Kill Switch by Penelope Douglas

wall of large windows sat to my left, facing the front of the
house, and it was adorned with long, cobalt blue drapes, I
remembered. The dark wood floor always flickered with the
glow of the electric candles coming from the massive
chandelier above, and I still remembered the white fireplace
against the far wall where I got to decorate the mantel every
Christmas.
Or my mom would let me decorate it, and then she’d come
and “fix” everything how she wanted it when I wasn’t looking.
I pulled on my ballet slippers, my feet too sore to put up
with the pointe shoes tonight, and picked up the remote for the
small stereo system I had set up by the wall.
Clicking to the second track, I found “Nothing Else
Matters” by Apocalyptica and increased the volume to drown
out the music outside before tossing the remote and my phone
on the table.
I walked around the square dance floor, marked by my
sandpaper stickers still there, worn and dulled, after years of
holidays and visits home when I practiced. When my parents
had large dinners, there would be tables and chairs brought in
and placed around the dance floor, but the room was all but
empty at the moment. I could probably make my rehearsal
space larger, given that there was no furniture to bump into.
The music started, and I walked the perimeter, counting
my steps and bobbing my head to the strum of the cello. The
beat teased one, two, three, four, and five, and I matched my
steps to it as the other instruments kicked in, and I vaulted up
onto my toes and swung around in a circle.
My arms shot out, my wrists bent and my fingers splayed,
as I bowed my head and moved, just going with it as I let the
music crawl inside and take over.
Yes.
The familiar flip hit my stomach, and I spun and stepped,
swayed and dipped around the dance floor, feeling the energy
of the music course under my skin.
And I smiled.