The sweat’s dripping off the walls, the pains shooting through the backs of your heels; drilling it is called. Over and over again repeating; perfection demanded. The leather’s rubbing and the blisters forming. The walls drip, bodies battered, lines intact.
Drumming echoes and the rhythm builds. The music grows and the taps bellow, building faster and faster, pushing further and further.
And there’s a shrieking.
5, 6, 7, 8 and the pounding starts again. Hearts racing, bodies soaking, cuts dig into flesh. Years of battle echoed on the floor as the rhythm beats. Defiance turned into art. The formations are rigid, backs arched and poised strength. Elegance and determination entwined.
We are all competing.
Bruised, the pain would set in the day after. It started at the Crossroads, but for me it began in the Washhouse.
Felicity Fox ©