Page 8 of Obsession

Everything in my life used to be organized, from my studies to the passion I had fully committed myself to. I had wasted fourteen years of my life perfecting my art to the point of torture, dancing day and night, entering competitions, giving up my social life and dreaming of Julliard.

In just a few months I had ruined it all.

With my criminal record, I would never be accepted to such a prestigious college, even if I might have had a chance in the past. Contemporary dance made me feel free, my body escaped into another world where time and space disappeared. My mother took me to my first class when I was four. She was also the one who put an end to it.

I couldn’t even bring myself to look at my equipment because the memories became poisoned daggers. Not only had she let me down, but she had ruined everything I had worked for since childhood. She was the reason I fought so hard, even when it became too much, even when I wanted to give up. I remembered how much she trusted me and how scared I was of letting her down. My mother was an anchor, my whole existence was supported by her.

Not for a second did I think she would do what she did.

Her loss wasn’t the only source of my pain, the loss of my dream was one of them too. I had tried so hard to pull myself together, to not let her betrayal have any power over me, to stand on my own two feet and move on. My last attempt at dancing ended with me screaming at the top of my lungs and smashing every mirror in the studio. My emotional crisis caused a sprained ankle that kept me from dancing for two months.

By the end of that time, I had already discovered drugs and their cursed euphoria.

I became hard and aggressive, uncontrollable, and wild, but behind these explosive changes lay a broken soul. I had distanced myself from my friends and dance partners and joined a completely different group; a group that helped me forget everything, a group that injected euphoria and happiness into my veins – in the truest sense of the word. And finally, one that my father wanted to tear me away from before I got completely out of control. He had reached his limit when he had to take me out of the cell after I trashed that fast-food joint. Seeing me overdose, more dead than alive, ruined him.

I had ruined my dream, my body, my life. Now it was too late to fix anything, too late to erase what the pain had done to me. Some things just stayed forever – those fatal decisions that couldn’t be changed.

Sleep overcame me again, right when I had to get up for school. The thick curtains prevented me from seeing the sunrise, but I could hear my dad rummaging through the kitchen, so it was time to get up and face the music.

After showering, I changed into a black tank top and blue jean shorts, along with my beloved two-year-old sneakers. When I encountered the sun, I realized it would be very present today, so I ditched the leather jacket I had planned to wear. I’d straightened my dirty blonde hair, which really changed my appearance, even if it did not make me any prettier. All my imperfections were accentuated by this color. My puffy eyes made me look like a teenager who had been crying all night over a breakup, so I applied extra black eyeliner in hopes of covering up the ghostly image.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The reflection stared back at me, seemingly ready for what was to follow, strong and aggressive. Camouflage, because I certainly didn’t feel that wayinside. If there were any demons in pain anywhere, they looked like me. I took a deep breath and decided to listen to my exterior as I slung my backpack over my shoulder. Before I walked out the door, I told myself once more to be brave.

You can do it. Finish this year.

My father was waiting in the kitchen, breakfast was ready.

“Good morning,” he said with the same inexplicable joy.

After all, my father had fallen just as far as I did in the first few months. He used to be an unemployed alcoholic who was carried home by a friend he had just met in the bar until something brought him back to life and put that constant smile on his face. I would have loved to know what medication he was on, because it seemed to work better than my drugs.

“Good morning,” I greeted, sat down, and reminded myself that I had planned to be strong.

“Ready for school?” he smiled, placing a bowl of cereal in front of me.

“Mmm,” I mumbled and shoved a spoonful into my mouth. He started to laugh.

“You radiate enthusiasm.”

“Make sure you don’t catch it, you’ve been pretty sad lately,” I continued his sarcasm.

He blinked at me and sat down. I grinned to myself as I took another spoonful of cereal.

“Can I take the car today?” I asked.

I had wanted to discuss this topic for a while. My situation was scary enough without my dad having to drive me to school.

“No, I’ll drive you.”

I threw my spoon into the bowl.

“You’re not driving me to school, dad,” I spoke as calmly as I could, knowing that a temper tantrum wouldn’t get me any closer to my goal.

“I need the car afterward,” he continued eating, unfazed by my reaction.

Angrily, I blew air out of my nostrils.

“Fine, I’ll take the bus.”

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