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She twirls around to the music on one leg, her other taut in the air. That must hurt. Staying on pointe for that long is pure torture and strains your muscles and tendons; that’s why it’s supposed to be done in short intervals.
I try to approach her so I can see her or stop her, but she leaps away—jumping, twirling, and arching her back. Then she’s running from one side of the room to the other, clutching her head and meeting the distressed music with an act of pure madness.
My feet freeze in place as I watch her insanity unfold with her dance moves.
It’s Giselle.
The music climbs to a crescendo as she falls on the ground before leaping up on pointe again, swaying from side to side.
Blotches of blood explode on her feet, soaking the ivory satin ballerina shoes.
I gasp. “Hey, stop!”
She doesn’t. Her movements turn frantic, severe, and out of control. Blood mars both her feet, but it’s like she doesn’t feel the pain as she stands on pointe over and over again.
“Stop…” I sob over the loud music. “Stop it!”
She twirls away from me, her head tilting in irregular positions before it moves back into place.
Blood splashes on her fair skin and leaves stains all over the carpet.
I want to run to her, hold her, and make her put an end to this, but my feet won’t move. The marionette strings are keeping me in place and I’m unable to reach behind me and cut them.
“Stop it!” My voice is hysterical, on the verge of something even I don’t recognize.
She comes to a halt on pointe and turns to face me while still in that position.
My lips part at seeing her.
It’s me.
Or a close replica to me, anyway.
The face under the veil is the spitting image of mine. Bloody tears stream down her cheeks, leaving patches of red on her veil and her dress.
“Didyoustop?” she whispers.
A sickening crack of bones echoes in the air and her legs give out from underneath her.
“Nooooo!” I shriek.
I sprint toward her, but I’m yanked back by the marionette strings attached to my nape.
My eyes shoot open and I gasp with a sob.
For a second, I think I’m going to find myself in the midst of the blood, or that I’ll witness the break in her legs—the protruding bones or the bloodied, broken skin.
Instead, I’m in Jeremy’s bed, arms wrapped around his small body as he snuggles into me.
No music blares outside and nothing disturbs the peace.
A long breath leaves my lungs as I murmur, “It wasn’t real. None of it was.”
“What wasn’t?”
I squeal at the calm voice coming from behind me and slowly turn my head, my fingers still shaking, but I don’t release Jeremy. Ever since I hugged him this morning, I’ve been having this morbid need to protect him, thinking that if I fail to do so, it’ll be like losing my baby girl all over again.
Adrian sits in the dimly-lit room. Only the light from the phone that’s nestled between his long fingers is a break in the black. It could be because of the shadow the screen projects on his face, but he appears scarier now. No light present in his darkness. No escape. No reprieve.
