The lights were blinding as the sunlight flooded her view, as the torn curtains were ripped open by the gusting wind through the desperately ageing window pane. She knew today was the day, today was the final audition. And she had never been more excited, yet she had never been more terrified, more… apprehensive. She climbed down from her loft bed and prepared herself for the big day. She fixed her hair, she meticulously applied the ripe red lipstick, she changed into her sad second hand leotard, after climbing in to her laddered tights.
She was ready.
She collected her broken, old Russian Pointes from the hook on the wall. She was off, she couldn’t believe it. Today was the day that would literally make or break her.
Despite knowing this, as she ran clumsily into the Royal Ballet Academy, she couldn’t help but smile and grin at her tremendous achievement, she had made it to the final.
She stood at the barre, stretching, next to the tall, lean, primed and prepped posh ballerinas, she knew she could make up for what she lacked in presentation in her dance. She knew. She always knew. When she made her way to the stage in front of the judges, and the lights dimmed, and the spotlight was on her and only her, she knew. She would make it.
For what they lacked was spirit, motive, meaning and reason. They had never had to work for what they had achieved, you see. With their mothers practically pushing them in to ballet class every a Saturday morning since birth they had known nothing else. But she had, she had climbed, literally climbed, to the top of the ladder. To the top of the barre, as it were.
And she did it. She leapt, she flew, she pranced and danced and she was a success.
She knew, the final was nothing but the beginning.