Forever An Ugly Duckling
~ELIZABETH~
The polished hardwood whispers beneath my pointe shoes as I take my starting position.
Deep breaths. Posture. Graceful execution.
Get lost in the music and the emotion, Elizabeth.
Cancel out the noise.
Years of muscle memory guide my limbs into place – back straight, chin lifted, arms gracefully curved. In the mirror-lined walls of Hard Knot Academy's performance hall, I catch glimpses of my reflection — the forbidden tattoos visible through my white mesh dance top like shadows of past rebellion.
They still bring me pride, especially when the rest of the world despises their existence against my peachy flesh.
I can hear them whispering in the wings, their voices carrying easily to me as I wait for the music to commence. It’s a ballad of an intro that carries haunting traits to its melody. “Do You See Me Now,” from the show Sweetpea.
How I love incorporating tidbits of my joys in music and horror into my lifestyle.
Laughter in an attempted muffle of giggles and shushes pierces through the potential silence, but I remain still and calm – my face a mask like a porcelain doll.
I wouldn’t let anything crack the perfection of my mannequin-like face with my painted dark red lips that give off the projected theme for the challenging dance.
They think they're being subtle, these pristine Omegas with their perfectly pressed uniforms and regulation-length hair. Their envy is so obvious, while they do everything in their power to state how ugly and imperfect I must be to think I can stand on the same stage as them.
I almost want to laugh.
The music begins, with the haunting beats that have a repetitive beat in the background and a choir-like build of voices. My body moves on instinct, having done this routine for so many days in a row, I can do it with my eyes closed.
Or maybe I am without realizing it.
I embrace the darkness temporary blindness brings. A privilege in my mind to be able to open my eyes and see the beauties of this world, despite it being so cruel to an Omega like me.
An outcast at best.
Closing my eyes only heightens the world around me — a comfort I seem to gain haven from when I get lost in the music building around me.
A senior used to tell me that dance is far more healing than many think.
To simply get lost in the movement without needing to think. To dare allow your body to be free in this tangled web of mesmerizing serenity. We take advantage of what our body can do in our youth, and when we’re slowly stripped of that ability due to the various challenges Omegas face…
Well…you begin to feel like a trapped dove in a gilded cage.
The lyrics begin to echo through the vast hollow space, and how I’ve repeated these words in my mind again and again as if this is my anthem in this sinister world of repetition and rejection.
“Swallow my tongue. Back of my throat. Like it’s finite. Only so long I can chew till I choke.”
I push deeper into accentuating each executed move, making sure when I do have to make eye contact with the crowd, it’s solely on those with pens in their grasp and clipboards propped in anticipation for their plentiful commentary of judgment.
“Hide in plain sight. What have you done? My rabbit run. Caught in the headlights.”
My flowing hands follow with twirls and leg lifts.
"Look at her, trying so hard." The voice belongs to a first-year, still shiny and new. "The Mangy Wolf, still howling for attention."
I focus on my breathing, on the familiar stretch of muscles as I maintain my position. The three judges at their table watch me with cold, assessing eyes, red pens hovering over their scoring sheets like weapons ready to strike.
Motivation.
I let the music flow through me as the words echo with so much merit.
My favorite part.
“And I’m bigger now. And I’m bigger now. So say my name like I’m 10 feet tall. Bow your head like I’m royal.”
Bow down to this Forgotten One. As I’m a royal of gold none of you pretty pennies can touch.
My body moves with practiced precision, each gesture a statement of defiance wrapped in classical grace. I execute an arabesque, feeling the perfect line of energy from my lifted foot through my extended fingertips.
More whispers reach me from the shadows.
"Five years," someone explains in a stage whisper. "Can you believe it? Five years, and not one pack has claimed her."
I channel the words into fuel, using them to power my movements as the music begins to shift. The haunting strings give way to a pulsing beat, and I let my classical form dissolve into something rawer, something that belongs more to the streets than this pristine academy stage.
