Page 67 of Wicked Knight

Mackenzie

I walk across the empty stage and look around the dimly lit theater. It’s a quiet contrast to the war raging inside my head.

Professor Carson allows the dancers full use of the theater and dance studios twenty-four/seven. I’ve been more grateful for that allowance tonight than ever.

This is the only place where I can escape my mind, and I have it all to myself.

Here, I focus on music and dancing.

Wrapped in that still silence that only the night can bring, it’s the perfect place for me.

The rows of empty seats stretching before me seem like silent sentinels watching without judging. The walls, like a tomb, protect me from the world outside, shutting down so it doesn’t exist inside here.

I’ve been a mess all damn day.

I never went back to sleep last night after that nightmare. I stayed up, wrecking my mind with my efforts to remember the face that came to me. And who it belonged to.

Each time I tried, the memory slipped away like water running through my fingers.

Throughout the day, as I thought and thought and thought, I wondered if I should call someone and tell them. But tell them what?

That I saw the vague, fuzzy face of a man in my nightmare?

It’s hardly newsworthy. If I rememberedwhoit was, that would be a different story. Chances are the face belonged to Tommy.

Or… my father?

I don’t know.

It’s weird. In my gut, I have this eerie feeling that it wasn’t either of them or anyone I really know. Which could mean it was someone else. That someone else was there that day.

If I could remember such a thing, it would clear my father’s name. And maybe,maybeend the feud between my family and Dmitri’s. But that’s a long,longshot.

That voice I always hear in the nightmare neither belongs to my father nor Tommy.

Last night, the voice felt like it belonged to the face. It’s just a feeling I have. And it’s not enough. Like every fucking thing.

I have to accept that my nightmares could just be nightmares. Not real.

Who’s to say they’re not figments of my imagination? Just because I’ve had the same recurring one for years doesn’t mean they’re memories.

Last night’s nightmare could have been different because I’m so stressed out.

I don’t know who wouldn’t be after the week I’ve had. There’s the contract, this crazy whirlwind romance with Dmitri where I not allowed to see him, and then there’s his father, who seems to have it out for me.

So, the bottom line is, I could have been dreaming aboutanything. It could be something I made up or remnants of a movie.

Everything in my head counts for shit.

And everything is shit.

It doesn’t help that I didn’t see Dmitri again today and I don’t know what’s happening.

I walk over to the music player and select the music for my routine. It’s from my favorite collection from Bach.

The piano music spills through the speakers, delicate and haunting, weaving through the air and covering me like a cocoon.

I take a moment to breathe and balance my mind to reach what remains of my inner calm. Then I walk to center stage and take my position, getting ready for my cue to dance.