Wednesday Stories: Tiny Dancer

tiny_dancer_by_flickaaay

Elton John’s Tiny Dancer resonates in the background. She stumbles and falls uncompromisingly hard on the empty studio’s polished teak floor.

The vinyl skips, missing out on her favorite part of the song; the one which Mr. John sings, “hold me closer, tiny dancer,” the part which she always pirouettes to.

Her feet, sore from the hours and hours of practice are now swollen. She stands and limps to the steel railings where her personal belongings are. Stooping low, she grabs the bottle of Southern Comfort and swings it about.

She looks to the far end of the studio to the tall mirrors lining the walls. Her reflection stares back at her. It mocks her incessantly.

“You could never land that pirouette,” it scowls at her.

She sees her own lips moving. Her fingers playfully trace the bottle of liquer. Slowly, she unscrews the cap as if she were unbuckling the belt of her lover. She twirls her index finger around the cap playfully till it loosens all the way and falls unceremoniously to the floor. The cap hitting the floor surprises her, welling up the anger inside her more and more.

She throws her head back and takes a long swig from the bottle. The warm liquid splashes more on her body than inside her mouth, but still it burns both ways.

She laughs derisively and turns to the whimpering form on the ground in front of her. She kicks it a few times, and finally satisfied, pours some of the liquid on its face.

This studio which she grew up in reminds her so much of what she strived to be but could never become. But this thing, this little bitch that suddenly waltzed out of the cold and into her studio danced her way into the very hearts she’s spent years trying to impress.

Now, this little bitch lies bloodied and bruised, all tied up and crying at her feet. On the night she was to perform Don Quixote no less.

“Oh, you’ll perform tonight. You’ll perform for the devil and for the fallen angels that weep for you and most of all, you’ll perform for me and my 9mm.”

From under the towel she pulls out her Ruger LC9 9mm. Black. Her favorite colour. She sings to it and cradles it in her arm like a babe.

She notices Tiny Dancer has stopped playing and the vinyl has stopped revolving.

“Guess that’s your cue for the final act,” she says with a glint in her eye and a cruel smile on her face.
For word prompt Piroutte.
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