When China Breaks//Ed Sheeran #Wattys2016 #NewVoices

broken bits

Hello all! I'm happy that you've found your way to this book. I decided to enter the Watty's this year, and this book really is close to my heart so I wanted this to be the book I entered. I truly hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.

My mother slammed her finger down on the speaker, stopping the music. As soon as it stopped, I took a moment to breathe, which was my mistake. "I'm sorry," my mother snapped at me. "Am I pushing you too hard?"

I wiped sweat from my forehead and collapsed to the floor. It was speckled with drops of my sweat, and I rubbed my finger through it, then wiped it on my tights. "I'm tired, that's all," I mumbled.

"There's no such thing as tired. My mother made me dance for twelve hours straight with five-minute breaks every six hours. Do the math on that. How long is that?" She said, walking across the floor over to where I lay. Of course she was overreacting. She always did. I rolled over towards the mirrored wall so that I could avoid her hard stare. But she was there, towering over me, closing in on me like claustrophobia closed in on a victim stuck in a tight space. She nudged me with her foot. "Am I talking to myself?"

I ignored her and closed my eyes. I didn't expect that within two seconds of me doing that, my body would force itself to shut down, restart mode, sleep. I hardly got a moment of peace in before my mother grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. Her green eyes were glaring into my own and I could see the absolutely rage burning in them. "I'm sick of your attitude! You're acting like a spoiled little brat, and it's really going to push me over the edge, Aaliyah."

"I'm tired!" I cried again. I couldn't help the flow of tears that were spilling down mg cheeks. I wanted to ask her why she hated me, but she didn't hate me. She believed in me, which was more than I could say for most people. She knew my limits and wanted to break them because perfect practice makes perfect.

Instead of breaking like most mothers did when their daughters cried, she shook me and hit me swiftly across the cheek. I stopped crying and placed my hand over my newly stinging cheek. "I don't care if you have diarrhea and you're going to shit yourself, you're going to dance until you get it right, and that's to my standards, not to yours! You can't do things half-assed anymore, because that wont get use anywhere!" She threw my arm away from her and I backed up into the mirror. I watched as she stalked back over the iHome and hit the play button before I was ready. Instead of asking her to wait, I composed myself and stopped the flow of tears, then started with my routine again.

I limped to the car after practice was over, my muscles aching, and my feet begging for a break. My mom unlocked the car and let me in and I slumped in, strapping my seatbelt. I help my bag tightly, looking at myself in the side mirrors. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear, it read. What it should have said was: Depression in the mirror was closer than it appeared. I almost laughed at how silly it was.

Could I even say I was depressed? I had a house, and food to eat, and clothes, and my mom always got me the latest technology. If that wasn't enough, I didn't struggle in school and I had a shred of talent somewhere inside of me. But that was the surface. That was what everyone saw when they looked at me or talked to me at school. That's even what my friends saw. I was that girl who they assumed had everything, but unless there was a raging tsunami, everyone always liked to think that because the surface was calm, there wasn't hell breaking loose beneath the water.

But my hell wasn't breaking loose exactly. It was just steady gnawing at me, like a parasite, and I thought about it every time I looked in the mirror.

"Why are you always in la la land?" My mom demanded, throwing the car into drive before taking off out of the parking lot of the dance studio.

"Just a little tired," I said honestly.