She Dances on Hot Coals

She Dances on Hot Coals

A Story by Darkfairiesdance
"

Its a sad thing when you live your life in a place where you can't help but die a little on the inside every day.

"
She Dances on Hot Coals

You can feel the heat beneath your hard, callused feet. Just like the many nights before this one, you push the world, the pain, from your mind. Falling into nothingness, the music playing loud enough to beat in the walls, setting the heartbeat of your inner world. Letting the music flow through your empty mind, your body reacts, twisting and moving to the beat. You took care not to stand still for long. You knew that the floor beneath your feet was heated to a very dangerous temperature. Standing still for more than a moment would burn your feet badly, you knew from experience. Do what he says and you don't get hurt.

He was sitting right in from of the stage you were on, you knew it all too well. He had been flung into your life when your previous 'master' had died. He was never really your master, but there is no word to describe what he was to you. He had saved you from the streets when you were fifteen and starving to death, dancing for your life. He had taken you in, fed you, gave you a warm bed, all in exchange for simple housework around his mansion of a house and the occasional dance, needless to say you more than willingly accepted his offer. Years passed and you found yourself slowly falling in love with him. At seventeen you were sure you could love no other person on the earth. you poured your soul into every task he gave you, hoping to impress him. Later that year he died. Age 32. And he took your heart with him. You were thrown back to the streets where you once again danced for your life. Then he found you. looking back now, you had been entirely too trusting. Going home with him had been the worst decision of your life.

You snap out of your world and into the painfully real one as the song ends. The ground cools and you stop moving, waiting for the shouting to start. He likes to bring in his friends to watch you sometimes. You hate how they shout nasty things at you when you finish, how they think its right to think lowly of you because of the horrible direction your life had been thrown in. It hurt more than the heat beneath you as you danced. All too soon the music started back up and the floor was right back to being the hot coals that you danced upon. You force your feet to move, heat quickly burning through the thin socks you wore to insure you moved gracefully across the stage. You no longer wanted to impress your master, you wanted to satisfy his sick desires as fast as possible. As painless as possible. You were his slave, and reminded of it often. You push the world away. You dance.

You step back stage, readying yourself to face the demons that waited for you. Inhaling deeply you push aside the curtain separating backstage from the audience. He calls you over, using the most condescending tone he could manage. Just as you had many nights, you kneel in front of him, feeling nauseated and afraid. He crosses his arms, waiting and you know exactly what it is. You reach up for the zipper on his pants and pull it down.

------

You sink down against the back of your door. Your tight hold on your emotions snaps and you break out in tears, Before you break down completely you reach under the doormat, pulling out a small square of paper out. You flip it over and try to hold onto the warmth that the image gives you. It was taken a month before he died. He had taken you too a park just outside of town for a relaxing day. The picture had been taken by a passerby whom he asked to take it, His bright smile seemed to light up the whole picture. You clung desperately to that memory as you finally lost all control of your emotions. Crawling over to your bed you pull yourself up and curl into a tight ball to wait for your mind to become stable again.

You stay tightly curled up on your bed for hours. Finally you can think clearly again. Standing up slowly you hobble over to your doormat and gingerly slide the photo back into place. Walking back over to your bed you sit down and pull open the top drawer of your night stand, pulling out your Ipod, and earbuds and placing them on your bed. Standing up, faster this time, you walk to your dresser and pull out a pair of workout shorts and a tank top, exchanging them for the flashy and revealing outfit you had been forced to wear. You toss it hatefully into the corner. Feeling more free you start to stretch, taking care you loosen your cramped arms and back. You stretch for at least ten minutes, loving the feeling of popping joints and strained muscles only felt when you stretch. Almost gleefully you turn on your Ipod and push the earbuds into your ears. Picking your favorite song you throw it in your pocket and zip it up. You let the beat of the music flow through your limbs and free your mind. The notes fly by in your mind. When you hit the first verse, you sing, voice flying about your room. In the past you had been told that your voice was beautiful, and now you protected it from him in your soundproof room. Dancing and singing makes you feel free, like you are back with your old 'master' and everything is fine. You sing your heart out flying about the room in a familiar routine, steps taking you in an elaborate pattern. During these times you feel free. Seamlessly you flow from song to song, playing every song you have before stopping for the night. You flop down on your bed, putting everything out of your head and sinking into your fantasy land.

------

Hours later you wake up. You lay completely relaxed, mind free of the troubles that plague your mind during the day. You are jarred from your half-sleep by the opening of your door. You shoot straight up, quickly kneeling on your bed with a stiff back. However, the silhouette in the door doesn't belong to anyone you know. Worried, you frantically look around for something to defend yourself with. Finding nothing you brace yourself for the worst. Just as it seems like the figure in the doorway is going to step forward you hear footsteps coming towards you from further down the hall. The figure in the doorway panics and darts into your room, quietly closing the door behind them. You don't know how to react. Part of you wants to run into to the farthest corner and hope he doesn't hurt you, while another part of you wants to find some kind of weapon and attack him for invading the only safe place you have. Frozen on your bed you watch helplessly as the figure walks towards you. As it steps closer you begin to make out its features. It appears to be a man in his mid thirties. His golden blonde hair falls just lower than his ears and frames his slightly feminine face that holds bright green eyes. As he steps fully into your view you see that he is dressed expensively, clothes floating away from his thin frame. He seems oddly familiar. Stopping feet from the foot of your bed he looks up at you, examining your face. His eyes widen in what you assume to be surprise.

"Sora, is it really you? I can't believe I found you." He gasps. You can't breathe. You know that voice. Then everything clicks, the hair, the face, the clothes, his voice. Your brain shuts down and you stare in amazement at James, your deceased master.

© 2012 Darkfairiesdance


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Reviews

wow... second-person is a verry difficult point of view to take on and you haven't just made it work you've made it dance. Incredibly done:)

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Darkfairiesdance

11 Years Ago

thank you c:
intriguing read full of detail and imagery. Nicely done

Posted 11 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Darkfairiesdance

11 Years Ago

thank you c:

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229 Views
2 Reviews
Added on July 19, 2012
Last Updated on July 19, 2012
Tags: Dance

Author

Darkfairiesdance
Darkfairiesdance

Milwaukee, WI



About
HI, my name is Sora and I really enjoy reading, writing, painting and drawing, playing and composing music and math. I started writing fiction for myself when I was in fifth grade. By seventh grade I .. more..

Writing