“And every day that I get older. I guess my blood’s running colder…”
My pointe shoes strike the floor in sharp staccato as I transition from ballet to hip-hop. I've practiced this fusion for months, drilling the transitions until they felt as natural as breathing.
The gasps from the judges' table tell me I've achieved the shock value I was aiming for.
"Show off," someone mutters as I drop into a perfect freeze, balanced on one hand while my legs create geometric shapes in the air.
They're not wrong.
I am showing off.
Every move is a carefully calculated display of what I can do, and what I've become in my five years at this academy. I'm not the same scared Omega dropout who arrived here fresh from Harvard, thinking my academic credentials would somehow make up for my other...deficiencies.
If you can even call them that.
Little Elizabeth with all those hopes and dreams died long ago.
Defiant Abbie who thrives for herself in a world that gives nothing in return is here…and will remain.
I vowed to never cower like someone’s prey.
I’ll always keep that promise to myself.
The whispers grow more venomous as I move through my routine.
"I heard she tried to bribe a pack last year."
"Really? I heard she begged them on her knees."
"Pathetic. Some Omegas just aren't meant to be claimed."
The words should hurt.
Maybe somewhere deep inside, they do. To that girl with the big blue eyes like her mother’s and platinum blonde hair like her father. The freshmen straight out of high school with a 4.0 GPA and over 2 million in offered scholarships.
The golden child of the Abercrombie Family, destined to be a millionaire by twenty-two and be a rich housewife who cooks, cleans, and ensures her husband gets everything he desires from his obedient wife.
A painted lie of hopes and dreams, groomed by parents who decided that revealing to their daughter her “Omega” status wasn’t an important memo to give before she got hit with her first heat.
In the middle of Harvard’s courtyard during an assembly.
Guess I should be thankful we were forced to leave behind our phones that day, or I would have been the golden trending Omega racing away from every Alpha I could.
And then…what’s supposed to be some glorious moment filled with love and support from a group of Alphas who wish to pleasure you became nothing of the sort.
So far from the idea painted in books and read to us like some sort of fairytale.
All that did was make me never want to experience my heat again.
Never.
No one will hurt me like that again.
Five years to build up my armor, to transform their cruelty into motivation. I pour their spite into my movements as I begin the routine's final sequence.
The music builds to its crescendo, strings, and bass battling for dominance just like the two sides of my nature – the classical training and the street-learned swagger.
My breath comes in controlled bursts as I prepare for the final combination.
"She'll never land it," someone says with quiet certainty. "Even Marina Collins needed ten years to master that sequence."
They're right about one thing – only one other Omega has ever successfully performed this combination in the academy's history.
It's a sequence that demands everything: perfect timing, absolute control, and just enough madness to attempt it in the first place. The best part is making sure it hits on the lyrics’ final repetition.
“What have you done, my rabbit run!”
I begin the fouettés en tournant, each rotation faster than the last. My spot is perfect, my core locked tight as I whip through turn after turn. The final repetition of lyrics blares loudly into the echoing space, pounding in my head as if the very lyrics speak to me.
“So say my name like I’m 10 feet tall! Bow your head like I’m royal!”
The music reaches its peak, and I launch into the final element – a grand jeté that seems to defy gravity, my body perfectly splits in the air, before I land and melt into a hip-hop freeze that marries classical grace with urban power.
“And every day that I get older. I guess my blood’s running colder…”
The silence that follows is absolute.
I hold the pose, feeling a single drop of sweat trace down my spine. My heart thunders against my ribs, but my breathing remains steady.
I don't move until the last note fades from the air.
Perfection.
Rising into first position, I meet the center judge's gaze.
She's a Beta with steel-gray hair and lips pressed into a thin line. Her red pen taps against her scoring sheet in a rhythm that matches my pulse.
"Well," she says, her voice carrying in the hushed room. "That was...unexpected."
I maintain my position, keeping my expression carefully neutral despite my trembling muscles. I've put everything into this performance – every ounce of anger, determination, and defiance I've accumulated over five years of rejection.
