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I deleted my Instagram account and all of my socials to get a reprieve from the outside world and the press.
Stephanie and Philippe have been calling and tried to visit, but I avoided their advances and changed my number. They’re associated with the world I can’t go back to. Seeing them and talking to them would only bring that fact to the forefront of my head.
Besides, after my injury, the entire crew had to start anew and delay the opening. I bet Hannah is ecstatic to play Giselle instead of me.
I lean against my crutch, facing the closet, looking at all of my leotards, tutus, tights, and ballet shoes. I don’t know how long I stand here, staring at the evidence of my ended career, but it’s long enough that my injury under the cast tingles.
Then I charge inside and bring every last piece of clothing down, tossing the hangers and the shoes. I try ripping the leotards with my hands and lose my balance, falling to the floor. I crawl to a drawer, yank it open, and grab the scissors. Then I cut through every piece of ballet clothing, destroying the muslin and tulle and everything I once considered beautiful.
I kill the remainder of the dream that was murdered for me.
Maybe this will help me get free. Maybe the walls of my apartment will stop closing in on me as if they’re monsters. Every corner of this place reminds me of ballet, of dancing, of rehearsing on my own until I exhausted myself.
When I first got this place with my extravagant salary, I felt proud to have a place of my own, to have accomplished this with my skills. But now, it feels like my custom-made hell. One I can’t escape.
I need to kill all the memories associated with ballet so I can live. So I can find another path for myself.
Even if the idea brings burning tears to my eyes.
Due to my injury, my contract was terminated with the New York City Ballet, and although I got a generous compensation wired to my bank account, I couldn’t care less about it.
I have a small fortune that’s able to sustain me for a long time, but it was never about the money for me.
Ballet was my defense mechanism against my screwed-up head. Now that I don’t have it anymore, how am I going to stay sane?
The front door clicks open, but I don’t stop ripping through the clothes. It isn’t until a shadow falls over me that I finally look up. I figure it’s Adrian, but it’s daytime and he never shows up before nightfall.
Yan stares down at me with a softened expression. It’s not exactly pity, but it’s something more subtle. I don’t ask why he has the code to my apartment since Adrian must’ve given it to him in case of an emergency.
“Don’t even try to stop me.” My voice is brittle. “I need to do this to get it out of my system.”
“Want me to help?”
My lips part. “Would you?”
“If you’d like.”
“Can you bring them all down?”
He gives a curt nod and methodically knocks down every hanger, skirt, leotard, tutu, and shoe. He even pulls out the drawers with my glitter makeup and jewelry, surrounding me with them.
As he does that, I cut through everything in sight, slicing it all to shreds. Yan stands there watching me with his eternal cool.
By the time I’ve cut through most everything, I grow lethargic, my anger and grief slowly subsiding. Yan is still in his usual position, hands crossed in front of him.
“Do you think I’m insane?” I murmur.
“I think you’re just in pain.”
I sniffle, even though there are no tears. I cried enough for a lifetime the day Adrian saved me from my own mind and hugged me. He held me like he wanted to protect me, like protecting me is his mission in life.
“Can you get rid of these?” I ask Yan.
“Will do.”
“The awards, too. I want them gone.”
“If you want.”
