I awoke to the fusion of the heavenly scents of eggs, pancakes, waffles, and bacon.

Sunlight engulfed my bedroom in a beautiful array of pale oranges and lemony yellows.

 

Friday mornings were always my favorite. I glanced at the alarm clock that lay on my bedside table. 6:30am. I winced. All I wanted to do was sink back into my soft feathery bedsheets and never get up, but when you belong to a family of eight, your bathroom privileges are limited, and we run on a very strict time-based schedule. I slowly got up, grabbed my towel that hung by the door, and tiptoed out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom. The warmth of the shower water tickled my skin, and the razor like bristles of my toothbrush scraped against my teeth, battling the ghosts of meals past. By the time I returned to my room, it was already 7:00am, and I cursed underneath my breath. Early morning showers have always been a weakness of mine, but I couldn't be late today, there was no excuse. I had the biggest audition of my life that morning, one that would ultimately be the driving force to a vibrant and promising future if it was a success, or the very thing that dismantles and crumbles my hopes and dreams if it is a failure.

 

I have been a dancer all my life.

 

It became my one true love at the age of three, when my mother took me to see Misty Copeland perform “Firebird” at Lincoln Center. My eyes had never witnessed something that breathtaking in its three feeble years of existence. I was incredibly envious. She was so blissfully lost in the perfection of her coordination that she seemed to be disconnected from our world. I yearned to be able to ascend to that level of spirituality. To dance is to be out of yourself. To become larger, more beautiful, more powerful. This power is glory on earth, ours for the taking, and I was definitely first in line. That night sparked a promise I made to myself that did not need to be spoken. From that day on, I took classes at the most prestigious studios and academies New York City has to offer. As I grew in height, size, and age, my skill and experience excelled beyond those that surrounded me. Whenever I became overcome by the pain and exertion of practice, I drowned the complaints of my natural human instinct to rest with the principle that my legs were not giving out, my mind was giving up, and I needed to keep going. Dance had became my own personal drug, worse than heroin, cocaine, and crystal meth combined. It gave me an intense high that no one had the ability to make me denounce, and no form of rehabilitation would make a difference.

 

I was determined to become known in the world of dance. I wanted to be so good that they found it impossible to ignore me, to judge me, to categorize me. By the age of ten, I was accepted into the honorable and elite Joffrey Ballet School with a full scholarship. For four years I studied there, straining muscles, healing bloody toes and purpling flesh from pointe, and masking the deadly pain of blisters with smiles on stage. You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back. No paintings to hang in museums, no novels to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive. When the performances are over, and when the applause has subsided, that uncontainable joy remains with you forever.

 

The reality is, I have no backup plan. This is all I am. I have been preparing for this moment my whole life. If Juilliard declines my acceptance, and I cannot continue grow as an artist and join a professional ballet company through the guidance of the best in the business, my purpose and identity will be inevitably lost. It would be the loneliest moment in my life, watching my whole world fall apart, and all I would be able to do is stare back blankly.

 

I could hear the rest of my siblings awaking like bears from hibernation. Their contented groans from the pleasure of their sleep turning into the rustles of bedsheets, and then finally, the loud heated arguments over one anothers time spent in the bathroom that I have grown so accustomed to. It was just another normal day for them.

 

I stared around my overly organized room, and I found comfort that eased my anxiety amongst the perfection of the color coded notebooks, the size ordered novels, the lavender scent of my sweaters on their hangers, and momentarily found a state of mental peace. I stared at my reflection in the mirror of my vanity, and a completely different person stared back at me. She was beautiful. Her hair was a rich shade of mahogany. It flowed in tight curly waves to adorn her glowing, porcelain-like tan skin. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, were a bright, piercing hazel filled with intense passion. A straight nose and full pink lips were the finishing touches to this masterpiece. She seemed like the picture of perfection, and I was completely convinced that it was someone else. This girl was too blessed, too privileged, too fortunate, to be be dealing with the level of apprehension and uneasiness I know she currently feels. I couldn't help but thinking that behind every beautiful thing, there is some kind of pain.

 

I softly opened the hardwood drawers of my dresser and ran my fingers delicately over the seemingly thousands of multi colored leotards, tights, tutus, and worn out pointe shoes. I chose my favorites, a soft black and white crossbody halterneck leotard, paired with stretchy black tights, a white tutu, and a pair of pointe shoes personally autographed by Misty Copeland herself. I never felt so physically prepared, like I was already visually a student of dance at Juilliard. If only my mental state could catch up with the rest of my body. I combed and gathered my messy curly mop of hair into a neat, artistic, and classic ballerina bun. I could do it with my eyes closed. After years of classes, it has become second nature to me. I stared at myself in the mirror again for what seemed like hours before finally packing my bag with my average dance essentials, water, snacks, my resume, and leaving my room. The truth is, no matter how long I stalled, I would never be fully prepared for the intensity of the importance of today in terms of my future.

 

I ran down our spiraling staircase with no care at all to hold the banister, through our contemporary living room, and into our modern kitchen, my favorite part of our house, where my large loving French-Italian family awaited me on my big day, and where the best of our family memories were created.

