Mmmhm: A Collection of Short Stories

The Fantastical versus The Composed

I twirled and tumbled across the floor. A blur. My head whipped itself around, keeping me upright. My eyes were unable to focus on any one thing but each movement was recklessly confident. My feet were playing a dangerous game with one another. Dueling to see who would stumble first. They were so close together that the untrained eye would see them as one from a distance. My arms thrashed around my body. The force of their movement threatened to tip me over. The smile stretched across my face was manic.

This was happiness. This was dancing.

Nothing bad could happen to me here. This was where it was all good. Stopping was the problem. When it ended was where things went wrong. I would fall or trip. I would break a bone or destroy my muscles. My knees and hands would be dirtied by the floor. The tension of my yanked-back hair would cause a headache. I would hurt

That didn't happen if I was still moving. The adrenaline was too high. It was too powerful. I was invincible while the music played and I moved. People didn't seem to understand this despite how simple it was to me. They tried to convince me that if I danced less I would feel better, that the dance was the issue. It was a problem. Their silliness always made me laugh. The simpletons couldn't comprehend the elation that dance brought. It banished both the physical and mental torment that plagued me almost everywhere else.

I could tell that the end for today was nearing. I felt like crying out, it was a cruel world to force my body to stop. I could feel my knees start to wobble. My arms felt weak, gravity tugged them further and further down. My form faltered. My feet finally came to blows, the left overpowering the right and causing both to lose.

I hit the wood floor hard. My shoulder pushed down to the point where my collarbone felt threatened to snap. My hip was in a similar state, smashing the ground and causing shocks of pain to racket throughout my body. I let out a groan. I took shallow breaths to ensure that no ribs had been re-injured. It hurt to let that little amount out but not enough for serious concern. I slowly shifted myself onto my back. Each shift, with the help of my trembling hands, was minute in change and monumental in anguish. I finally was able to lay and try to recover. My reward? To stare at the ugly, fluorescent lights and feel the weak breeze of the ceiling fan crawl across my sweat-covered skin.

While laying down I ran over the dance thousands of times in my head. Where did I go wrong? It must have been the fouetté. I get too carried away within the movement. It's practically the ballet movement. I know this and I stumble because of it. My leg whips around, the force of it incredible in its strength. I never want to pliez though. It feels like admitting defeat to come off my box and give my leg rest. The bend is not refined enough, my legs and feet have tangled in that moment and that's my own fault. I will have to continue practicing that movement next time. Perfection is what I desire.

After discovering where my failure was and what I could do to fix it, I contemplate standing up. First, a catalogue of injuries was in order. There's obvious bruising on the whole side of my body that smashed the floor. After I lifted my shirt I could already observe mottled bruises forming on my pale skin. I can ice them. They'll heal. I rolled my ankles around and could reassure myself that they did not seem twisted in any way. Nothing broken. A nice surprise. The last time I took a tumble that hard I had been out for weeks and the break made me want to give up.

I don't have any idea how long I layed on that floor, just breathing and thinking. The pain finally settled away. The sharpness dulled and I dragged myself from the floor. I creaked and cracked the whole way up. I shuffled over to my bag and began untying my laces. I grabbed out a wet-wipe and began smearing around the blood that poured from my feet. There were old and new wounds by the dozen, it came with the territory and it no longer surprised me to see it. After wrapping them both in bandages—stained a deep crimson—I tugged some fuzzy socks on my feet and shoved them into the too big shoes. I learned from experience that, after I dance, the shoe being oversized helps to distract from the pain. Less rubbing on tender soles.