AN: Hey guys! This is the second story I'll be putting up on the site, and it's more like story-writing practice for my exam :) I've tried to capture characterization as much as possible when writing, but I may have made some characters OOC, I'm sorry! It was not intentional!
As for this idea... I had it this morning, really. Somehow, I don't think Franziska was that ruthless from birth... and watching TV, I noticed Europeans are extremely good at sports where grace and perfect movement is incorporated... gymnastics, figure-skating... and ballet seems like something vK would do? LOL i don't even know.
But anyways, enough about me. Onto the story! I hope you like it! :) Constructive criticism is appreciated!
She caught herself, standing, gripping the closet doors, her slate gloves clenching tighter as she stared at the back of the closet; the dusty, mauve ballet flats strung up on a hanger, reminding her of moth balls and camphor and pain and tears and vaguely, of something else.
Times like this, when she would struggle between pushing back memories or letting them flood her conscience, making her remember a past life, a life before she was wielding the whip, a time before she wanted to stand in court, screaming German obscenities at adult lawyers, unleashing her childish rage.
Before all that, Franziska von Karma was a ballet dancer.
She would recall long times ago, far before she knew what "prosecution" was, when she would steal away at 5 years old, sit on the rug, gazing in awe at the television, how gymnasts and ballet dancers moved with such... naturality, perfection. Grace.
She remembered when Mama bought the first pair. Laced them up on porcelain legs, twirled her around the study, much to the chagrin of her Papa. Recalled small grey-black eyes contrasting with large turquoise ones, gentle sighs and harsh grunts, pitter-patter of her own feet on the wooden floor, trailing behind Mama.
"But Manfred, this is what she wante-"
"Let her do what she wants! She is NOTHING to me anyway!"
And Mama would grow cold, turquoise eyes freezing into ice-blue, smile plastic; and she would still turn around and play with her.
She remembered when Mama died, how she put her long silver tresses into a dancer's bun, still wearing the flats, practicing - or, pretending to practise - and when Papa came in, pulled her aside, told her what she was to learn and how to learn it, slowly stripping her of her identity.
The mauve ballet flats were untied, tossed aside carelessly;
The dancer's bun let loose, chopped short;
The naturality, the softest, gentlest of movements gone; replaced with harsh words, harsh demeanours, harsh everythings, and Papa would say, more to himself than to her:
"You must be heard and not seen."
She didn't know just how much tiny, dusty, mauve ballet flats could drudge up from the depths of memory, just how she had so easily fallen from grace and her natural perfection...
And yet..., she would think, clutching the rider's whip tighter in her fists, maybe that grace didn't go away entirely. She didn't need the dance room for grace, or perfection.
The courtroom will suffice.