The thought of being alone scares me. No one to know. No one to care. I wake up in darkness. Black. Alone. I've lately become immune to feeling, to social interactions in general. I've created a wall, a solid sturdy wall to cover myself, and keep the intruders out. I let no one in. I cover myself with a facade of black. Black is pain. Black is alone. Black is the equality of evil I represent.

I wake to the sounds of eerie solitude. My mind jolts out of my body and races around the room, doing my morning routine. It smears on black, around my eyes, on lips. The creamy feeling of composition makes my facade complete. When it is satisfied, it stops. It doesn't dare touch my dark hair, almost black. The aura I give off makes it seem darker. My brown eyes even seem black. Must I describe my wardrobe? I'll leave your mind to wander. My eyes cross a picture of on my nightstand of a few months ago. It's a snapshot at one of my recitals. I'm standing there, still black, but a joyous beautiful black. My hands clutched a bouquet of dried roses that had turned a shade of crimson. My mother was next to me, her pale, thin arm draped loosely over my shoulders, proud. Her last one. A silent tear slowly inches down my face. I let it drip, not caring anymore. A feeling of numbness overshadows me, and I don't feel sad anymore. I don't feel anything.

The soreness of my legs egg me to go on. Physical pain feels good now, it makes the misery I feel inside seem realistic. There really is something to show for the agony, something about that makes me feel radiant, and I walk on. The long hike makes going here all the more reason. Working hard for something always makes it seem better. My destination is a mere eight miles. I see it through the unearthly fog that has risen around it, giving it almost a blessed semblance. I pick the lock of the door slowly, making sure not to stir the neighbors around. I walk in. My footprints of many times before show me the way. I slowly tread into the room in the back, our room. The room brings back memories, happy ones. They swarm me, like a group of bees, entering my mind, making me feel warm. I see my mother's cheerful face smiling at me. I watch her dance, her swanlike movements. You could see her soul through her dancing. It was terrifyingly stunning. I forget the dusty mirrors all around, and the lonely, forgotten pair of pink, silk pointe shoes in the corner. My mind is at ease as I touch the bar. I remember my past and the times I was happy. I transfer my happy mood to my feet, that haven't danced in what seems like eternity. Then, the avalanche falls, the burden is too great. I stop. I'm no longer happy when I dance. My feet are bricks that don't want to move. I'm not elegant and beautiful like I once was told. I'm clumsy and sickly. I don't flow. My heart pounds with anger. I watch tears stream down my face in the mirror. My clenched fists touch the forlorn pointe shoes .With shaking hands, I pick them up and heave them hard at the mirror. If I couldn't dance, neither could they. The glass shatters, and makes my face look contorted, almost as if I am in a fun house. Through the broken mirror and my blurry vision, I see a ghostly figure coming near me. The apparition had an uncanny resemblance to a swan. The graceful creature hoists me out of my doldrums, and lets me dance around the room. I feel my mother's spirit carrying me, teaching me with each step, something new. My body tingles with joy. I am dancing, going through the motions with my swan. My heart feels like it is crying happy tears, and so it is.