This is weird. This is really weird.


She's never done this before, this whole "formal dance class" thing, nor dress codes for such things. Her body feels so exposed in these tight clothes and there is a distinct vulnerability she isn't sure she is ready for. She looks in the mirror as she pins her scarlet hair in a classic, low bun, her face completely clear of makeup. Her black leotard fits perfectly along her curves and there is a now obvious beauty to every contour of her body. She is just the right hip to waist to breast ratio, her limbs are all gracefully long. By all accounts, she is an incredible specimen to behold physically. And she hates it. It's why she covers herself up. It's why she doesn't wear tight clothing.


It's weird seeing her curves like she does. They aren't hers. They were manufactured. And it is all she can see - the bits of her he fixed. Sometimes it feels like damn near everything. She has few pictures left of who she was before and she knows she was flat as a board. At least the leotard squished everything down. Maybe exposing her in such a way would be good for her.


"You're beautiful in more ways than just your body, Cassandra." His voice was so smooth. Sometimes his voice alone saying her name was enough to make her near ready to melt. She can almost feel the memory of his chilled, clawed hand on her shoulder, looking into the mirror with her. His shoulder length black hair frames his beautiful red, scaled face in just the right way. It always did. What night was this?


They were headed to a dinner with the symphony and she was wearing this black, silk and tulle gown, the neckline incredibly deep. The skirt had a slit up the side and it clung perfectly to her body. It was a lot. It was too much. Her anxiety was through the roof the moment she had put it on. She stared in the mirror, her hair in beautiful curls and she hadn't even started her makeup yet because she'd been in tears.


"You don't have to wear it if it is going to cause you this much drama, love." It was a bit of a poke, but it was meant in good spirit. It was meant with love. Black orbs of abyss just stared at her and while to most it looked devoid of any emotion, to her, she knew they were expressing concern.


"But then I'm letting him win." What season was it? Spring? Yes. Spring. She was always like this in the Spring, trying new things, testing her boundaries. You'd think she'd save conquering her fears for Autumn, but her fears were always draped in desire. "I won't let him win." Cassandra wiped away her tears, trying to keep it together. Her makeup was so light that evening, you'd wonder if she was wearing any at all.


She pushes the memories out of her mind. No, she doesn't need those tonight. And she certainly doesn't need his reassurances, as comforting as they used to be.


She stares in the mirror again, pursing her lips. John doesn't know about this part of her yet. How uncomfortable she is with her body. But then, that'll be a more obvious conversation for later. It's John. He'll be sensitive to anything she tells him that she struggles with, but there will always be a miniscule fear of response.


But no, this isn't about fighting the dysmorphia tonight; this is about working to become more dexterous, remember? She ties a thin dancer's skirt around her waist, giving her significantly more cover, which relieves her to a degree.


Another reminder to herself: It doesn't matter how horribly you dance, the point is improving strength in the legs. You'll move quicker, more accurately. You will have control. Yes. These are the things she needs to remember.


She puts on a pair of flats, her canvas ballet shoes in her purse, ready to be used for the first time. Okay. I got this. This is what I am doing instead of running. She still can't help but be nervous. Try new things and see what sticks. This doesn't have to be the end all be all. I can always try something new.


She puts on a shawl and walks out to her car. Step two in becoming useful. Yes. She can do this.