Wearhouse Dancer

June 4, 2009
By Ophelia Walters BRONZE, Livermore, California
Ophelia Walters BRONZE, Livermore, California
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

She opens the warehouse door. It is bitterly dark and a stale smell washes over her senses. Her old worn out sneakers thud on the concrete floor as she makes her way along a nearby wall. She streams her fingers on the familiar plaster wall until she comes to a rusty light switch. Pulling up, light is splashed over a dark scene. It bounces off a mirrored wall and back to her adjusting eyes. Looking out over the warehouse she flashes back. Memories of long night drift across her reminiscent mind. Dragging herself back to the present, she walked to the middle of the room. Dropping her duffel bag to the floor, she pulls out a pair of black dance shoes. The toes worn out and color faded from constantly perfecting an already perfect turn. They haven’t been worn in awhile, those dance shoes she held in her hands. Not wanting to be reminded she crouches to the dirty floor and pulls the shoes on. Already dressed in a tank top and yoga pants, the shoes complete the ensemble. Sitting crossed legged on the hard floor she rummages through her tattered bag. Finally, she pulls out and ipod shuffle, the paint is chipped and headphones frayed. It still works and that al the matters to her.
She slowly stands up, her as joints aching to explode with energy. With great frailty she glides over to the mirrored wall. She looks at her distorted reflection. Her used to be angelic face marred by scars, her once persuasive lips cracked and dry. She looked as if she had been through hell, and with the little memory she did have, she remembered she had been. Turning from the mirror she raised her arms, letting them flow through the air. She bends at her hips and lays her face to her newly repaired legs. There is no pain that she can feel anymore. Smooth movements help her into a standing position again. Placing her headphones into her alert ears, she turns her ipod on. The stark silence is interrupted with the sounds of “Lights Out” by Danity Kane. Rolling her body to the beat she finds a comfortable rhythm. She fears the choreography she learned, seemingly so long ago, is lost. But when the time to dance comes, her body is disconnected from her conscious brain. She feels as if warm arms are surrounding her, comforting her every now forgotten pain.
The music flows through her ears and dissolves into her body. It fills her every fiber and being that she is. It jumps from each delicately pointed fingertip as it is expressed in the hypnotic way her body moves. She does not mean for them to, but diamonds fall from her shinning emerald eyes. They roll down her pale face making sapphire rivers. She does not stop dancing to wipe them with the back of her hand like she did that night two months ago. She does not even acknowledge the fact that they now stain her light purple tank top. Nothing interrupts the steady beat and continuous flow of music and tears. She doesn’t once trip, fall or forget any of her beloved dance. When the moment came to perform the move she practiced diligently for hours. She breezed through it, that moment. In a split second it was there and gone but not forgotten. The music slowed and finally disinigrated into the silence. Broken out of her personal tranquility, she looks at herself in the mirror again this time at a distance. She no longer sees a weak young girl who was calling for help. No longer can feel the pain of fire on her skin or metal in her hips. What she sees now is stronger, more alive then ever before. She sees a new life ahead of her, a life of blissful forgiveness. She saw a girl who went through a traumatic event, and now she sees a woman who got through it.
Breathing at a comfortable rate she tugs on the headphones. The barriers fall out and expose the fluorescent buzz to her ears. Wrapping them around the ipod she places them into her duffle bag. She slides the dance shoes of and replaces them with her worn out sneakers. She gathers herself and stands up looking around, thinking of future dances she can show these old plaster walls. Slower then before she walks to the rusty light switch, wanting to stay longer but knowing its already late. Pushing down, the light snaps out and once again she is washed in a familiar dark. She finds her way to the door and pushes on the rusted handle. The door creaks open and lets

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!