry Mr. Anderson, it won't happen again. I was still at ballet training and I didn't have the time-"

My used to be so confident voice came out in a crumble, like the squeaks of a mouse begging for mercy while being suffocated by poison.

"You need ballet for this class. We have no time for your excuses. If you won't concentrate on Y.P.S. training, we'll have to do some harder consequences. Or do we want to meet Dr. Crawford again? I heard he got some new toys, sharper ones." He cut me off, leaving me, with glassy eyes, seconds away from tears.

"N-... no, please Mr. Anderson." I begged every syllable short out of breath. "It will never happen again."

My voice feels so off, not mature.