Page 7 of Give Me Strength

For a moment, she stares at me. But then, something in her expression shifts. She looks so tired and defeated — like someone at a crossroads. She leans into me, and I feel her starting to relax, just a little. Her body is warm against mine, a stark contrast to the chill in the air.

We stand there, enveloped in our shared grief, surrounded by the echoes of the past and the crushing weight of the present. We watch in silence as our ballerina takes her final bow… only to start all over again.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come,” Bonnie says, her voice raw with emotion. “I know you and Everett didn’t exactly leave things on an… amicable note.”

Amicable is one way to phrase it.

That sucker punch to the face?

It happened right here.

Everyone present saw it, including his daughter. There were theories as to why that happened, most of which I didn’t care to stick around and find out since I left the country shortly afterward and never looked back.

Until now.

“Everett was an asshole,” she tells me. “I apologize on his behalf.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to because that’s what family does.” My lips part to protest, but she quickly adds, “Like it or not, you have always been as much a part of our family as Rachel was. Deal with it.”

The raw vulnerability in Bonnie’s voice shatters something inside me. I swallow hard, whatever witty comeback I can think of sticking in my throat.

“Come,” she urges gently. “Let’s give her the space she needs. I doubt she would be pleased to find that she has an audience. Besides, you and I have a lot to talk about.”

Reluctantly, I let Bonnie lead me away. I cast one last glance over my shoulder. She’s still there, a solitary figure against the gravestones, dancing with the ghosts of her mother and teacher as her audience. The image sears into my memory, a poignant reminder of the depths of human sorrow and the haunting beauty of love lost.

As I walk away, Bonnie by my side, the vision of Ashlynn’s mournful dance lingers in my mind. It’s a moment I’ll never forget, a testament to the power of grief and the unbreakable bond between mother, daughter, and teacher.

3

ASHLYNN

My body is here, but my mind is elsewhere, lost in the labyrinth of grief. My movements are sluggish, and my usually graceful lines are stiff and awkward. The studio lights cast a harsh glare on the mirrored walls, amplifying every misstep and flaw.

It certainly doesn’t help that the pain in my foot is a relentless, throbbing distraction.

Pain, I can ignore. It’s a lot easier to handle than grief and has been a normal part of my life since I started dancing.

I grit my teeth and push through, forcing myself to rise into an arabesque. My foot wobbles, and I come down awkwardly, earning a sharp look from Mrs Janice, my ballet instructor.

“Skip to the next part,” she commands, her tone clipped.

As I push into a pirouette, I keep my gaze on my reflection and the lines of my body as I move. I try to focus, to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of the dance — anything but the fact that my mind is a whirlwind of grief.

This one, though, pales in comparison to the others.

Pain and grief blend together, and I don’t know how to separate the two. And if I’m feeling this off, I’m sure Mrs Janice has noticed it too. The fact that she’s pointedly ignoring my mistakes irks me to no end.

But I have to push through it.

“Again.” Her tone is sharp, cutting through the haze in my mind.

I nod, pushing myself into another pirouette. My foot slips, and I stumble, breaking the flow of the dance. I hear her sigh, and the sound slices through me, sharp and stinging.

“Again.”

I nod and attempt the sequence once more, but the pain shoots up my leg, making me stumble. I catch myself, but it’s too late — the mistake is glaringly obvious.

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