Winter's Nocturne

Beautiful Imperfection

"Fifth position. Straighten up. Relevé."

Mirae is fully focused on the music, ignoring the way Madame Rostova's severe voice punctuates each word. The muscles in her leg tense, pulling her weight to the top of her toe. Success, she thinks with pride, her feet numb from the effort.

The intrusive tap of the cane says otherwise. "Full relevé, Mirae. Perhaps taking a few extra pounds from those hips would cause your dear toe to suffer less."

Mirae pulls tighter, higher, oblivious to the poorly hidden giggles. "Better. Lower, plie, demi, and full."

The cane taps again in annoyance. "Caroline, I've seen women in childbirth plie with stronger legs than that. Do you not know what full means?"

There are more suppressed titters of laughter. "Oh, she knows. Everyone's heard she prefers her men to fill more than one orifice at a time."

The snide comment was from Lisette, the prima, and Madame's favourite. Mirae wishes someone would duct tape Lisette's mouth. "If I wanted commentary, Lisette, the music would not be so loud. You are a dancer, a supposedly silent art. "

Madame's sharp reply is met with a waif of no more than thirteen scurrying to turn up the music. "Fourth position, full relevé, Arabesque away from the barre." Mirae cringes a bit. She is twenty already, and not close enough to waiflike.

Madame Rostova bangs her cane. "Away, Delia. That is the direction where your head does not smash the wall. Lord knows you need all the brain cells you can get."

"Arabesque, counterclockwise pirouette, find your centre, and grande jeté."

Mirae recoils at the next sentence. "Eyes on Mirae. She will land in full relevé coming from the jump."

She hears Lisette's voice snicker. "Thick thighs make graceful tree stump landings."

The ballerina is filled with fury as the jump sends her flying, feet perfectly pointed as she performs a flawless split in the air.

If I fall, I can never return, Mirae tells herself. I'd rather be dead than let that bitch Lisette gloat.

The determination etches upon her face as she does the one thing she does well. One hundred and thirty-five pounds come crashing with the force of an anvil on to her big toe. Even with the numbness, she can feel the toenail crack yet again.

It doesn't matter. Mirae's landing is high, arched, pointed. She lowers into pirouette and bows, proud of the combination.

The music stops and Madame taps impatiently. "Good. Ladies, take fifteen. Touch up your makeup before heading to the stage. Our patrons pay to see faeries, not clowns."

Mirae chugs half a bottle of water, the only thing to fill her stomach that day aside from the butterflies. She can feel the food she hasn't eaten kicking in her stomach, punishing her even with its non-existence.

She slouches against the wall. It is easy to want a moment alone before heading to find the other girls.

Mirae's eyes return to Earth only to see her best friend, Ayana. Ayana holds a familiar pair of wings, a tiara, and a pink box. Like a young girl, the dancer lets out a little squeal as she opens the box. 

The shoes inside are not much different from those currently on Mirae's feet, but they are even more solid and immovable. Within the fabric, the sparkle of rhinestones and gold glitter against the maze of mirrors.