Dance Monologue

690 Words2 Pages

The rest of the ballet went without any interruption. Every moment that I spent on the stage, my gaze was set on that boy. And his was always on mine, in return. I tried to figure out why he would be here. He looked so unbelievably tortured. I looked at the people around him. I saw an old man and an old woman. Grandparents? Perhaps.
My ankle stopped bugging me. Maybe it had to do with the fact that my mind was dwelling on a different, way more attractive and handsome topic instead.
Piece after piece, act after act, finally the ballet came to a close. The curtain dropped, the place erupted in cheers. I stood there, trying to catch my breath. My chest was rising and falling to the steady rhythm of all the other dancers.
The minute the big felt …show more content…

Eventually I had to excuse myself. I just couldn’t handle the fame. Out of it all, that was my least favorite part.
I love to dance because of the art. Not because of the fame and fortune it brought me. People just don’t seem to understand that.
I pushed through the crowd and ran away and locked myself in a supply closet. I backed up and sighed. Sadly, this was the only place I could really hide out. I reached around until I found the light string and I pulled it.
Someone stood up in the opposite corner. I screamed and that someone’s hand clamped over my mouth. I kicked and thrashed until he whispered my name in my ear.
“Olivia, relax.” I did and he let go. I moved …show more content…

I walked to the Ford Focus that was parked in my spot. I pulled out my keys and popped the trunk, and then I threw in my dancing bag which held my Pointe shoes, warm up clothes, and my stage makeup. It landed with a thunk on the car floor. I scurried my way up to the front and launched myself into the driver’s side.
Shivering, I inserted the keys into the ignition and started up the engine. I was jolted out of my seat by the blaring music. I yelped and reached over to silence the noise. Putting the car into shift, I started my trek towards the Coco Lounge—the coffee house that I assistant manage, work at, and live above.
Well, that’s one of the few perks that came out of the divorce. My mother, to whom I now referred to as Martha, let me live independently. The minute we touched down on the cool Montana ground, and walked off the plane, Martha left me to fend for myself. She drowned out her sorrows with a steady flow of alcohol. She only made her appearance on days like my birthday, Christmas, or thanksgiving, when she would make me cook for her. The only thing Martha actually did for me was pay a minority for my dancing. All the other necessities were left to

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