Perfection.
Failure is not an option.
Practice.
Then practice some more.
Starve.
Practice.
Smile. Always smile.
Practice.
Practice.
Practice....
Lilium is tired. Partially because she can't remember the last time she was allowed to eat besi...
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(Harem ETA: Three chapters)
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The Manhattan Ballet has its own theatre a couple of blocks away from the studio. It's not traditional by any means. In fact, it has a cold architectural design of grey marble and glass - elegant but not inspiring. I suppose when they had this place built, the idea was that the performers would inspire, not the walls encasing the audience.
By far, my favorite room isn't the stage, it's the entrance which just happens to conveniently be the exit. Towering ceilings, five stories tall, gleam above us all as the crystal chandelier reflects off the dark smooth marble walls. A wall of glass so clean, it's as if nothing is separating the outside world from our performance, meets the high ceilings from the street view.
There's this sort of stone pedestal, a bench I believe had been the original idea, that hugs the glass on the left side of the grand glass ticket booth and turning doors. It's here I stand, in the full costume from my opening act, staring out at the pedestrians going about their day.
Every now and then, someone will pass by in black and it throws my reflection back at me. The muscles coil along my spine each time this happens. Disgust causing bile to rise in my esophagus.
I'll be told after my performance how pretty I am with my grey bun being sprayed with lavender dust and my flouncy lilic tutu that's littered with fluttering sheer butterflies. I'll smile and thank them, but I'll get angry with them later because I know deep down they're lying. I know they tell me what is socially polite to say before skittering off to tear me apart with the whispers they hiss into their company's ears.
Tonight is the night. Hours upon hours of practicing, rehearsals, dress fittings, fundraisers - all for this night. There's chaotic scattering happening behind the closed curtains even now. Quinn is cursing up a storm, chasing after terrified dancers with a needle in one hand and a costume in the other.
Fredrick is clapping his hands pompously at everyone while talking loudly, " Come on, girls! We don't have time to dawdle! Over there if you would, Hammond! I've told you for the eight time, I wanted aquamarine not sea foam! I better see stretching over there! Madame Rouge, where the hell is my fan? I'm breaking into a damned stress sweat! It's plié, Brisé Volé, fondu, Amelia. Not plié, fondu, Brisé Volé! That doesn't even make sense! Do your Frappés ladies! Speaking of frappes, where is Arnold with my Starbucks?!"
Technically speaking, I should be the busiest of them all, but I needed a moment to escape for a little while. My promotion to Prima has been like performing pas de chats up a steep mountainside. It's been nonstop ever since and my life has changed in all the very worst ways. I don't even feel like an active character in my story anymore, just floating, drifting like dense fog.
