Shadows
By Audrey Parkes
Audrey Parkes is a first-year student at DePaul University in Chicago. She grew up in a western suburb of the city called LaGrange, living with her tight knit family and four cats. She is now an English major with a creative writing concentration, an aspiring author and editor.
There is delicate danger in her pink painted nails, in her emaciated elbows. I watch her at a distance, where I can still see the beautiful menace in the protruding bone of her hip. She spins on her pointed toes, and the image is engraved in my mind, everything terrible and wonderful all in the same picture. I slam my eyes shut, inhaling deeply before opening them again to watch her shadow dance with the devil. When she finishes the routine, beaming at the empty auditorium with slender arms stretched out wide, my heart stops. I’m at the mercy of her smile, though it’s tired and forced. Her chest rises and falls quickly, basking in the spotlight as she catches her breath. Silence echoes in the desolate space between us.
It takes everything in me not to clap, but whether or not she deserves the applause is questionable. I glance down at the trembling hands in my lap, nails chewed, the skin around them red and swollen.
“My god, Etta,” Penny lands gracefully in the seat beside me, making me jump. “What are you doing in here? Is this your free period?”
I sigh, meeting my twin sister’s concerned eyes,
“How did you even find me?”
“All alone, lurking in the shadows at the back of the auditorium? This is kind of creepy, by the way, not that I’m judging,” she mutters as she settles into her seat, flicking flawless hair over her shoulder.
“I’m not community service, Penny, you don’t get any points for checking on me,” I deflect.
She rolls her eyes, “I found you so we could talk.”
“It’s sweet that you squeezed me into your schedule but I’m really not in the mood. See you at home,” I tell her, scooping up my empty bag as I stand from my seat. I take off towards the auditorium’s heavy doors, but the perpetual limp in my step is no match for Penny’s long legs. Her fingers snake around my forearm, gripping tight and pulling me to a stop. When I spin around my eyes go right through Penny; they go back to the stage.
The dancer has started her routine all over again. Ignoring Penny’s tightening grip, I’m sucked back into the magic. Each leap, each turn is flawless, perfected like the flight of her eyeliner, the gloss drenching her smooth lips.
“Etta,” Penny hisses, finally grabbing my attention. There’s demand in her touch that’s been there since we were children, asserting her superiority and making me feel small. “Come on, how long have you been in here? Did you skip class again?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“This isn’t healthy. It’s not good to dwell—”
“I’m fine!”
“Etta! It’s time to move on. I’m tired of seeing you like this,” she gestures vaguely in my direction. I imagine what my unkempt hair probably looks like in comparison to my sister’s. I glance at her neatly tucked sweater and remember my clothes are baggy and thoughtless. What does mom think when she sees us beside each other at dinner? Penny and her chestnut hair shining brightly, complimenting her beaming grin and pale-yellow sweater. Me beside her, my dark blue eyes distant to match a cold exterior and blunt brown curls. I’ve always known that I’m no match for Penny and her perfect posture, no matter how hard I’ve tried to catch up in the past; the only difference now is that I can’t bring myself to care. I don’t flush with embarrassment like I might have years ago, but instead with irritation as I clench my jaw tightly.
“Then don’t watch,” I yank my arm from her grasp and stumble backwards on my bad ankle. I glare at her, hoping the weapons in my eyes are still as sharp as they used to be. I’m out of the auditorium and down the hallway as quickly as my weak legs can manage.
I’m unsure where I’m headed, unstoppable nonetheless, until I see her. A flash of thin black leotard covering nothing but skin and bone in my peripheral vision. The dancer. My breath hitches in my throat and I freeze, gripping the strap of my bag until my knuckles turn white, watching her step out of the backstage exit. She tugs her brown hair loose, letting it cascade down her delicate shoulder blades. I can see the fragility in her bones, like the wings of a butterfly, but I don’t reach out to brush my fingertips across them like I want to. I only allow myself to breath once she has rounded the corner, her ethereal glow disappearing with her.