 

They all sat around our large chestnut colored dining table, where the heaps of breakfast food lay, just daring me to gain weight on the most important day of my life, and although I fought it, my nose succumbed to the heavenly scents. In the center lay a heaping plate of five types of freshly baked French and Italian bread, croissants, and toast. Followed by several jars of sweet strawberry and blueberry jam, cream cheese, stacks of omelettes overstuffed with onions, red and green peppers, and various types of cheeses, bacon and sausage, muffins, Nutella waffles, as well as coffee and hot chocolate. Everyone was enjoying their food, mid-tear with laughter until my Nonna Gianna looked up at me and beamed, “Ciao, bellissima! (Hello beautiful!)” Everyone turned and smiled as well at my entrance, knowing how long I have been waiting for this day. My mother approached me, her hair flowing confidently behind her shoulders. Her soft, familiar, knowing eyes glancing into mine, and she smiled, handing me a moderately heaped plate of breakfast, with the best the table had to offer. She knew I would protest if it was piled too high, aware of my various insecurities. “I'm scared mom” I whispered, taking the plate. She gave me another one of those hesitant smiles I know so well. “I know you will do amazing today, principessa.” I beamed, fear could no longer take hold of me now.

 

I sat at the head of the table, and received an encouraging hand squeeze from my dad. Words did not need to be spoken. I was surrounded by the love of a deeply embedded and strong family that inspired me to be much greater than I am. We stuffed our faces with the unbelievably delicious food, nearly choking through never ending peals of laughter. I practically felt my body gain five pounds, but I have never felt so alive, it was almost better than dancing.

 

“FRETTA (HURRY) ARIANA!” My mother yelled, her very evident Italian accent getting the best of her. She had already walked down the long pathway from our house to the driveway and was opening the door of our Range Rover. I hurriedly finished the piece of greasy bacon

I held in my hand, grabbed my duffel bag, and waved goodbye to my family that saluted by the doorway. I hoped in, buckled my seatbelt, and in near minutes we were racing down the highway. I leaned my head against the car window, watching the scenery zip by, a tableau of light green palm trees, wispy strands of clouds, and a clear blue sky up above. Please, Juilliard, I whisper to myself. I close my eyes.

 

The car is eviscerated. The impact of a four-ton pickup truck going 60 miles an hour plowing straight into the passenger side had the force of an atom bomb. It tore off the doors, and sent the front-side passenger seat through the driver-side window. It flipped the chassis, bouncing it across the road and ripped the engine apart as if it were no stronger than a spider web. It ignited bits of the oil tank, tiny flames igniting into larger ones. There was so much noise. A symphony of grinding, a chorus of popping, an aria of exploding, and finally, the sad clapping of hard metal cutting into soft trees. Then it went quiet.

Wake up! I scream. Wake up! Wakeupwakeupwakeup! But I can't. I don't.

It isn't long after that the sirens come.

There are a lot of things wrong with me.

Apparently, I have a collapsed lung, a ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, and most serious, contusions on my brain. I’ve also got broken ribs, as well as abrasions on my legs, which will all require various types of surgery—but, as the doctors note, I may be able to survive, that is, only if I’m lucky.

The operating room is small and crowded, full of blindingly bright lights, which highlight how grubby this place is. It’s nothing like on TV. The floor, though buffed shiny, is dingy with scuff marks and rust streaks, which I take to be old bloodstains. Blood. It is everywhere. It does not faze the doctors one bit. They slice and sew and suction through a river of it, like they are washing dishes in soapy water. Meanwhile, they pump an ever-replenishing stock into my veins.

Pain. It is all I can think about, and it's hitting me at a never ending angle of forever. I have never craved death so much in my life. I hated this. I hated being unable to control my own body.  There are so many tubes attached to me that I cannot count them all: one down my throat breathing for me, one down my nose, keeping my stomach empty, one in my vein, hydrating me, one in my bladder, peeing for me, several on my chest, recording my heartbeat, another on my finger, recording my pulse. The list was endless. Then it hit me…I hadn't been in the car alone, Mom was driving. My heart pounded. Where was she? Was she ok? This is all my fault! I shouldn't have gotten her into this mess in the first place! Juilliard would never accept me, but yet I refused to give up trying, and now my mother would have to pay the consequences. Rage and adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I knew I no longer wished God had mercy upon me.

They moved me out of the recovery room into the intensive-care unit, or ICU. It’s a horseshoe-shaped room with about a dozen beds and many nurses, who constantly bustle around, reading the computer printouts and recording our vital signs. I glanced out the window. It was dark, maybe 11pm or so, the quiet hours of the hospital. I had heard the nurses talking about my family a while ago, who flew through the doors as soon as they gained word of our accident, and have been bombarding the main desk, asking for updates. She also had said that my mother didn't make it. That it was too late, and she greatly sympathized for my loss. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. I didn't want her sympathy! I wanted my mother! My mother, whose soft hands embracing me made me feel whole, and whose light hazel eyes peered through my soul. I wanted her so badly it hurt, and I was willing to do anything to be with her again.

I reached over and quietly began to unplug the tubes, all of them. I became overwhelmed with a fierce piercing pain that swept throughout my whole body, but unbelievably, I smiled. I closed my eyes and imagined my Juilliard audition judges applauding my actions. I apologized to my beloved Grandma Nonna. To my hysterical Grandpa Geovani. To my sweet little sister Naomi. To my older brother Adriano. To my endless family members that were waiting for me, trusting and praying that I am doing all that I can to get better. I’m sorry. Sorry I always disappoint you, sorry that I am selfish, sorry that I always let you down. I faded away into the peaceful never ending slumber of death, and all I can hear were the screams of a nurse who came in to check on me, realizing what I had done, and the faint orchestra of ballet music.