Dark Queen - Ker Dukey Page 0,7

the outside. Modern furnishings oddly placed in the lobby. Simple, bare white walls give a more art environment vibe. Signs guiding applicants lead me through another set of doors into a large room.

I’ve been to many a cattle market, and this is no different. Hundreds of girls, just like livestock, litter the floor, all numbered and the best there is to offer.

A woman sits behind a reception-type desk, taking people's information, while what looks like a film crew interviews some of the girls.

I join the line, fidgeting with the zip of my jacket.

I should have worn a color that stands out. Instead, like many of the girls, I opted for black leggings and a leotard, my hair pulled back from my face—unoriginal and mundane.

My mother was a beautiful woman. I inherited her smooth skin, jade green eyes, and dainty features, and my figure was in peak condition.

Even though I’ve been taking care of mom these last couple years, I still trained for when this day would come.

When I finally reach the front of the line, the lady asks, “Name?” A smile growing when the camera begins filming in our direction.

This must be for their website or YouTube channel. The world is evolving, and all industries have to evolve with it.

Leaning my hands on the desk, I tell her, “Alyssa Phoenix.”

A nervous pulse hums in my veins as she flits her fake nails over the keys of her computer, searching.

Click, click, click.

There’s a list up on the screen, and even though I know my name won’t be there, I deflate like a balloon when she says, “A walk in?” All the air pushes out of my lungs on a sigh, my frame sagging.

“Yes.”

How many of us were invited and how many are just like me, living on hope?

I look around. Many of the girls have family with them. The room screams of wealth and entitlement.

The woman behind the desk picks up a form and hands it to me along with a number sticker. “Fill that out and give it to the judges when it’s your turn.”

The girl’s words from the train repeat in my mind.

“They say it’s an open audition, but in reality, Swan School of Dance doesn’t accept nobodies. They invite people they plan to enrol—the rest is just for show.”

The music moves through my limbs like water, flowing powerfully with every leg raise and toe point. I dip, twirl, and extend with precision and determination.

Their eyes flick up every so often from a row of tables, four of them determining my fate. The information sheet I gave them with my dance history, name, address rests discarded at the edge of the table.

One judge is on their phone, no doubt scrolling their Instagram account with little regard for the fact that they’re destroying my soul with their disinterest.

I’ve trained my whole life to get here, to push my limits and earn a spot that allows me to reach the next level. This isn’t the only school or audition I’ve attended, but it’s the most important.

If I don’t get in, it's back to the farm life for me, maybe teach younger kids at the town hall and marry Clint.

Kill me.

I push myself harder, organically connecting my movements to the music that feeds me.

Do they not see me bleeding out my soul for them—do they not care?

The woman on the train was right. I don’t belong here. I was never going to get in.

Darkness rolls over me like invisible smoke. Failure swarms my body. Anger mixed with sadness brings a burning sting to my eyes.

“That’s enough. Thank you for coming.” Her words are rehearsed, overused, crippling.

Thud.

My heart slows. I want to sink to my knees and scream—beg. “Please, don’t make me go back there.” But it’s useless. The position I thought I could earn has already been sold.

“Next,” she calls to the woman with the clipboard waiting at the entry door with a flick of her wrist.

Next.

I’m just one of many. They won’t even remember I exist once I leave here.

Will I exist?

This is all I am.

I want to force them to notice, to see how good I am, how hard I’ve worked.

My body has been broken down and rebuilt into a machine. I’ve spent my life perfecting every muscle. Starving to hit specific weights. Suffering unbearable pain from stretching tendons. Performing on damaged toes.

Blood, sweat, and so, so many tears.

They glorify the life of a ballerina, but behind the lipstick smile and elegant shows, it’s hours of continued training on tired