Page 2 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

I prefer what is shrouded to remain hidden, untouched by daylight. For if death lingers, haunting me, I would rather it take me blind.

I turn my back to the unknown person and give myself once more to those who have long rotten in their caskets. They are a much better audience than theReverie Etoile Ballet Haven Academy.This audience does not hurt to dance for and perhaps neither does the shadow behind me.

In cadence with my steps and turns, I hum Les Champs-Élysées, lost in its melody.

Aux Champs-Élysées

Aux Champs-Élysées

Au Soleil sous la pluie

À midi ou à minuit

Il y a tout ce que vous voulez

Aux Champs-Élysées

When I do finally turn to the looming phantom, it is no longer there, but those piercing eyes spark a flame inside me. And as I walk back home,they linger.

Chapter 1

Wild Rose

The Curse of Quiet Grace

My feet quicken as I move through the portico, surrounded by sculptures and Pentelic marble columns hewn from local stone, that support the structure. Mosaic floors, etched with intricate patterns, adorn the ground—setting the perfect tone for the weighty, leaden walls that encase me.

If I were not in such a hurry, I would take a moment to relish the imprints that melt onto the walls. Or maybe the oeuvres that color them, as well as the prodigious clerestory and rose windows with unequaled motifs on them that trickle sunlight into the academy.

Reverie Etoile Ballet Havenis mammoth and old. It’s big in structure with ruins that tell of a history far beyond. Of ancient tales filled with golden curses. The building stands well and beautifully, with an antique and timeless ambiance.

During the day, when theportieres—drapes which are meant for doors but are hung on the windows—are pulledopen and light drips in, this place will marvel you. The aged stone glistens while the windows glimmer from the inscribed patterns. However, at night, when the quietness engulfs, and the lights turn off, Reverie turns rather ghastly and eerie.

A story—a crime of sorts is veiled behind this facade. One that has long been buried under the atrocities that once sparked to life here. But all that’s left of such tales are whispers and assumptions.

I’m late.

A mouthful of lewd, vulgar words spill from my lips as my clammy hand twists the knob and pulls the door open. A class filled with only preeminent dancers, those of principal level, remarkability, and rareness, stare back at me. Yet, I do not feel as if I’m part of such a rarity. With my lack of refinement and lateness, I feel out of place.

The voices I could hear behind the door wane away as Ballet Mistress Anoushka turns to face me with a scowl so deeply marred on her wrinkled face, it could offend an entire population. She is mad, but then again, when is she never irate at me. I must be the bane of her existence, like a leech she tries so hard to scratch off.

Well, cry me a river, you are not my favorite person either.

Pondering on it, I do not think the Russian woman has ever once looked at me with anything but a scowl—pardon me, I beg to differ. At one point, she gave me something that bordered on a scowl and a thin-lipped smile. I thought she was having a stroke.

Her glare could start and perish wars. It is glacial and unrelenting with the intent on making me grovel and feeble in her presence. Her sadism has never colored her more.The ‘mean’ girls of the class stifle their browbeat, snickering with heinous smiles.

Some, if not most, would be blithe to see me fail because I’m not one of them, and I never will be. I’m the penury-induced dirt that surprisingly got a scholarship. And a place in this prestigious ballet academy where only the affluent can afford to study–or for a few, can cost an arm and a leg.

Whereas their greens are opulent and plenty, I am rich with tragedy.

They despise me, and that is putting it lightly because money does not buy class, but entitlement and snarky, condescending behavior.

“It will not happen again,” An eminent line and, like a litany, I’m always preaching it. Not because I want to, but because I have to. The words have lost meaning, and so has the promise behind them. I know it, and so does she. It is a blunt matter, yet she will not simply spurn my existence like most do. How I crave to be in her shadows, but the woman refuses to keep me anywhere but in her sights.

“Miss Fontaine—” she brings her fingers to the bridge of her nose, pinches the wrinkled skin there, and sighs. Here comes the mantra. It is almost like a prayer she saves just for me. Where I sound like a broken record, she sounds like a beggar that will not stop nagging for money. But in this case, it is mysanity.

“Your behavior is troubling, and it bewilders me how someone of yournaturecould have ever been allowed into a place like this if you lack punctuality just as much as you do manners.” She sighs cogently, as if talking to me is simply beneath her. “You act like a parentless child. Are you being raised with humans or animals?”

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