by Lenee Daniels

Created on: November 12, 2009   Last Updated: November 13, 2009

Mesmerized by her dance, the child's eyes follow the beautiful ballerina's dips and twirls. Lying on her stomach with her chin propped upon her fists, Sheila closes her eyes and dreams she is also gracefully turning on pointe to Rossini's William Tell Overture. Gently swaying to the music box tune, she is lost in her reverie; the distant footstep floats by in another world. Applause is heard within her mind and she bows, graciously accepting the roses tossed her way. As she secures her slipping hair ribbon with one hand, she squeezes her eyes shut, wanting to reside in the limelight within her head. The standing ovation is heard, cheers with her name rise up and Oh! The feeling is intense, beyond comparison in her short lived life. She sees her father in the crowd, clapping the loudest before he hands her the music box. "You will always be my beloved ballerina girl," he said before leaving for war only to never return. A long and burdened sigh drifts up from the depths of her heavy heart. Peeking through one eye, Sheila wishes he is here dancing with her, she can barely remember his face now, but with knowledge that is a crime to know she recognizes her reality is the hard bedroom floor underneath her.

Painted white face with lips dyed red, the ballerina watches Sheila, and her smile never wavers. But, like Sheila's smile, it never reaches her blue eyes either. As Sheila closes the music box her lungs fill with sand. Instantly the warm air is suffocating and her breathing becomes labored. I must inhale she silently pleads until the echo of a footstep, much too near, blocks the air again. With renewed understanding that her lungs are trying to assist her; never breath, not now, not ever, never feel again they whisper. Oh Yes, you are right, she thinks as she tries to weld her lips together and pinch her nose shut, maybe I can disappear forever she dreams. At her door another footstep is heard, "Oh God help me, not now, not again".

In tortured anticipation, she becomes still as a statue, alert and vigilant, waiting once again for her inevitable despair. Nausea coils through her stomach, reminding her of riding on the gravity-defying "Twister" at the fair. Similarly, her whole world is reduced to a spinning blur that keeps the tune of a turning door knob. The spinning suddenly stops and distantly she hears a timid voice begging, but soon, knowing her plea will go unanswered, she becomes silent again. Habitually she turns to the briefly forgotten music box and

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