Once, twice, three times. She almost made her fourth pirouette before the paper ball hit her shoulder. Suddenly losing her focus, she fell, landing hard on her left ankle. The usual gang hang around outside the door, laughing at the girl on the floor. She looked close to tears, but ignored them, turning her back on them as she checked her injuries. Her ankle was throbbing, but she ignored it. The bullies outside the door were starting to get bored at her lack of reaction, and they drifted away from the room, looking for new prey.
The ballerina was getting up now, her long legs so thin they looked as if they would snap at any moment. Her arms were exactly the same as her legs – there was just one difference. Silvery lines ran up the inside of her arms, criss-crossing one another. They stopped just under her elbow, but they were hardly noticeable in the first place. They blended perfectly into her pale skin, the kind of perfect skin with no blemishes that you normally only see in magazines. Everything about her screamed model – her graceful neck, her heart shaped face, long strawberry blonde hair that fell in smooth waves down her back, her straight back, her perfect posture. Her chocolate-brown doe eyes, well-shaped nose and bee-stung lips all complimented each other on her face. It was a shame that her cheeks were almost always covered in tears. Even now there was a tear tracking down past her nose, and dripping off of her chin. More following and soon her face was soaked with tears. She seemed almost angry at herself for letting them escape her eyes, and angrily scrubbed at them, getting rid of any evidence of their existence. She brushed back a few loose hairs that had come out of her bun and tried to tease them back into the middle. Failing this, she re-did the whole bun quickly and efficiently, showing hers years of practise.
Once this was all done, the ballerina checked that her tormenters had left, and, upon seeing that they had, returned to her practice. She once again attempted her pirouette, but her mind wasn't into the move, and she fell after only her first turn. Frustrated, she stamped her foot on the floor, and screamed at herself in the mirror. She then scraped her nails along her arms, over her silvery scars. Suddenly realising what she was doing she froze, and stared at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that occupied one wall. Her eyes ran up her arms, and landed on their reflection. Disgusted with herself, she pulled her hands from her scars in one swift movement, and walked to her gym bag. She pulled out tracksuit trousers and a thick hoodie, and quickly covered up her body. She then put on her battered trainers and walked out of the room, carefully avoiding the mirror as she left.
She glided along the corridor, moving with soft yet confident steps, her eyes fixed in front of herself. She moved elegantly, head held high, straight back, the way she'd been taught to dance since she was three years old. As she approached her science room, she silently opened the door, hoping to slip into the back before the teacher noticed she was late. She wasn't so lucky this time.