QLFC- Season 10: Finals
Team: Montrose Magpies
Position: Chaser 1
Prompt: Write about someone following a plan/task list.
Optional Prompts:
(trait) confident
(au) dancer/performer
(quote) "Words are a pretext. It is the inner bond that draws one person to another, not words." —Rumi
Unspoken
Act 1
6:45am
I watch as my bedroom slowly transitions from the darkness of night to the pale light of morning, staring up at the ceiling that slowly takes shape above me.
I hadn't slept well.
A couple of hours of sleep punctuated by nerve-wracking, anxiety inducing imaginings.
But this is the way it always is the night before a performance. It has become perfunctory for me. At this point, I'd be more concerned if I'd managed to sleep peacefully through the night.
I turn my head to look at the glowing numerals on the bedside table. 15 minutes until my alarm went off. I sigh, turning my head to look back at the ceiling, preparing myself for the five minutes of debating whether to get up now or stay in bed. I mean, knowing that my lazy, procrastinating side would eventually lose after putting up a tawdry fight, I could just get up now, but that would ruin the routine. And I need the routine, especially today.
6:50am
I roll over onto my side and look at the clock. Yup. Five minutes.
I throw the cover off and push myself up, folding my legs over the edge of the bed. I extend my legs, pointing my toes and then bending them back and splaying them. I examine the movement, noticing the smoothness with which my ankles bend and rotate. They look good.
Recently, I've had this recurring nightmare where I wake up and my feet don't look strong and healthy. They are twisted and bruised and they don't move right at all. I know it seems ridiculous to dream of such things, but after recent events, it seems quite normal.
Rolling my head to either side to stretch the muscles in my upper back, I catch a glimpse of the programme I left lying on my night stand the evening before. I gingerly pick it up, my trembling fingers betraying the turmoil within. I read the script that loops and swirls across the page, for probably the hundredth time.
The Royal Ballet presents: Swan Lake
It has been my dream since I was a little girl, and my parents took me to see The Nutcracker on Christmas break, to perform for the Royal Ballet.
After years of practice, I managed to land a few roles here and there with minor companies. Then, finally, last year my friend, Angelina, managed to get me into the Royal Ballet in the position of understudy for the role of Odette. She was the one playing Odette and she said she didn't trust anyone else to understudy for her.
It wasn't a performing role, but it was my foot in the door and I took advantage of it. I practiced harder and longer than anyone. I learned the other roles so I could step in anywhere if needed.
Two weeks before opening night Angelina fractured her foot. It was a devastating blow to her and the entire company.
So, now, instead of her name at the top of the casting sheet, it read Alicia Spinnet. I wanted to be happy about it, but how can I be when it comes at the expense of someone I love.
A knock comes at the door and it opens a moment later, Angelina's head poking in.
Seeing me awake she pushes the door open the rest of the way.
I glance guiltily down at her right foot, ensconced in a walking boot. She follows my gaze and then looks back up at me, a sad smile gracing her lips.
Angelina sighs, hobbling over to sit by me, her less than graceful movement intensifying my guilt.
She presses her shoulder against mine and pulls the programme away from me. I watch her as she runs her finger over my name, her expression unreadable. Then she lifts her eyes and meets mine. She smiles softly and presses the programme back into my hand. She squeezes my shoulder and places a soft kiss on my cheek before leaving the room.
I try not to scream as the cold water hits my skin, hunching my shoulders against the freezing torrent. This is definitely my least favorite part of the routine.
I clench my jaw, willing my teeth to stop chattering as I close my eyes, plunging myself into darkness.
Then lights enter my vision, muted against the dark backdrop, at first, before growing in intensity, filling my mind with bright colors as forms take shape. Graceful dancers spin across a stage, their movements fluid and synchronized. And there I am, among them.
Here, with water cascading down my back, the sound of the water recedes and I bask in the silence, my muscles relaxing beneath the cold torrent.
My fingers are numb by the time I get out of the shower. I wrap the towel around me and step out of the bathroom and across the hall to my room.
After quickly getting dressed in leggings and a loose shirt, I walk to the kitchen where I'm greeted by the soft melodic sound of piano music and the rich smell of chocolate.
I slide onto a seat at the kitchen bar as Angelina slides my mug across to me, the steam rising in curls to tickle my nose.
One cup of milk, a tablespoon of cocoa, two tablespoons of sugar, a dash of vanilla and a sprinkle of salt. Exactly the way my mother made it.
I wrap my still cold fingers around the cup, allowing the radiating warmth to bring the color back to my flesh, and watch as Angleina busies herself with tidying up the kitchen. For a while there's only the sound of music accompanied by the discordant clang of dishes.
I lift the cup, blowing softly across the top, sending ripples racing across the surface and steam swirling. I sip at the drink, watching Angelina over the rim of my cup.
Finally, after wiping down the counters, she comes to stand across from me, propping herself up on her arms, hands cradling her face.
I drop my gaze, unable to meet her eyes where sadness lurks.
I feel a touch of warmth and I look at where her hand rests against my arm. She rubs circles into my skin with her thumb, communicating more in that simple touch than her words alone could manage.
She motions for me to drink my hot chocolate and then leaves the room.
Even with the boot, I can barely hear her footsteps as she steps lightly to her room.
The hot chocolate has cooled significantly and I take larger drinks, the warm liquid filling my belly and soothing my nerves.
She comes back out as I'm finishing the last of my drink, taking my cup from me and setting it in the sink, filling it with water. She heads for the front door and I follow her out of the apartment.
Act 2
She loops her arm into the crook of my elbow, her presence steady and reassuring as she guides me to our favorite diner.
She must have called ahead because our usual table and plates of food are ready for us when we arrive. Angelina abandons her usual spot across from me to sit by my side. Throughout the meal her body presses against mine, supporting me, comforting me.
From there we head to the studio where she helps me stretch out, her hands pushing me just a little further than I could go on my own. Her hands run over my muscles feeling for knots, kneading them loose when she finds them.
During rehearsals she watches, stepping in to adjust a movement or a head position when necessary, and occasionally getting lost in the performance.
My steps are lighter after the rehearsal, my confidence boosted and mood lifted from the successful practice. Angelina is all smiles as we head for lunch.
The rest of the afternoon is spent relaxing on the couch. I pull her injured foot onto my lap as we watch a silly movie, noting the look of relief on her face as she finally gets off her feet.
Act 3
Angelina double checks my hair and touches up my makeup. She pulls her hands away, looking over me with an approving smile. She blinks sofly, her brown eyes exude confidence, somehow managing to infuse me with a courage I didn't know I had.
I breathe out and step onto the stage.