Dark Ballerina

I didn't want the box at first.

I wanted the shoes.

White. Satin. Clean. Not yet ruined by blisters or blood.

But the shoes weren't for me.

I was too stiff, the teacher said. Too heavy in the legs. Not delicate enough. Not graceful.

Annabel was graceful. Annabel floated.

They all said so.

She gave me the box after rehearsal one night. It was already playing when I opened it.

The tune was soft. Slow. A waltz I didn't recognize.

"Keep it," she said. "It listens."

"To what?"

She smiled like she knew I'd ask that.

"To want."

I didn't sleep that night.

The box stayed on my vanity, spinning, even when I closed it. Even when I locked it.

And the next morning, my muscles didn't ache anymore.

I danced better. Cleaner. Not perfect, but… closer.

The teacher noticed. The others noticed.

They didn't smile.

I danced alone in the mirrors that week. The others stopped waiting after class. Stopped sharing hairpins. One of them spit in my shoes.

But the music still played.

By the third night, I could feel it in my bones. The pull.

I started seeing things. A girl watching me from the mirror.

She looked like me. But her arms were wrong—too long, almost like ribbon. Her face blurred when she moved. Her tutu shimmered when she spun.

And she never stopped spinning.

Even when I blinked.

Even when I cried.

Even when I screamed.

"Stop it," I whispered.

And she did.

Only then did I see what was behind her.

Not a reflection.

Not a room.

A stage.

Empty, but lit with gold.

"You'll be next," she said.

"For what?"

"For the role."

The fourth night, I didn't sleep.

I didn't dance.

I turned the mirror to face the wall.

And I wrapped the music box in a towel, stuffed it in my satchel, and walked down to the edge of the lake behind the school.

It was just after midnight.

The water was black and still, like ink. The wind had stopped. Even the trees held their breath.

I stood at the edge and whispered:

"I don't want to be her. I don't want to dance. I don't want you."

Then I threw the box.

It made a dull splash.

I waited.

And for one awful moment… it seemed like that was it. Done.

But when I turned to leave—

It was there.

Sitting on the ground.

Still wrapped in the towel.

Still closed.

Still warm.

Waiting.

I ran.

All the way back to the school.

But the doors were locked.

And when I turned back—

The stage lights were on inside.

Flickering. Golden.

I could see the shadow of someone twirling slowly across the dance floor. Not me. Not Annabel. Not anyone I'd ever seen.

Her limbs jerked wrong. Her head was tilted too far back. Like she wasn't dancing because she loved it

—she was dancing because she couldn't stop.

The next morning, I woke up in bed.

The music box was back on my vanity.

The towel gone.

The lake undisturbed.

And my feet—bleeding.

The shoes were beside the bed, soaked through.

That was when I knew:

You don't quit the dance.

The box chooses.

You perform.

Or you vanish.