I gulp, choking on air but remaining silent as I follow after her, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Penny has not yet come after me. My eyes are wide when she opens the
door to the studio and I slip in after her. The door clicks shut behind us, it’s echo familiar and daunting. The lights remain off, only moonlight dusting the glossy wooden floors, reflecting off of the mirrors and giving the studio an eerie glow.
The dancer lets her heavy bags fall to the floor as she approaches the mirrored wall, the pointed hills of her spine rising and falling with an exhausted sigh. My chest aches as I watch her lean forward to inspect the dark circles beneath her eyes and the deep hollows of her cheeks with disapproval. Distress in her eyes, she paws at her hair, at her arms, at the scar on her forehead.
I raise my hand, fingertips grazing the identical scar above my own brow.
With a deep breath she floats to the center of the studio, determined and seeking perfection. The lethal mix of desperation to give up and the drive to succeed radiates off of her body. I revel in her pirouettes as she begins her routine once again. I long to shout to her that soon she’ll only be dancing in the shadow of her broken dream.
My broken dream.
I know that it’s coming and I want to shout out and warn her, but I can’t. I can only watch my past unfold.
It shatters quickly, swiftly and with a single push onto pointed toes. I watch her collapse to the floor with a cry, watch as she reaches for her ankle, hands freezing when she sees bloodied bone pushing through pink flesh. She touches the wound slowly, thick red liquid spilling onto her fingertips. I stare, reliving the sight of my own jagged bone. I see her face pale as she rolls onto her back in a haze of pain, devastation, and relief, knowing that surely, it must be over.
I can recall the feeling so clearly, half hoping someone will come running, half hoping no one will find me until the damage has run its course too long to be fixed. The exhaustion, the torture of loving something just as much as I despise it.
I watch as Penny bursts through the studio door, falling to her knees at my side, one hand dialing for an ambulance as another brushes the hair out of my damp face. She lets me dig my nails into her arm in agony.
“It’s okay, Etta,” she says against the top of my head. Suddenly, the crescent shaped wounds from my nails are no longer fresh, but the lightest of scars on my sister’s forearm as she cradles me in the center of the dark studio. There’s no more blood, no more visible bone; only the memory of it. There’s no excruciating pain, only the dull throb of an ankle never able to dance again. “Everything is going to be okay.”
I wonder how it could possibly be okay that I’m only a shadow of who I once was. A broken dancer, a star reduced to darkness.
“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me.
I believe her, and only because I have nothing else to hold on to, I clutch her hand as if my life depends on it. The longer we remain there holding each other, the more I start to think it actually does.
I mean, I always was just a shadow.
Interview with the Author
First, how did you hear about Quirk submissions and what was your reaction to being accepted?
I heard about Quirk through the literary magazine at DePaul University, Crook and Folly. I was so excited to find out my piece was accepted for Quirk, and I can’t wait to read the rest of the works included.
What inspired the creation of “Shadows”?
I was inspired to write a story based around a ballerina after I watched the film Black Swan. From there, I definitely created my main character Penny with some of the emotions I was going through at the time in mind. The idea for her sister, Etta, and their relationship, also stems from my relationship with my own sister, Emily.
How did you start writing?
I started writing short stories when I was relatively young, but for most of my life I was writing for the comfort I found in the process of journaling and poetry. After taking my first creative writing course in high school, I realized writing was my favorite thing to do, my favorite way of expressing myself. Now, I’m an English major with a creative writing concentration and I love every minute of it.
Why do you write?
I write because it is how I process the world around me. I am a very shy person, and oftentimes I am too nervous or anxious to speak up. Writing, however, has always come naturally to me; it is a comfortable and safe way for me to unload the thoughts I struggle to share verbally. Through both poetry and fiction, I have learned to cope with difficult emotions and circumstances, using my own pain and triumphs to create works that hopefully others can relate to as well.
If asked to define your work in three words, what would those words be?
I would describe my writing as emotional, sensory, and dreamlike.
Is there anything you would like those who view your piece to know?
Before taking a look at “Shadows” I would like readers to consider the rivalries and emulations that occur both within themselves and between their family members.
