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My mother used to tell me that living the wrong life is a fate worse than death. That it cuts bone deep, aggravating old wounds, so that every movement reminds you of just how erroneous your time on this earth is. And that knowing you have no way of changing it is as wretched as watching a trapped butterfly fluttering helplessly against a pane of glass.
But what happens when this kind of hurt is all you have left?
You start craving it like a drug.
That’s why, after multiple surgeries for two comminuted patella fractures—because my bones had shattered into a million pieces like my heart—plus countless knee realignment surgeries afterwards, I slacked on the whole physical therapy thing. I needed the hurt. I needed to flounder so deeply in ‘what might have been’ that breathing became an afterthought.
“One-two-three-four… And again, girls, one-two-three-four.”
It’s only when my osteoarthritis kicked in that I stopped wallowing in my misery like a drunk at the bar. My dancing days were over, but if I started to take care of myself again,if I started to try and live again, I still had enough movement in my legs to continue my mother’s legacy.
Soon after, I bought a small dance studio, and I teach here as often as I can, pushing my aching body to its limits to keep a fragment of my past alive.
“One-two-three-four. Don’t forget to keep those feet turned out, Anabelle… That’s excellent, Maria.”
Kirill doesn’t care what I do, just so long as his ring stays on my finger. I gave him what he really wanted nine months after our wedding.
These days, he keeps me stranded in suburbia, while his latest underage girlfriend services him in London. He can’t divorce me because of his pact with O’Sullivan, which also means he can’t kill me, so he chooses to ignore me instead; keeping me trapped behind a wall of stone-faced Bratva bodyguards who monitor my every move.
I’m tainted. Not worthy of his attention. But I’m not worthy of anyone else’s, either.
“And again, girls.Plié,plié, arabesque… wonderful! Now, who can remind me of the seven movements in ballet?”
A haphazard chorus of chanting brings me back to my bright white dance studio, and to the row of ten years olds in black skirts and leotards standing in front of me. A few of the girls are listing off their answers with confidence while others are trailing behind in monotone and trying hard not to fidget.
“To bend, to stretch, to rise, to jump, to turn, to glide, to dart…”
Like I did in the darkness of my old bedroom.
Like I did for him.
“Plier, etendre, relever, sauter, tourner, glisser, elancer…”
This is the part of South-West London where most of the kids are privately educated and speak French as easily as they speak the language of social media.It’s bijou on acid. The shops are boutique, the streets are immaculate, and the cappuccinos and lattes cost double here than they do anywhere else.
It’s not the kind of place I would have chosen to live myself. I prefer ugly truths over keeping up appearances, but I’ve made it my home regardless.
Besides, I didn’t have a choice.
Butterflies and parallel lives.
Kirill doesn’t care that I have my own business, either. It was my final bargaining chip after he stole the last piece of my soul. In fact, I haven’t seen my cheating, thieving, murdering beast of a husband for over twenty months now. I’m thankful for thatsmall mercy, but his absence means the bitter chill of my son’s absence as well.
“Excellent work, girls,” I say, smiling at each of my students until every face is beaming back at me.I made a choice to keep Alex alive, remember? These are my children now.“I think we’ll leave it there for today.”
“Yes, Miss Rivers.”
There’s a blur of black lycra and chatter as they flit towards the changing rooms next door, but one girl is dragging her satin slippers. She keeps glancing back at me and biting her lip, as if there’s a question on her tongue that she’s trying to keep prisoner.
At the same time, I can see her au pair hovering in the doorway, anxious to get her home and fed before her parents return from whatever high-flying jobs they have in the city.Their city.A shiny bustling hub of business, so different to the cruel and unkind London I know.
“Lily,” I hear her purr, her delicate French accent making her charge sound like an exotic flower and not a skinny, fretting bean. “It is time to go.”
But Lily ignores her and takes a hesitant step towards me. An hour’s worth of exercise has loosened her high ponytail and wisps of ice blonde hair are framing her face like falling stars. Something about her innocence makes my smile falter.
“Can I ask you something, Miss Rivers?”
Not O’Sullivan.
