One day he was just suddenly there:
A man with possessive eyes and a dark curve to his mouth. He invited himself into my dressing room, cleaned up my mess and comforted me when I cried.
The man told me he was going to take care of me, that I was in need of a friend and he was there to fill that role. I rejected him but he ignored me. He kept coming back, offering, demanding and taking. It doesn’t matter what I do...his intention is set on me and he will have me.
Then I slowly start realizing what’s really going on and what I first thought was simply admiration from a fan, turns out to be so much more.
1.
Monique
There’s sharp pain in my left knee but I ignore it. I’m not backing down and never have. This is an aphrodisiac, a medicine, a toxin I need to drink over and over just to be able to breathe. Without the dance, I wilt. I’m a nobody without the crowd, a doll without stuffing but when they watch me, I come alive.
They think they’re here for me but it’s me who’s here for them.
The more I push myself, the more I bleed the more they love me and they all want a taste. I feed them and they feed me. It’s a fair, even exchange.
Until one day when it won’t be...
One day the applause will stop, the cheers will turn into dry whispers and I’ll be alone on the stage, begging them for one last standing ovation. They may choose to give it, or they might not. Most likely they’ll turn their faces away and focus on the new star, the new prima ballerina, the new Dark Swan....
Cold sweat slides over my skin, my breaths turning choppy and everything blurs for a moment. I can’t falter. The arabesque comes next and it needs to be perfect. A sharp groan leaves my lips when the pain in my knee becomes too much and I stumble.
My world stops turning for a moment and everything goes silent. The heart in my chest cowers, curling further within, making itself smaller and a tear slides down my cheek when I hear an abrupt laughter in the crowd.
Someone thinks this is funny and humiliation flares in me. I pretend as if nothing happened, moving on with the dance but I’m mortified and I want to bury my face in my hands. Tonight, I didn’t just fail myself but the crowd.
I’m supposed to be larger than life, the beacon all other ballerinas look to but even they can tell my best years are over and I’m not even that old. The performance finishes, curtains drawing and I burst into tears. The other dancers don’t say anything, pretending they don’t notice but I can feel their eyes on me.
They judge me, think they can do this better than me and they want to take my place. The worst thing is that they probably can. My first dance teacher told me desire is everything and she was right. I crave to be desired by the audience and I dread the day they pull the plug.
Wiping perspiration off my forehead, I ignore the chitchat and head straight for my dressing room. I don’t want to see or talk to anyone. I just want to lick my wounds in peace. Practically running toward my safe haven, I close the door and take a deep breath.
In the mirror over my vanity, I catch my own reflection and I look like something out of a nightmare. There’s so much makeup on my face, even my limbs are coated and the black tutu that I used to find so seductive looks like it belongs on a dead bird. An ostrich maybe, just definitely not a swan.
I bite my lip, closing my eyes at the taste of copper when blood fills my mouth and my control slips. Letting out a scream, I thrash everything in my way. The fan letters, the clothes, the raving reviews from the past that I put up on the wall. I destroy everything, caught up in a violent haze and a clock seems to be ticking in the back of my mind.
It tells me my time is running out. As if I didn’t already know that...as if I don’t already know I’ll be done for within a year so. Tearing down a poster, I rip my own face apart before I start yanking pins out of my hair. There’s so many of them...hundreds and my black hair falls in strings, making me look demented.
Grabbing wet wipes, I smear them all over my face and mascara coats my eyes black, the red lipstick distorting my mouth until it looks wider than it is. I look sad now. Sad, little ballerina who had her turn but nobody gets to go on forever.
A pit forms in my stomach and I sit on the chair, glancing down at my shoes. The ribbons trickle up my calves and I carelessly remove them one by one, before grabbing a cooling pad and pressing it down on my knee.
It throbs in response, my body’s silent plea for some mercy but I don’t intend to give it. There’s no backing down here. I intend to hang on with both fangs and claws. If they want to replace me, they’ll have to kill me first. I’m willing to do whatever it takes just to stay on top.
I’ll even be willing to sleep with whoever I need to sleep with, that’s how deep the ambition goes and I don’t care if I get judged. They can judge me all they want. Fuckers. I meet my own eyes in the mirror and I feel like breaking it. Toss something at it and watch it shatter as I shatter on the inside.
Ballet is my life. My sustenance, my sun, moon and rain. Without it I’m not the It girl, but part of a featureless crowd. Anger erupts in me and I get the sudden urge to do something reckless to make the audience love me again.
They used to be so besotted with me and now I’m leaving them cold.
Cursing under my breath, I remove the cooling pad and let out an annoyed groan when there’s a knock on the door. “Go away,” I bark. “I want to be left alone.”
It’s probably Serge. The massive bodyguard, my father hired when he found out I was moving to the big city. I’m probably the only ballerina who’s ever had a bodyguard but that’s what happens when you’re a spoiled, rich kid.
You end up overprotected.
I can’t stand having him breathing down my neck, and sometimes I go out wearing a disguise just to avoid that testosterone fueled Godzilla. My brows draw in aggravation when the door slides up anyway and whoever’s on the other side, ignores my wishes.
“Are you deaf?” I snarl. “Said I want to be left...”
I trail off, my breath catching in my throat. There’s a stranger standing there. A man with a shaved head, luminous green eyes and a determined jawline. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a dark hoodie and carries black roses in his hand. There’s eeriness in his eyes as if he’s looking up at me while I’m looking down at him from a pedestal. Or a temple.
Swallowing, I snap, “Who are you?”
“A friend,” he murmurs, his tone gentle but his eyes fill with disapproval when he sees what I’ve done to my dressing room. Bending down, he picks up the poster I ripped apart and frowns. “Why would you do this to yourself?” He slowly shakes his head as if disappointed. “You have such a beautiful face.”
I’m used to compliments so I don’t know why I’m affected by the flattery. “You need to leave,” I say, jerking my chin. “This is a private dressing room and I don’t accept spontaneous audiences with fans.”