PROLOGUE, ACT II
Ana
PELLETS OF SNOW slam against my bedroom window. The thunder showing no signs of slowing down. Another loud zap. And now Mishi is officially on flight-or-fight mode as she creeps under my heather grey blanket, nuzzling her stomach against cashmere and my toes, seeking solace from the racket.
Faerieladle’s seen worse storms, but my kitten, Mishi, along with the rest of Maryland’s most connected town, dreads every single one of them.
I look forward to them.
Maybe it’s the chaos. The brazen roar of nature putting humanity in its place. The one time my anxiety can’t.
It wasn’t always this bad, my anxiousness.
The pressure to perform a little better each time.
To take advantage of being 23 given the sport, but stay out of trouble.
Have fun, but not too much of it. Not let a single grade slip or else you can kiss that grad scholarship goodbye.
And then you can kiss figure skating goodbye, too.
The unwritten rules go as follows:
Keep the crowds entertained.
The critics impressed.
The fans interested.
Block out the trolls.
The competition.
Block out the ticking of your pulse that feels like a bomb waiting to detonate.
And so, I write in this diary every single morning. 5 am sharp. An hour before practice. It’s supposed to help.
It used to help.
One long, dreadfully long stare at the torn scrapbook folded over my cold palms, and no, no—it’s happening again.
Where did it all go wrong?
Where did I go wrong?
What did I do wrong?
Like a smashed jukebox puking out the same rusty tune over and over again, the thorned memories flurry into a blizzard of their own, rivaling the one that continues to quake outside. This diary, all its pages, have always been inked with substance. Now? Well, the quality has taken a major nosedive.
Mishi’s little face darts out from underneath the ivory covers, her taupe paws scraping the edges of today’s entry:
Didn’t think I could have an orgasm as disappointing as the one from last night. Men are full of surprises.
See what I mean?