Fillmore hexaology, #4

She heard nothing after a loud pop, could feel nothing, could see nothing.  In shock, she froze.  A part of her mind just knew.  It was over.  Everything she had struggled for her entire life had just come to an end.  One good jump.  One bad landing.  And it was over.  Hands—she didn’t know whose—dragged her off the stage, and something cool pressed against her knee.  It was cold, but she couldn’t really feel it.  Not really.  She could hardly feel her body, and for this, she was glad.  When it hit her later, truly hit her, then she could cry in heart-wrenching agony for her lost passion.  

Through the fog, someone called her name.  Slowly, vision began to return.  The edges stayed dark.  Maybe it was all a bad dream.  Every dancer had nightmares about it.  The doctor met her in her dressing room, touched her, sent shockwaves through her.  That, she felt.  She still couldn’t hear her own yelp of pain over the pulsing whoosh of her own blood through her ears.  She gasped for air.  What was the doctor saying?  His voice was distant, but she had to do something.  So she nodded.  Was that right?  

Someone unfastened the back of her bodice and helped her get a t-shirt on.  Off with her tutu, but her tights could be cut off later for surgery.  


Panic overwhelmed her.  Sheer terror.  It was all over.  What would she do after this?  She dropped her face into her hands and forced her lungs to inhale.  She trembled.  All at once, the words had meaning.  Not just words.  They meant something.  They meant her career was dead.  All she had worked for all her life.  Gone.  She tightened her hands on the side of her head, and screamed.

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