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Cicatrice

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“1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3…”
Her feet glide against the smooth, polished floor. Her left hand is level with the black, horizontal bar. She lifts. Natasha’s fingers curl into a tight halo above her head as she lifts, only the tip of her toes touching the ground. Her stance falters. She reluctantly dips and breathes deeply.

She spins, her feet point as they lift off the ground. She spins and as her tight swirl of motion slows, she attempts point once again. In the moments before she falls, she braces herself for the pain, the anger, and disappointment- emotions that, by now are no strangers to her. Her heart pounds to the rhythm and beat of a thousand drums. She lifts. And she falls. The cold, smooth, polished floor still has the familiar scent of bleach that reminds her of home. Of sweet cinnamon toast, of the place she left behind to become a dancer.

The sound of her crash is like the distinct sound of glass breaking, like the sound of waves crashing over jagged rocks, like the sound of her dreams shattering on the lineoum.

She was a good dancer. But somehow, that never seemed to be enough.





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