Waves of nausea wash through her body as her feet pace mechanically across her dressing room. Clack, clack, clack, clack. Her pink stilettos have a slight stain on the heel, surely people will notice. Clack, clack, clack. The train of her cream ruffled gown is excessively long, she will surely trip and fall. Clack, clack. The lipstick is too bright of a color, the pink she applied would make her skin tone darker and the audience will snicker at her unsightly appearance. Clack. She stops at the mirror. You can do this. You look amazing, your voice is amazing, you are amazing. But she doesn’t believe it, she never does. Sitting down in the hard wooden chair, she closes her eyes and imagines the vast mass of obscure faces that silently assess her every move. What if I mess up? What if I throw up? What if...

She had worked for tonight for most of her life. The training, the technique classes, the endless hours of practice, they were all for this one performance. Singing was the single most important thing to her; she threw away sports, other commitments, and even her grades. Hours of straining her vocal chords and working on breath control had finally gotten her to the immense stage of the Lincoln Center. That night she had gotten the news, she burst into tears. Scrambling out of her dimly-lit bedroom, she exclaimed the wonderful news to her drowsy family members. Her parents had looks of complete repulsion. “You can’t go...school’s more important. You know you’re throwing away your life.” Her face had hardened in defiance. Well, I guess I’m all by myself now. The next day, she went to the shops alone, trying on dresses, hoarding shoes, and experimenting with make-up. Yet as she went on with her preparations, there was a feeling of nausea constantly haunting her stomach, a voice in her head telling her she wouldn’t even be able to perform at all. The anxiety crept upon her like the plague and everything she thought about the performance, it wasn’t joy that overtook her but a strange feeling of impending doom...

Knock knock knock. She’s torn out of her torrent of potential disasters. “You’re on in two,” a crisp voice calls. But to her it sounds like a prison guard calling a culprit for her execution. She stands back up. This time, her pacing gets faster. The breaths come rapid and shallow and the nausea washes through her again. Click clack. She opens the door and cautiously steps out. The black tiles of the hallway lead her to the musty curtains and the production crew gathers around her, fixing her make-up and hair and chattering non-stop. I can’t do this. Not right now. Deep breaths. This is happening. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. But the queasiness in her stomach remains. “On in one!” She clears her throat. Lord, please help me. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. Grabbing the mic from the stand next to her, she glances down at her stilettos, the train of her gown, and checks her reflection. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. “To the stage you go! You’re going to do magnificently, darling!” the voice chirps again. Oh no. Yet her feet move mechanically across the stage, right to the center. She shifts around, fiddling with the ruffles of the gown waiting for the inevitable moment when the curtains expose her to the judgmental faces and anticipating eyes.

A bright light blinds her. Across the horizon, the pink and yellow lights flash up suddenly. There was that peculiar feeling again; a chill ran through her spine causing her to shudder. She was trapped, she had nowhere to go. The thin ice below her feet was so delicate she could hardly move. One wrong step and she could drown, not in the ocean but in the sea of people gazing up at her with expectant eyes. Sweat builds in the palm of her hands that grasp the microphone in front of her. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. She inspects the audience, a full house waiting for her to make a mistake. The waves of nausea turn into tsunamis as the drums start thrumming. The piano accompaniment fills the air with the sweet introduction yet she isn’t prepared. 3, 2, 1. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. Immediately she senses the people murmuring unintelligible comments to one another. Her face scrunches up and the breaths come quick and shallow again. Breathe in. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. The drums resume, the sweet melody floats into the air again waiting for her input. Once again, no sound. Instead of the velvety melody of the tune, sobs escape from her mouth. The crowd sits motionless as her mascara-streaked tears run down her cheeks and her once rosy lipstick smears. Voices call out from the audience but she doesn’t hear them. The production crew yells indecipherable words at her. The pounding in her head gets louder and everything becomes muffled. Just breathe, just breathe, just... She collapses to the ground, breaking the stained stiletto heel. The waterfall of tears come streaming down harder now. The hoots of the audience are louder now but again ignoring them and regaining the strength in her legs, she sprints off stage, tearing and leaving the train of her cream ruffled gown on the still brightly lit stage.