Prologue
THEN
Arabel
“Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” a woman said.
Bella Arabella.
She sounded far away despite the fact I could see the blur of her body through my blanket of tears. I wanted to tell her my name, but my voice had been ripped away from me. It was no longer mine, but his.
“I’m going to take some photos. Is that okay, honey?” another woman asked.
Silence.
I should take some pictures as a souvenir. What do you think of that, you little slut?
I wanted to tell them to stop patronizing me with words like honey and sweetheart. They didn’t know me. Besides, whatever honey sweetness I’d possessed had been ripped out, along with my heart and my dignity. But of course, they weren’t really talking to me. They were talking to the victim I'd become. They were talking to the black hole that now occupied the space where I used to exist.
“Do you know who did this to you?”
You’re enjoying this. Don’t deny it.
Silence.
“Now I'm going to scrape under your fingernails.”
Silence.
“Would you open your mouth wide for me? This will only take a second.”
Open your fucking mouth, cunt.
Please, stop!
I let the nurses do everything, following directions on autopilot while I floated in suspended animation, like a hibernating animal, whose body only performed the necessary functions to sustain life, which made me angry because I wanted to die.
You stupid, rich whore.
The wounds on my arms, legs, and torso stung as the nurses poured Betadine on my skin. The pungent, metallic scent of the brownish liquid made me queasy and lightheaded, adding to my acute discomfort. I hadn’t eaten in so long, and yet, hunger evaded me. Thoughts of starving myself to death and ending my now miserable life brought me a fucked-up sense of comfort as the pricks of the syringe pushed anesthetic into each gash, taking the pain and sting away. Then came the tug of the stitches that closed up my physical wounds, causing a bolt of insatiable grief that detonated my heart with the understanding that my body would heal, but my spirit was beyond repair.
“I need to touch the wounds on your face, okay?”
Aw, your face isn’t looking so pretty anymore.
I flinched and pulled my face away from the nurse’s gloved hands. His voice in my head and the current invasion of my personal space were just too much. My screams lodged in my throat as my mind replayed every hit to my face.
Punch.
Punch.
Shut the fuck up. You deserve this, slut.
Punch.
Punch.
I surrendered, allowing the nurse to touch me. The tears thickened, but I cried in silence. Too numb to form words but not numb enough to disregard the abominable mutilation of the last few hours.
Q-Tips poked me as the nurses took samples of the crusty sludge between my thighs. Blood? Semen? Probably both.
I winced when the cold metal of the speculum pried open my insides. It burned and hurt and took the last fleck of dignity I had left.
Dead bitches don’t talk.
“You’re going to be okay,” the women said as they squeezed my hands, trying to comfort me.
Bella Arabella, if you stop trying to resist, you might even like it.
Their efforts were futile. I wasn't Arabel anymore. I was a soulless pile of flesh and bones wrapped in dark shadows and catapulted into The Nothing, consumed by a very present past where not even a grain of sand would remain, and where no new name or noble hero would save me.
Good guys don't like ruined girls.
I would never, ever be okay.
Chapter One
now
Arabel
Hot air licked my skin. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead from being suspended inches away from the ceiling. My right foot wrapped around the fabric, locking it in place. I bent at the knee and sat on the locked foot, arms stretched high above my head, firm hands gripping the sturdy but elastic crimson material.
The silence in the room deafened my ears. The audience’s anticipation was so palpable, it sent a jolt of panic through my spine. It was always the same. The apprehension before I let go. A moment when I considered slithering down the fabric and abandoning the stage before the lights came on, my desire to be invisible battling with my commitment to recover my courage. But aerial dance is a powerful experience, and I loved it too much to let the stage fright win.
I took a deep breath through the nose, imagining tiny little soldiers hitching a ride with the air that filled my lungs, settling in my gut, heart, and mind. The warriors that gave me the strength to own my body. I exhaled through the mouth, imagining my insecurities sailing away with the carbon dioxide rushing out of my chest.
I smiled. The little soldiers always helped. My eyes scanned the surrounding area, taking it in one last time. The Supper Club was both a restaurant and a nightclub. A single space with ivory-colored walls and black-and-white checkered flooring that resembled a Victor Vasarely painting. Modern platform beds upholstered in dark microfiber and dressed in crisp silver linens and pillows replaced eating tables, lining up to form a rectangle that encased the large dance floor in the center. Sheer periwinkle curtains hung from the top beams, spilling behind each bed, creating a sensual mood that traveled to my perch and increased my confidence. A staircase at each end led to the loft which opened in the middle, giving partygoers a full view of the surface below, and of me, braced mid-ceiling waiting for the music to start.
Suspended in time. Not unlike my life.
The silhouettes leaning on the loft railing stared in my direction. The disk jockey pinned the headphone between her head and shoulder while twisting knobs on the turntable with both hands, queuing up the music from the thumb drive I’d given her.
My eyes zoomed to the corner downstairs, hoping to spot my sister Fiona and our friend Ben sitting on their silvered bed, enjoying the champagne. But the darkness didn’t let me, and I frowned, disappointed I couldn’t see her encouraging face. She’d become a welcomed fixture at all of my shows.
My only sibling gave me strength and protection. Five years younger than me, yet stronger and feistier. It riddled me with guilt. I should’ve been the one protecting her and holding her hand. Guiding her.
It hadn’t always been this way. I’d fulfilled my big sister role successfully for over two decades. Until that horrible day. For the last three years, I'd walked around shackled to the event that had changed the bedrock of who I’d been. My life was divided in two: then and now. Though I’d never been as bold as my little sister, the Arabel from then was confident, and adventurous. She wasn’t restrained and suffocated. I was. The relentless friction of my chains left me bloodied and raw, and I hated it. Fiona loved men, and they returned the sentiment. I envied her freedom with unattached sex and pretended it annoyed me, when in reality, she inspired me to get over my bullshit.
The smell of food saturated my nose. The New Year’s Eve dinner consisted of lobster, ribeye steak, potatoes, and roasted vegetables. It made my mouth water and my stomach growl, demanding sustenance. I never ate before an aerial show. If I did, I’d end up barfing on the audience while twirling above their heads.