Just a quick note. There may be events that are briefly noted that may make people who are in the middle of reading or have never read the series want to skip this particular fanfic. This is set in Jory's POV and set in the fourth book.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the plot of any of the Dollanganger books.
Slate gray met his eyelids when he allowed himself to wake. It was another snowy, dismal day, although the Foxworth manor was notorious for spreading an ominous atmosphere even if the sun shone. The weather was perfect for Jory however. The sun and clouds floating so effortlessly like dreams through the minds of children would've only been an irksome contrast to his mood.
Dreams. He almost laughed aloud, but he had no desire to produce any traces of joy. Jory wasn't in a joyful mood these days. And probably never again, he mused as he sat upright.
He was once full of dreams, most of which he had accomplished. He had married his princess, Melodie, had started a family, and was fortunate enough to have once enjoyed the motion of being gently propelled into the spotlight. Not many could say they enjoyed their occupation, but that was the thing: dancing wasn't his occupation. A job was something to be dealt with, a task done day in and day out, first with alacrity and then with abhorrence. However, that wasn't the case with him because of this fact: ballet was his life. There wasn't a thing he loved more than the costumes, the sparkling lights, the stage where his happiness could be expressed in graceful movements that epitomized the world of a dancer.
But now those wondrous dreams were shattered as effortlessly as a mirror could be. He'd been involved in a tragic accident while dancing, which rendered him motionless from the waist down. His wife was a ghost to him, pale and afraid of him, appearing and vanishing so briefly, she must be an apparition. His mother tried so hard to conceal the fact that Melodie no longer desired him, but he could see how her love for him had deteriorated, oh he saw!
Dreams could be destroyed as easily as they were realized. Jory knew that now.
He couldn't explain the feeling that seized him at that moment. He was depressed, but there was another emotion that joined his melancholy.
Without thinking, he grabbed the drawing pad and pencil that took up residence beside his bed. He wasn't about to drown himself in creating a piece of art, as his parents hoped would be his new hobby. Instead, he was intent on writing a poem.
Jory had never written a poem before. Ballet was what he'd immersed himself in, inundating himself with constant practice to perfect his technique. There might have been a time when he wrote a poem or two as mandatory assignments for school, but it was misty in his mind if he had.
Flawless paper as white as snow was presented to him. A pen was posed above the drawing material. What the hell was he going to write?
He didn't have long to wonder. As he once had the ability to know what to do when on stage, the music floating through his ears, the snow told him what to write. Or perhaps it was his heart.
Eternal Winter
Fallen.
I've fallen and I'll never
Stand again,
Walk again,
Dance again.
Chained to a bed as the
World turns without me.
Seasons pass.
Flowers bloom.
The sun gives
Heat more intensely.
Deciduous trees release their leaves.
The snow falls,
Yet I am the same.
Dancing was like living an eternal summer.
The state I'm in drags me
Into an eternal winter.
He dropped the pen, scanned the words with tired eyes, and rested his head on his pillow. Jory would've checked his poem for errors, but he didn't care to at the moment. It didn't matter if what he did was perfect anymore.
Jory thought the window might've been opened, which resulted in the water on his cheeks. But the bitter salt on his tongue confirmed to him that it was his tears.
