What they had told me that morning kept replaying in my mind. I could still remember the conversation between me and the rest of the dance company as clear as crystal. The pleading faces of my fellow dancers and especially Sir Richwell, my dance instructor, flashed across my mind once again. “The thing is, I have been meaning to tell you that Le Amore Dance Company is closing down due to lack of funds and financial support. That is the ultimate reason why you must, I repeat, you must win this competition, Bella.” Sir Richwell broke the news to me yesterday, early in the morning before rehearsal. “Yes Bella, you are our principal dancer and we believe that you can rescue our beloved dance company!” the rest of the company begged with me, their eyes sparkling with the sliver of hope they have left in the survival of the company.  I nodded obediently at all the words they bombarded me with but inside, my thoughts were running wild like a group of butterflies trying to escape a child’s net.

Everything must be perfect. Everything must be flawless. I muttered those words over and over again to myself as I stared back at the pair of piercing emerald eyes in the mirror. Framed with thick fake eyelashes, they burned with the desire for perfection. The rouge lipstick smeared on my thin lips contrasted drastically with my milky white pale complexion, similar to how I was hiding my unstable emotions with a calm demeanor. A lock of dirty blonde hair fell on my shaped eyebrow, slipped loose from the neat up do I had just finished a few minutes ago. My eyes twitched at the sight of such imperfection. Immediately, I grabbed the brush lying among the clutter of mess on the dressing table and combed my hair back into a tight bun for the fifth time. The roots of my hair pulled tightly on my scalp. My gaze averted to the beauty products scattered on the table, the disorganization made me cringe. Yuck! Once again, I  leaned towards the mirror to scrutinize every single detail on my makeup under the illuminated glow casted by the bulbs lining the mirror. I was about to fluff my tutu when Sir Richwell shouted my name and motioned me to come over.

My heart began to race as I walked towards him. It thumped hard against my ribcage. Sir Richwell placed both of his hands on my petite shoulders and gave mea firm squeeze of encouragement. “You can do this Bella. I know you have the ability to bring home the victory for Le Amore Dance Company. Please, do not disappoint me and your friends.” He gave me one last pat on the back before proceeding to the audience. I looked to my right to see my all time rival, Miranda. She was by the stretching bar doing exceptionally well. What was I going to do now? There was no other choice. I must be perfect. Artic fluid rushed through my veins as panic began wrapping its dagger-like talons around my throat, pushing the oxygen out of my lungs. My breathing was ragged. Fear spread inside of me like black ink of a piece of paper. “Next, let us welcome Bella, representing Le Amore Dance Company!” the voice of the MC echoed in my ears. I heard the audience cheering but it did not chase away the fear engulfing my body.

As gracefully as I could, I took steps towards the spotlight and the music began to fill the atmosphere in the theatre. A front aerial after the réleve, I reminded myself. My legs pushed against the floor, thrusting my body into the air. They turned like the hands of a clock but as I was landing, my right foot slipped and my bottom slammed hard against the ground. I winced at the pain shooting through my body. Blood rushed to my cheeks when I heard the audience gasping in astonishment. After regaining my composure, I got back on my feet and continued to do an arabesque. It went perfectly fine and that made me more at ease. That serenity and peace of mind was short lived as the fear of the upcoming three pirouettes on pointe infected the calmness in me like a disease. One pirouette… two pirouettes… Focusing on a point in the back of the hall was providing me with balance without any dizziness. My ankle supported the great pressure exerted on it, only shaking a bit here and there. Then, I felt panic eyeing me from the wing of the stage, smirking at my failure. Focus lost, balance was no longer under my control. My ankle surrendered to the mental and physical pressure, causing my body to collapse to the ground with a loud thud. I heard a snap. Whispers and murmurs from the audience cloaked my frail body lying on the cold wooden parquet.  Hot tears streamed down my cheeks like the river of raging emotions washing over my body. I have failed. I was not perfect. Realization dawned upon me but the pain of imperfection numbed me from the actual agonizing pain I was supposed to feel. I had just fractured my ankle. A high-pitched shriek of frustration escaped my lips.

“Hey! What is wrong with you? What are you screaming about? What is up with the tears, Bella?” Sir Richwell shook me and lightly slapped my cheeks, bringing me back to concrete reality. I gasped for oxygen and my body lunged forward. Eyes darting around the room for answers, I was utterly confused. Yet there she was, Miranda, a complete opposite, stretching oh-so-composedly by the stretching bar. On stage, it was still the young lady in the bright magenta tutu performing her lyrical piece. I have not even performed yet. Overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions and thoughts, I sobbed in to the palm of my hands. All along, it was simply my anxiety and the perfectionist engraved in me slowly driving my insane. That thirst for perfection, swallowing me whole, leaving me with nothing but pure madness.