TAMING APOLLO | completed

26. ultralight beam

26. ultralight beam

G A Y L E

I OPEN MY EYES to my old ballet studio from when I was a kid.

The railing on the wall seems shorter now than it did when I was younger, but the mirror behind it remains just as wide as a wall would be.

There is soft classical music playing in the background as a bunch of kids in their pink ballerina outfits and tutus stand on the tips of their toes, hands gripping on tightly to the wooden railing.

My eyes wander around the room. It looks exactly the same as it did when I was a kid, even smells the same.

"Gayle, on your toes, not the ball of your foot!" Mademoiselle Elaine yells in her overpowering french accent.

She comes into view, holding onto her favourite thin walking stick. She looks just as I remember, with her wispy white hair tucked neatly into a bun at the back of her head and an everlasting scowl on her face.

"S'il vous plaît, Mademoiselle! My toes hurt." My eyes dart back to the girls on the railing when the sound of my younger self's voice blares through the room, beyond the annoying classical music.

My eyes finally land on my younger self, smack in the middle of the queue of girls lined up against the railing, everybody dipping onto their toes and hiking back up.

My ten year old self had shorter, straight brown hair and a thinner frame. My skin remains just and I still have those same doe brown eyes.

Little Gayle brushes her hair back with her free hand, deep discomfort littered on her face.

"Gayle. Gayle. What am I to do with you? You have all the sweeping elegance of a wombat!" Mademoiselle Elaine shrieks, whacking little Gayle with her walking stick as the other girls giggled beneath their breaths.

I remember this day very well, it was the day that I decided I did not enjoy ballet very much anymore, and that same afternoon when my mother came to pick me up, I would beg her to let me stop taking these classes and she would just wave if off as a bad day.

The other girls would make fun of me and throw around silly hand gestures to imitate a wombat. Of course, Ariel didn't know about these things because her focus had been academics from a very young age. While I was here, she was locked in her bedroom reading philosophy books.

I wave my hand in their faces, coming to the conclusion that none of them could actually see me. I am a ghost in the hall of my own memories, that blasted classical music plays on in the background as my ten year old self forces herself to go on her toes instead of the ball of her feet.

How did I even get here?

The question is drowned out when somebody clears their throat from besides me. I turn on my heel to find myself look back into my own deep brown eyes.

This version of myself is better kept, dressed in a medieval looking long sleeved dress, covering every part of me. Atop my head is a miniature tiara, tens of diamonds littering the crown as it glimmers in the dimmed four o'clock lighting of the ballet studio.

Then I realise it isn't me, it's Cyrene. The way her mouth curves when she smiles, the simple crimson blush on her much paler cheeks is completely different.