Playing With Fire

The Beginning

This was it. The finale of my debut performance for the Royal Ballet Company. It was the opening night of Swan Lake at the Royal Opera house, and I was dancing the white and black swan. Tonight had been perfect. I felt as if I floated from act to act, never missing a step. Now it was all coming to a frenzied end. I threw myself into every motion gazing at the handsome prince. He was tall with dark hair that had been slicked back, high cheekbones, a hard jawline, and a defined chin. Despite his hard cruel features, his brown eyes seemed kind. He was easily the most handsome man I'd ever partnered with, and I felt my cheeks flush in spite of myself. I had to force my focus back on the performance.

I thrilled at the ache in my muscles and the heat radiating from the lights. I tried to look out into the audience, but the lights were too bright to see anything. Focus, I scolded myself. The ballet was almost over, and I had to make sure every step was absolutely perfect.

The man who was dancing the sorcerer ripped me away from the handsome prince. For a moment, I was startled at the striking resemblance between the prince and the sorcerer. Still, upon closer inspection, I realized that besides being handsome, they shared little resemblance. The sorcerer was blonde with blue eyes. While they both share the same high defined cheekbones and strong jawline, the resemblance stopped there. This sorcerer had a kinder face than the prince, but his eyes were hard and cruel compared to the prince's eyes. As the music sped up in time with my heartbeat, it began to feel unbearably hot. I did my best to stay in the moment and stare lovingly at my prince as each time embraced, we were interrupted by the sorcerer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flames closing in around the stage. I panicked and tried to scream, but I couldn't force my voice to work. As much as I wanted to run, I couldn't stop my feet from going through the steps. The air became almost unbreathable with thick smoke, but no one seemed to notice. I ran to the prince and embraced him one last time. Then reluctantly letting go of the handsome prince, I ran towards the sorcerer, leaping into his arm. The prince rushed forward to save me, distracting the sorcerer. I ran onto the fake rock on stage and reached for my prince, distracting the sorcerer from his fatal blow. I looked out to where a mattress had lain for me to take my final leap, but now there was nothing but flames. Then I hurled myself into the fire, hearing nothing but the flames and the echoing cries of the prince and the sorcerer drowned out by thunderous applause.

"Miss, Please wake up. It's just a nightmare," a voice urgently called, shaking me awake.

I glanced around, gasping, trying to slow my heart rate. I was no longer on the burning stage of the royal opera house but in the back seat of a black escalade that was pulled off to the side of a deserted Louisiana road. I swallowed a sob in an effort to maintain control. I was always in control, and right now, I needed that control more than ever. The driver had pulled over to the side of the road and looked as terrified as I'd felt just a moment ago. I guess I couldn't fault the guy. I'd be pretty shaken up if the person I'd been hired to drive started screaming and convulsing in the back seat of my car. Because even though he hadn't said it, I knew that that's what had happened.

That's what always happened. I'd started having this dream about two weeks ago. In the beginning, it wasn't so bad, but each time the dream came back, they became more vivid. Now, even though I'd woken up, I still felt like I had been about to burn on that stage just moments ago.

Exactly five days after the dream first appeared, my parents had been killed on their annual visit to the English countryside. The papers said it was a car accident, but I had no idea whether or not that was actually true. Over the years, I'd read many things about my parents in various papers, and I'd come to realize that only about half of what they said was true on a good day. Unfortunately, the news of my parents' death was one of the few things the papers had gotten right. I'd called my sister Charlotte a couple of hours after I'd heard the news to see if it was true. All Charlotte would say is that our mother and father had died on their trip to the English countryside and that the funeral would be held the following Saturday, giving me two days to get home. So I packed up all my bags and hopped on the next flight home.