Page 7 of When Hearts Awaken

My body fights back, refusing to obey my mind. My positions don’t land, my footwork missing a few beats.

“I’m so proud of you.”Excitement and pride shone through Mom’s voice when I told her I got accepted into ABTC last year. There was relief in her statement, like she’d achieved the purpose of her life, and she died soon afterward in a tragic car accident.

Gritting my teeth, I hurl myself into another move. A pirouette I complete too quickly.

It’s supposed to be slow. Controlled. But I’m unraveling, as I always do in this role.

“This is atrocious, Taylor. And you want to be promoted to principal this year?”That’s what Madame Renoir would say if she were here, watching me butcher one of the most beautiful dances in the ballet.

You’re not worthy of Odette, Taylor. You’re soiled.

Fuck. Go away, Lochness Monster.Giving my inner negative voice a ridiculous name often helps with these thoughts.

“Iwillbe a principal dancer,” I yell, the words shrill, slicing through the night like an assassin’s blade.

“Have you ever been in love?”Madame Renoir’s words echo inside my mind, and my eyes burn.

Never again. Love isn’t for me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t master this dance or reclaim my body.

I let the anger always lying dormant in the base of my spine flicker alive and surge up my body—violence to offset the sorrow.

“Gentlemen, I didn’t disappoint did I?”The monster’s dark voice ghosts inside my brain, followed by a glimpse of blond hair.

A flash of light eyes—were they blue? Green? I can’t remember. A streak of red glints in my vague memory. The pulsing between my legs that night.

Sharp pain sears my knees and calves as I collapse onto the floor. Biting back a groan, I feel a familiar warm stickiness seeping from the scrapes. Blood. My breathing is ragged as I turn over to lie on my back.

Shadows of men in suits, but their faces hidden, flicker on and off like a broken television screen. They star in my nightmares, depriving me of sleep.

Fuckers, you can’t control me. Not anymore.

It’s been years. The past is in the past and it can’t hurt me anymore. While I’m no longer the naive girl thinking the world is my oyster and somewhere out there, I have a prince waiting for my Odette. I’m twenty-two and a damn good ballerina at the top ballet company in the country.

Fly Harriet.

The monster’s voice whispers words I don’t understand, followed by the pulsing sensation between my legs.It’s not real. These are trauma flashbacks. I know this from the self-help books I’ve read over the years.

I reach down between my legs and twist the small metal piercing through my tights. A VCH piercing I got for pain, not for pleasure. Tears spring into my eyes at the sharp pain radiating from my core. I don’t cry. I haven’t been able to since I was sixteen.

Better. Much better now.I rake in harsh pants of frigid night air. The shameful heat has receded, replaced with reassuring agony.

Pain as punishment. Pain I can control. It’s a grounding technique for me.

I control my body. No one can hurt me anymore.

My breaths are white puffs against the darkness, the icy gale from the outside sweeping in.

Slowly, I close my eyes, my fists balling against my sides.

I’m the white swan…Odette, I repeatedly chant to myself. But all I can see are the grotesque, black feathers sprouting from my skin.

Dirty. Inky blackness. Permanent. A chilling howl travels into the empty room as the music fades into silence.

I’m the white swan and Iwillbe promoted to principal ballerina.

Because my sacrifices…my family’s sacrifices, can’t be in vain.

Chapter 3

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