Pointe Shoes and Pirouettes.

Point Shoes and Pirouettes.

           I leaped across the floor once again, my arms in the correct position and my toes pointed to perfection. My grand jeté was set up perfectly, but even so, I landed awkwardly on my foot and tumbled to the floor. I could feel my ankle began to throb and swell beneath my flesh-colored tights. I cursed under my breath. The biggest competition of my life was in a few weeks, and I had just hurt my ankle.

          I stayed in the position I had fell in, catching my breath. The studio was quiet, the wooden floors cold against my skin, even through my tights. My light blue leotard was sleeveless and the AC vent was directly above me. The cold air scattered goosebumps across my skin and I held my head in my hands.

           I didn't deserve to be a dancer. Ever since my senior year started, I had been ignoring my rehearsals. And now that I've gotten back on the studio floor, I was terribly rusty. My muscles were tense and not nearly as flexible as they used to be. My spins and jumps were sloppy, and going up on pointe made my toes bleed. My body ached all over after my short practices, and it was painful to walk. But dancing was my passion, and every drop of sweat and blood was worth it.

           Ever since I was five years old, I danced. I began with jazz, then tap, then hip hop, and almost every other type of dance, including Irish jigging. But my passion for dance was mainly focused on ballet. It was just the feeling of going up on pointe, or even executing a grand jeté, that made all the hard work and aching muscles worth it.

           But in the past few weeks, my dancing has been getting worse and worse. I had worked for months to perfect my fouettes (on pointe, I might add). Endless hours were used on practicing one pirouette, then two, then seven, until I finally got the hang of it. I soon found out how to do those many pirouettes on pointe and soon I was doing fouettes, which were basically dozens of pirouettes in a row.

           But my hard work was for nothing. My skills have decreased greatly, and I can hardly go up on pointe without losing my balance or hurting my ankle. I became clumsy and awkward in my pink ballet shoes. Every time I leaped, the bobby pins that secured my bun would jab into my head. I had lost my special touch. I'd lost my skill. I'd lost my rhythm.

           And I needed it back.

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A/N: How do you like it? I've got another chapter written, so if I get... Three votes? I'll post it (: