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I gasp, a sharp intake
It's happening again.
I'm falling toward the ceiling.
"Breathe," Dr. Fink tells me.
He grips my hand, forces my nails
out of my palm, and places them
on the cool, metal top of the examination table.
I grip it, hard enough to hurt,
and sit up slowly. "You're all right. Just breathe."
I try, but antiseptic
burns my nose.
"Has the room stopped spinning?"
I open my eyes. His face is a blur,
tan and black surrounded by a
halo of light. Not an angelic halo.
No, of course it hasn't.
But I pretend.
I sit up straighter, smile,
try to answer his questions
I don't want to see his face anyway.
I don't want to see his sympathetic smile.
I wish he'd tell me the truth:
"You're not all right, but I can't help you."
I make an excuse to leave, trailing
my hand along the wall to find the door.
I didn't fell like rebelling that day.
Today I do.
I shouldn't be here now, trying to
dance. But if the room is spinning,
at least it's my choice.
I jump to the left and catch my partner's
hand. He spins me around, pulling
me around the room, until everything
is a blur. But I'm not falling. I feel a rush
of excitement as I'm spun aound again.
I close my eyes and stretch
my hand out,
but my partner isn't there.
It's happening again.
The floor and ceiling have switched places.
My partner has spun me away
and now I'm falling toward the ceiling.
And I can't breathe.
And then I'm caught.
Someone pulls me back up, holds
me up, steadies me.
I open my eyes, searching.
I focus on two pinpricks of golden
light. The word solidifies
and I'm staring the eyes of
a familiar stranger.
He pulls me closer.
"You're all right. I've got you."
A dip, a momentary tilting
of the earth, and then