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I stare at my screen. Clarke knows exactly how to handle me, as he has been for years. Only recently did I truly see how sick he had become. How the way the soft touches I used to mistake for loving caresses are that of a pet, a possession, and with the knowledge, I pulled away.
He felt the shift, and with it we destroyed the safe place I had with him. Clarke drew me in with his smiles, held out his hand and told me to take it, and as a girl of barely ten, I did. We needed each other, kept our demons at bay and carved out some light in the loneliness that was ours in the system. But his smiles still dimmed, and I saw the darkness behind his mask.
So, I did more, I pushed hard for his laugh and walked willingly into the cage he’d carved out for me. Anything to keep the light. But the days grew long, and his temper grew short, and the cage that I danced inside suffocated me with each passing breath.
I blamed myself for finger bruises that marred my jaw from a too tight grip, and he’d yell less if I didn’t question him so much.My fault. My fault. My fault.My happy Clarke changed because he needed to save me, he took on the world and lost his mind.My fault.If I just agreed, if I didn’t question so much, why did I say that?All things I would repeat in my mind. My world shone when he did, and the color mute when he’d strike me.
My reality was what he created, and he made himself my sun. I had to choose him, always him. But one day, I woke up and choseme.Now he’s waiting me out. He has more power than I could fight, and he could force me into the position, but when you take something, you spend your whole life trying to keep it. Now he’s trying to lure me home with tricks that are tried and true. Clarke wants my total and utter submission, and he won’t stop until he has it. What Clarke doesn’t know is that this ‘freedom’ he’s gifted me is my ticket to salvation. I won’t be the delicate little flower he wants sitting silently behind him.
I’ll be back before you know it.
Lie.
I barely taste my food as I shove forkfuls into my mouth, intent on watching the movements of the students and staff around me. I’m still uncomfortable leaving my dishes on the table, scooping up my plate, I lug it back over to the kitchen.
The kitchen is huge, bigger than what I would expect to see in most lavish restaurants. Teams of kitchen hands are racing between stations, stirring pots and pans, and sending out meals. I move closer into the space only to be stopped by a burly man who looks mortified at my presence.
He looks to be in his early fifties with grey hair peppering in the black strands. He has a short beard that doesn’t quite connect fully around his jaw line, but with his arms folded across his chest like that and the heavy scowl, he cuts an intimidating frame. Well, if it weren’t for the spatula coated in sauce in his hand and the checker multi-colored apron he was wearing, stark in contrast against his coffee skin.
He lifts an eyebrow as I shuffle towards him, and I swear his eyes glaze over as if predicting an onslaught of complaints. If I were ever asked to describe what unimpressed looked like, I could probably just point to this man right here and get a passing grade.
“Is there like, a bowl of fruit somewhere around her?”
“My kitchen will have no part in whatever pranks you students like to play on one another.” He doesn’t miss a beat snapping out his words and I let out an exasperated sigh. I don’t know why he would associate fruit with pranks, but clearly there’s history here I’m unfamiliar with.
“No pranks. Just fruit, it’s kind of my favorite snack.” I shift my weight from foot to foot, but I don’t say anything more on the topic. I doubt it would help me anyway.
He remains stoic as he assesses me before uncrossing his arms with a huff and pulls open a fridge on the other side of the room. He comes back to me and grunts, so obediently, I hold out my arms and he dumps the fruit before walking off. There’s a range of apples, strawberries, and a bag of grapes.
“Thank you, Mr?”
Again, he looks at me like I’m the strangest person he’s met, but he offers me another grunted response. “Sipho. No Mr required.”
I smile at that. I’m not much for formalities myself, but I didn’t want to disrespect him, especially when he’s offered me more than I anticipated or asked for.
“Thank you Sipho.”
“On with ya, child. Some of us have work to do.” He waves his hand dismissively in my direction and I make my way out, putting the fruit away in my dorm room before heading down to the library.
Chapter Four
That plate of pasta seemed like such a great idea when I was ravenous, but not so much now while I’m trying to stretch out a carb belly bloat for dance class. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret the decision, it was so good.
There is a giddiness in my chest as I prepare for the class. It’s only been a handful of weeks, but the restless energy thrumming through my veins is desperate for an outlet that only dance gives me. I never feel more alive than I do when I’m twirling and contorting my body to music, calming my heart, and sating my soul. The rhythm vibrates my entire being, releasing the chains that hold me back.
A plonk on my side draws my attention as I see Peyton has rocked up. She offers me a weak smile, but my focus zeros on her red rimmed and puffy eyes, she looks like she’s spent all afternoon crying. Violent rage thumbs through my veins. I’ve literally known her for a day, but I’ll deal with whatever sad sack has her looking like that without hesitation.
Scowling, I open my mouth to ask her what the hell happened when the dance instructor, Ms. Taylor walks into the view. She’s a shorter, curvy woman, probably in her late twenties, with black hair that touches her shoulders. She’s dressed in a sports bra and high waisted leggings that can’t be allowed with the strict dress code, but she does it with such confidence that I get the vibe that she was told off, she would flip them off. I immediately like her.
Clapping her hands together to gain the attention of everyone around her, she jumps straight into her expectations of the dancers and her goals for the year. “For the first time, Fairwater Academy will be entering the UDA. This is an exciting opportunity for us, and we need to use this to prove that this department deserves the funding. So, as a requirement, selected individuals will be performing at a sporting event each month to rally support. Everyone is required to complete a routine if they expect to perform at the competition.”
This isn’t real life. There is no way I’ve stumbled out my hellscape and into a life where I’m going to dance at the Universal Dance Association. I’m awestruck by the possibility alone; this shit just doesn’t happen. I sneak a glance at Peyton who is listening with dedicated attention, despite the tear lines through her make-up and the small puddle of mascara under her eyes, she looks fierce, determined. She wants this for us as much as I do.
Ms. Taylor continues on to tell us that she will be assigning teams for who will be performing each month and that even though the performances themselves are entirely up to us, they will contribute towards our overall grade. “Think of it as on-going assessment. How can you expect to perform nationally if you cannot perform in front of your peers? Now head over to the bleachers, when the sun is out, so are we.”
The class is smaller than what I would have expected for an academy of this size, with roughly a dozen female students and handful of male students present. I recognize Milo hovering with the other boys and offer him a small wave when he glances my way, which he returns with a smile and that boy head nod they do. His eyes flick to Peyton and I swear I see sadness in them before he shifts focus back to his friends.
Ms. Taylor breaks us up into groups and run through our warm-ups, using the opportunity to teach us a bare-bones routine that she wants us to embellish into our own style. By the time we are directed to take a break I am disgusting, a fine layer of sweat coats my skin and I’m sure that I can’t imagine I smell much better than I did yesterday.