The whispers start again, but now they carry a note of grudging respect mixed with their usual disdain.
"How did she even learn that sequence?"
"Probably spent all her sad, lonely nights practicing. What else does she have to do?"
"Still won't help her find a pack. Who wants an Omega that...intense?"
I keep my chin lifted, my posture perfect.
Let them talk. Nothing I do or say will meet their standards. They’ll always look at me like the ugly duckling I am. All because I’m a forgotten omega.
At the end of the day, I didn't perform for them.
I didn't even perform for the judges.
This was for me – proof that being unclaimed doesn't mean being broken.
I catch fragments of the judges' murmured conversation:
"...technical perfection..."
"...but the attitude..."
"... an unprecedented fusion of styles..."
"...still, five years..."
The Beta judge looks up, her eyes sharp as she dissects every aspect of my presence.
"Miss Abercrombie," she says, each syllable precise as a pinprick. "Your technical execution was..." She pauses, and I can feel the other Omegas holding their breath. "...flawless."
I don't let my expression change.
Experience has taught me that praise usually comes with a sting in its tail.
"However," she continues, right on cue, "technical perfection isn't everything. An Omega must also demonstrate... appropriateness. Suitability. Your choice to incorporate such...urban elements into a classical piece shows a concerning lack of judgment."
And there it is.
The familiar knife, twisted with surgical precision. I've prepared myself for this, but it still takes everything I have to maintain my composed expression.
"While we acknowledge your skill, Miss Abercrombie, we must question whether this type of performance truly serves your primary goal – finding a suitable pack."
Poorly suppressed laughter drifts from the wings.
I keep my eyes forward, my spine straight, as she delivers the final blow.
"Perhaps if you focused more on traditional presentations, you might have better luck in that area."
Five years of rejection, wrapped up in one perfectly polite suggestion.
I hold my position for three more heartbeats, then execute a textbook curtsy.
"Thank you for your feedback," I say, making sure my voice carries clearly. I straighten, allow myself one last look at the judges, and then walk off the stage with measured steps.
I don't run.
I don't flee.
I don't give them the satisfaction of seeing me affected by their words.
The whispers follow me, but I maintain my pace until I reach the sanctuary of the dressing room.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I examine my reflection. My stage makeup has run slightly, creating dark smudges under my eyes that mirror the intricate tattoos visible through my dance clothes.
I look wild, untamed – everything an Omega isn't supposed to be.
No wonder no pack wants you…
I try to ignore the treacherous whisper that creeps into the back of my mind.
Pushing it away with practiced ease, I allow myself to take a few deep breaths.
This will pass. Next time.
Another opportunity…
I stopped caring about being wanted long ago. Or at least, that's what I tell myself as I begin to change out of my dance clothes, methodically removing all traces of my performance.
I'm wiping off the last of my makeup when the dressing room door bursts open, admitting a flood of chattering Omegas. They fall silent when they see me, their eyes sliding away as if I'm invisible.
All except one – the fourth-year who's been leading the commentary during my performance.
"Nice try, Carrion Crow," she says, her smile sharp as broken glass. "But we all know how this ends. Some Omegas just aren't meant to be claimed."
I meet her eyes in the mirror, letting a slow smile spread across my face.
"You're right," I say, watching satisfaction bloom on her face before adding, "Some of us are meant for something better."
Grabbing my bag, I walk out, leaving them to choke on their whispers and speculation.
Let them call me whatever names make them feel better about their own desperate scramble to be claimed.
I'm Elizabeth Abercrombie – Harvard dropout, tattooed disgrace, and the only Omega in Hard Knot Academy's history to successfully merge classical ballet with hip-hop in a single performance.
I don't need a pack to prove my worth.
But as I walk through the academy's shadowed halls, I can't quite silence that small voice in the back of my mind that whispers:
Not yet, anyway.
The worst part is, I'm starting to believe it might be right.
Forever an ugly duckling.