Ballet isn't a sport. Ballet is an art, and in art, you strive for perfection or nothing.
Meet Lucy Heartfilia, a world famous ballerina at the age of 17, daughter of a ballet legend, and of course, a perfectionist. When she lands a role in Juilliar...
"I don't have much time left," he said, grimacing in pain as he turned to face me.
"I still need you!" I said, my voice growing louder and higher. The tears rushed down faster. "I can't do it alone!"
"I love you," he whispered, closing his eyes. His hand went limp.
And then he was gone.
| Chapter 24 |
My eyes widened. "No!" I screamed. "Father, you can't! Please!" I buried my face in his bed, my chest heaving up and down as hot tears poured from my eyes.
"Please," I cried. "Father, don't leave me!". I bunched up the sheets in my hands, my fingers burning from the force. "Please." I hiccuped, desperation dripping from my voice. "I have so much to tell you, about my friends, about the show, about the things I've learned—"
"I love you."
***
"Hello father." My voice came out hoarse from the sleepless nights filled with tears. I watched the white lilies lying on the grave sway in the light breeze, the numbness in my heart spreading to my chest. I stood there, staring off into space.
"Father, where are you?" I suddenly asked, breaking the silence. "Are you in heaven?"
He didn't answer so I tried again. "Is it nice up there? Are you happy?"
I glanced away, not able to keep looking at the stone that marked his final resting place. "I'm sorry," I murmured, not trusting myself to speak louder. "I let you down. I didn't focus. I didn't practice as hard as I should have." My voice broke on the last word, a lump forming in my throat.
"Please forgive me. I'll try harder in the future, I won't let you down this time." My voice cracked and I buried my face in my hands, tears forming in my eyes. My nails sunk into my skin. Why? Why did it have to be him? He didn't deserve it. None of it.
Memories of father flashed through my mind. The first time I danced ballet, he held up my arms and showed me all the positions despite my slow learning. On my fifth birthday, I remembered him getting a huge cake in the shape of ballet slippers. After my first performance when I was ten, Father treated me to an all-you-can-eat buffet. When I won the United States International Ballet Competition, which is held every four years, Father said one word to me for all my hard work. It wasn't strings of praises, but it meant so much more. The day my acceptance letter came from Juilliard, Father immediately started packing my bag. And—I gasped, burning tears rolled down my cheeks—Father promised that he'd be there for the Swan Lake performance. Now, all I'd see would be a shadow of him created by my memory.
Accept your imperfections...you've never let me down...I love you...
I looked up to the sky, hiccuping. As I craned my neck upwards, the clouds morphed into the silhouettes of Father and Mother. His eyes were warm and he had an arm around Mother, their faces beaming with pride.
"What did I say about crying? A ballerina does not cry. She carries her head high and does not let a single tear slip from her eye," Father said, his commanding voice echoing in my head. "Show the world that you are my daughter. Show them your abilities and potential. Show them that you can reach for perfection."
"I'll always be with you, no matter the distance. I'm so proud of the person you've grown to be," Mother said, smiling. "We love you very much." I clung to their words, savoring each one as long as possible.
Then, they disappeared, puffy white clouds in their place.
I looked down at Father's grave, the words, Jude Heartfilia, lover of ballet, art, and family written on the tombstone. He was in a better place now, maybe somewhere up there with Mother. I took in a deep breath, my heart lighter. I wiped the last traces of tears away.
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