Page 5 of The Pucking Wrong Man

Someday I’d be the greatest ballerina the world had ever seen. I would dance on the stage with the New York Ballet and the entire audience would give me a standing ovation.

Everyone would know my name.

They’d throw flowers on the stage and they would love me.

I would make them love me.

A crashing sound echoed from the living room, and I scrambled up from the bed, preparing myself...just in case.

Tiptoeing to the door, I carefully placed my ear on the worn wood, listening to what Dad could be doing out there.

There was nothing but silence.

Maybe he’d just had one of his fits he sometimes got, when he thrashed in his sleep and made a mess, but somehow stayed asleep.

Another minute of listening, and I decided that must have been it, and I started to study.

After I’d finished, I got into bed, pulling up my threadbare comforter, my eyes growing heavy almost the second my head touched my pillow—one good thing about dancing for hours, no matter what, it was easy to fall asleep.

Tomorrow would be a new day...

My door slammed open and crashed against the wall with a bang that had me gasping for breath as I was dragged from sleep.

I blinked, trying to get my bearings, and when I did, I was immediately awake.

And terrified.

Dad was there, his body swaying in place as he stood in the doorway.

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move. Like he was a predator that maybe couldn’t see me if I didn’t move at all.

“Demon,” he growled suddenly.

I started shaking, because sometimes when he drank a lot, he started imagining things that didn’t really happen, and that was always when the worst things had happened.

Slowly raising my hands in front of me, I tried to calm myself and think.

“Dad, you should go back to your chair. Everything’s alright,” I began, keeping my voice as soothing as possible.

“Demon!” he raged, and he lunged toward the bed, his movements clumsy and erratic, the rest of his words slurred and incomprehensible.

“Dad! No!” I shrieked, trying to escape the covers that were tangled around my legs.

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him, his breath hot and putrid against my face.

“I won’t let you get me,” he spit, throwing me to the ground.

Dad fisted my hair, his knee digging into my neck. I coughed and thrashed under him, struggling to breathe.

“Dirty little devil. Demon!” he screamed, spittle showering my face with every word.

“Pl…ease,” I tried to choke out.

His foot connected with my leg with a sickening crack. Pain exploded through me like fireworks, and I crumpled to the ground, clutching my shattered limb as tears blurred my vision.

I blinked up at the ceiling as shock settled over my skin. He stood over me and leaned down, his breath reeking of whiskey as he glared down at me in disgust.

“You’re a pretty thief,” he murmured as he squatted down.

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