Dark Queen

Their eyes flick up every so often from a row of tables, four of them determining my fate. The information sheet I gave them with my dance history, name, address rests discarded at the edge of the table.

One judge is on their phone, no doubt scrolling their Instagram account with little regard for the fact that they’re destroying my soul with their disinterest.

I’ve trained my whole life to get here, to push my limits and earn a spot that allows me to reach the next level. This isn’t the only school or audition I’ve attended, but it’s the most important.

If I don’t get in, it's back to the farm life for me, maybe teach younger kids at the town hall and marry Clint.

Kill me.

I push myself harder, organically connecting my movements to the music that feeds me.

Do they not see me bleeding out my soul for them—do they not care?

The woman on the train was right. I don’t belong here. I was never going to get in.

Darkness rolls over me like invisible smoke. Failure swarms my body. Anger mixed with sadness brings a burning sting to my eyes.

“That’s enough. Thank you for coming.” Her words are rehearsed, overused, crippling.

Thud.

My heart slows. I want to sink to my knees and scream—beg. “Please, don’t make me go back there.” But it’s useless. The position I thought I could earn has already been sold.

“Next,” she calls to the woman with the clipboard waiting at the entry door with a flick of her wrist.

Next.

I’m just one of many. They won’t even remember I exist once I leave here.

Will I exist?

This is all I am.

I want to force them to notice, to see how good I am, how hard I’ve worked.

My body has been broken down and rebuilt into a machine. I’ve spent my life perfecting every muscle. Starving to hit specific weights. Suffering unbearable pain from stretching tendons. Performing on damaged toes.

Blood, sweat, and so, so many tears.

They glorify the life of a ballerina, but behind the lipstick smile and elegant shows, it’s hours of continued training on tired joints, hunger to make weight goals, and pain from injuries.

They were all dancers at one point—probably still identify as that. They know the work, the sweat, the hope, yet they’re dismissing us without even paying attention to our talent.

A rebellious, aloof brat buried deep inside me shouts, “Fuck you all!” But I never give her freedom. Instead, I snatch up my water bottle and the paper with my details on and exit the room, ignoring the looks from the other dancers with the same dream, the same hope that’s about to be destroyed.

My mother’s face filters into my mind, and my stomach bottoms out.

Sorry, Mom.

I need air.

I need to get out of this place.

Without stopping to change or take off my ballet shoes, I race down the corridor, heat blooming up my neck, goosebumps sprinkling along my skin as my head begins to fog.

My lungs restrict, squeezing. I can’t breathe. I fondle with my bottle to open the lid and go to take a deep swig, oblivious to the door suddenly opening in front of me.

A man steps out, colliding into me. My bottle slams against my lip, digging into my gums. A spurt of iron liquid fills my mouth, the sting grounding me, evaporating my mild breakdown.

The bottle clatters to the floor, spilling at my feet and those belonging to a pair of black shoes standing in front of me, almost toe to toe.

My eyes trace up a tailored, suit-clad body, his stance emanating power. My breath quickens when I have to keep looking up, well past my own height.

A broad chest, muscular shoulders filling out the suit jacket. His pulse flickers in his neck as my eyes devour him.

An audible swallow leaves me desperate for more water when I reach his face.

His bearded, square jaw tenses under my scrutiny. Olive skin, thick lips, and the most spellbinding blue eyes peer down at me with dark intent.

Blood coats my lips, pumping from the cut there. His glare fixes on me, rendering me motionless.

More rich assholes.

Probably one of the other dancer’s relatives giving a fat check to get her in.

Why, oh why, did he have to be so beautiful? Life is unfair at times.

These places aren’t run on talent—they’re run on the biggest donation.

The thought forms an anxious pit in my stomach. It opens up, slowly dragging my dreams inside it. Red hot fire flares within me. No matter how good we are, we’ll never stand a chance.

“Excuse you,” I snap, raising my chin.

The asshole hasn’t even apologized or picked up my water bottle.

He looks like he’s going to some extravagant soiree. Even has a stupid square stuffed in his breast pocket.

Another man fills the doorframe behind him—another well-fitted suit and stupid good looks. His gaze studies the interaction, not bothering to pick up the fallen bottle or offer aid to my busted face either.