I am a skater.
I pull my skin coloured tights over my legs, one by one. I step into my black sequinned leotard. I comb my hair, which cascades onto my shoulders, tip it forward and gather the curly mess into a bun. Loose tendrils fall over my forehead so I pin them back. I swipe blusher across my cheeks, emphasise my emerald green eyes with eyeliner and apply glittery lip-gloss. I take my skates in my arms, almost cradling them. They are so precious. I look in the mirror. I am ready. I step towards the ice and I am smacked in the face by a freezing cold gust of air. But I love it. Every seat is full and the audience is waiting for me. Me. I feel the adrenaline rush as I take my first glide into the centre of the rink. I lift my arms as I spin and twirl across the ice. I circle the arena, soaring and jumping. I glance at the audience and I see my parents, beaming down at me. I wave at the crowd and give a cheeky grin. I am loving every moment of this. I take a deep breath as I prepare for my final trick. I leap into the air, feeling myself rising higher and higher. Crash. I land on my back. I feel a pain more excruciating than I have ever felt before. I see faces. My father is holding me in his arms and is running, out of the arena and into an ambulance. Someone must have called 999. My mother is running beside us, crying. I am crying too. The next thing I know is I’m in a hospital bed and my parents are having a whispered conversation with a doctor. I sleep for a few hours and then I’m told from now on I will need a wheelchair.
I was a skater. But I will never skate again.