"Higher! Higher Alexandra!" Trilled the malodorous voice of my ballet teacher; Madame Vasilisa Mikhailov.
Her shrill, Russian tone made me wince and I gritted my teeth as I pushed by back leg from an arabesque into a flailing penchee.
Concentrating, I held it till the foot no longer quivered and eventually even the pain became an exhilarating rush.
Normally this move would have been easy for a dancer in the stage I was, but the way I got beat up yesterday strained my muscles.
"Down!" Screamed the tutor.
I gently raised my standing leg toes into a relevé, then retrieved my back leg into a position that aligned with my hip, so it looked like a right angle. Quickly turning the fouettes, I returned to the fourth position and plied gracefully.
Madame Vasilisa hid a grimace and tried to smile brightly, ultimately failing.
"Darling! 'Ave 'oo 'ad any problemz vith ze pracktis?" Her accent rang out loud and clear in the spacious room.
I bit a busted lip, wracking my brain for a suitable answer, when my maid, Lorenza, popped her head around the door.
"Please Madame, the master and mistress would like to say good bye to their daughter." She said cheerily.
I heaved a sigh of relief, before realising Madame Vasilisa's cool green eyes were on me, and traded the sigh for a suspicious sounding cough. Her dark eyebrows raised questioningly, but she said nothing, packing her things quietly, before sweeping away.
Collapsing heavily on the smooth wooden floor, I glanced at my maid. Lorenza let out a sneeze that sounded considerably similar to a giggle and repeated her earlier statement.
Letting out a small groan, I heavily dragged my worn out figure from the enticing ground and shuffled out of the dance room.
I lugged myself up the grand staircase, allowing myself a single word lament for each step. After what seemed like hours, I reached the door of my giant of a room.
Opening the door, I recoiled at the "pinkiness" of the suite. My parents assumed that I loved pink, because when I was 3, I asked for a pink unicorn for my birthday. They haven't bothered to ask if I had changed my mind since then.
I hauled myself into the en-suite bathroom I possessed and stripped.
{A/N, if you are of the male species, I kindly ask you to give this young woman her privacy. Unless you are mature enough to not burst into peals of laughter. Thank You. }
My leggings joined my leotard and leg warmers in a hamper and I reached for a set of clothes brought out by Lorenza. For a split second, I glanced at my mirror and froze.
My body is awful...
Littered with countless lacerations and ugly purple bruises. My face scrunched up, slowly lifting my hand to touch a yellowing handprint around my neck. Allowing a tear or two to escape, I pulled on the clothes set out.
Only Lorenza knew of my torture.
She found out when I stumbled home one day, beat up badly. The scarf I normally used to cover up any abused neck parts had fallen off, exposing a small red bruise.
That was the first time they burned me.
At first, Lorenza assumed it was a hickey.
Like anyone would ever kiss someone as ugly as me.
Looking behind me, I realised my curtain was slightly open.
Reaching out to close the giant curtains, I noticed a flicker of movement from the window in the house opposite.
Then there was a face...
YOU ARE READING
The Ballerina and the Boxer.
Подростковая литератураAlexandra Westbrooke is a nerd. Simply put, the word is enough to make her the target of bullying. She seems to be all alone in this harsh, cruel world. Alex's only release is Dance. The passionate art that helps her craft her pain into carefully ch...
