Post by Emily on Oct 27, 2015 0:47:42 GMT -8
CAST: Hannah Fein (scalesenpointe@aol.com)
SUMMARY: Written in October of 2014. The simple future that Hannah wanted as a quiet, unremarkable dancer, surrounded by friends and family, is taken from her with the murder of one of her brothers. After over a month's worth of living in a haze of shock and grief, she reacts with motion.
TW:
This was where she came when she couldn’t sleep. The studio at St. Brigid’s was a large, open, airy and almost antiseptic space, save for the gold in the oak that lined up to create the canvas under her bare feet. It was almost always completely empty at three o’clock in the morning.
Against white walls and large windows full of black sky, she began. The only sound she made was with the sharp intake of a breath.
Hannah didn’t need music to move. She was music.
She was the patient build-up of winds and strings, the crack and boom of climactic percussion, the triumphant blare of brass and, somewhere inside, the sweet lilt of a second alto who didn’t want anyone to hear her sorrowful aria for fear that she’d never be allowed to sing again were her voice ever known. That was why there was no stereo shaking the floor with the vibration of sound waves that she normally craved. This wasn’t absorption; it was release.
Her lines were long, lean and strong, in the beginning; deliberate strokes of blush leotard, coppery hair that had been left to its natural state and fair skin laid down to prepare for the coming crescendo. Burn dressings covered her right arm. She was well-practiced in technique and mindful of her form. The balance in every turn of her head, every pirouette, every extension of graceful limb was carefully controlled. It had been earned. She had put in hours of sweat and blood for it. Every muscle in her had more memory than she did.
Or at least there were nights she wished they did.
Images of her childhood flashed behind closed eyelids as she danced old, familiar combinations.
Life in the Napa Valley had seemed almost idyllic. There had been family dinners and holidays, complete with ugly sweaters for her and her brothers. There had been what she thought was love and laughter. There had also been a lot of moving around, a lot of survival training disguised as games and a lot of medical testing that she assumed routine. She’d been so trusting.
It was the only life she'd known until England. There had been no reason for her to question anything she knew to be normal.
She raged at her losses, striking out into the air with decreasing adherence to technique and increasing ferocity. Her war with gravity became less poised; more frenetic. The anguish coursed through her like an electrical current desperately seeking an exit point. Hazel eyes that were closed for the first act opened for the second, pupils slit vertically and hard with her secret devastation. Her nostrils flared.
Hannah whirled like a sentient tornado, every marked contribution to her momentum an expression of the betrayal she felt.
She had to hide. She had to be separated from the only family she had left: Jude.
There were others whose natures would need to be kept discreet, as well. A rambunctious cait sidhe; a surly, sarcastic vampire; a cambion who didn’t yet know his worth; a zany, narcotic-fueled necromancer and her brother, a revenant who had developed an uncanny knack for making Hannah’s heart skip beats. They could all become targets just by associating with her. And they would.
She was the unpredictable element, imbued with the limitless energy generated by the spirit of everything that lived around her.
Someone had to take over for evolution in protecting her loved ones from Gideon’s fate. It looked like it was going to be her.
The ballerina’s ankle buckled and she came down hard on her right thigh and hip when she could dance no more. Hannah cried out in three kinds of pain, bringing white-knuckled, balled up fists down into the floor with considerable force before collapsing into furious sobs that she never let see daylight.
SUMMARY: Written in October of 2014. The simple future that Hannah wanted as a quiet, unremarkable dancer, surrounded by friends and family, is taken from her with the murder of one of her brothers. After over a month's worth of living in a haze of shock and grief, she reacts with motion.
TW:
This was where she came when she couldn’t sleep. The studio at St. Brigid’s was a large, open, airy and almost antiseptic space, save for the gold in the oak that lined up to create the canvas under her bare feet. It was almost always completely empty at three o’clock in the morning.
Against white walls and large windows full of black sky, she began. The only sound she made was with the sharp intake of a breath.
Hannah didn’t need music to move. She was music.
She was the patient build-up of winds and strings, the crack and boom of climactic percussion, the triumphant blare of brass and, somewhere inside, the sweet lilt of a second alto who didn’t want anyone to hear her sorrowful aria for fear that she’d never be allowed to sing again were her voice ever known. That was why there was no stereo shaking the floor with the vibration of sound waves that she normally craved. This wasn’t absorption; it was release.
Her lines were long, lean and strong, in the beginning; deliberate strokes of blush leotard, coppery hair that had been left to its natural state and fair skin laid down to prepare for the coming crescendo. Burn dressings covered her right arm. She was well-practiced in technique and mindful of her form. The balance in every turn of her head, every pirouette, every extension of graceful limb was carefully controlled. It had been earned. She had put in hours of sweat and blood for it. Every muscle in her had more memory than she did.
Or at least there were nights she wished they did.
Images of her childhood flashed behind closed eyelids as she danced old, familiar combinations.
Life in the Napa Valley had seemed almost idyllic. There had been family dinners and holidays, complete with ugly sweaters for her and her brothers. There had been what she thought was love and laughter. There had also been a lot of moving around, a lot of survival training disguised as games and a lot of medical testing that she assumed routine. She’d been so trusting.
It was the only life she'd known until England. There had been no reason for her to question anything she knew to be normal.
She raged at her losses, striking out into the air with decreasing adherence to technique and increasing ferocity. Her war with gravity became less poised; more frenetic. The anguish coursed through her like an electrical current desperately seeking an exit point. Hazel eyes that were closed for the first act opened for the second, pupils slit vertically and hard with her secret devastation. Her nostrils flared.
Hannah whirled like a sentient tornado, every marked contribution to her momentum an expression of the betrayal she felt.
She had to hide. She had to be separated from the only family she had left: Jude.
There were others whose natures would need to be kept discreet, as well. A rambunctious cait sidhe; a surly, sarcastic vampire; a cambion who didn’t yet know his worth; a zany, narcotic-fueled necromancer and her brother, a revenant who had developed an uncanny knack for making Hannah’s heart skip beats. They could all become targets just by associating with her. And they would.
She was the unpredictable element, imbued with the limitless energy generated by the spirit of everything that lived around her.
Someone had to take over for evolution in protecting her loved ones from Gideon’s fate. It looked like it was going to be her.
The ballerina’s ankle buckled and she came down hard on her right thigh and hip when she could dance no more. Hannah cried out in three kinds of pain, bringing white-knuckled, balled up fists down into the floor with considerable force before collapsing into furious sobs that she never let see daylight.