Page 98 of Straightened Out

Love is a bitch, but so is life.

The lights dim and the curtains rise as the orchestra begins to play. I’ve never been one for instrumental music, but listening to it now, associating it with Violet, well, it’s fucking beautiful. But it doesn’t compare to the beauty on the stage dancing in sync with every chord.

My pretty ballerina.

My saving grace.

My heart.

The one thing that makes living worthwhile.

“You did it, Bug,” I rasp. “You fucking did it.”

Chapter 33

Violet Cabrera

There have been times in my short life where I’ve endured immeasurable bouts of pain. Times when I wanted to give up on myself, on my dreams and even life itself. Times when the world was too ugly to bear. But I quickly realized those times when I wondered how I’d ever prevail, were in fact the times that changed me and made me stronger. The dust settled, the fear of failure faded, and hope was restored as I straightened my crown and pressed forward. I followed my heart and chased my dreams and tonight, one of those dreams came true.

I stood on that stage, under those bright lights and I danced my heart out. Me, the Puerto Rican girl no one expected to make it as a ballerina, danced for hundreds of people in Lincoln Center.

Lincoln-fucking-center.

I made it.

Despite the constant ridicule and body shaming. They said I wasn’t graceful. That I didn’t have the body of a ballerina. My hips were too wide and my ass way too round. They implied I was made to dance on tables and entice hard-ons from men with deep pockets.

But I showed them.

I showed them the girl with a broken heart and a desperate need to be loved by a man she can never have is stronger than she knows.

In the weeks since Rocco broke up with me, I’ve wanted to give up more times than I care to admit. I wanted to cry in bed until the pain faded and I wanted to beg Rocco to change his mind.

To choose love over fear.

Love over violence.

Me over the mob.

Of course none of that happened. His mind was made up and I knew in my heart there was nothing I could ever say or do to make him see things differently. There was no choice but to move on. To follow the path I had set out on before Rocco made me his.

I dried my eyes, laced my Bloch slippers and got to work.

Turns out the joke was on me all along, though. You see, when tragedy is a lead in your story the narrative doesn’t change. There may be a brief pause where you foolishly believe you’ve beat the odds, but it quickly fades, and you’re reminded that happily ever after only exists in fairytales.

My ears went from buzzing with thunderous applause to ringing from the sound of gunshots. I no longer am bowing for a room full of uptight fucks. Instead, I’m on my knees, on the steps of one of New York’s most historic landmarks, shielding the body of the man I love. I stare at my hands and watch as his blood drips from my fingers, acknowledging it’s the same shade of red as the hundreds of roses that filled my dressing room. I look back at the man who sent those flowers, the one struggling to breathe, and I press my bloody hands to the gaping wound in his chest. Our eyes lock as I lean over him.

“Stay with me, Rocco,” I rasp. His lips part but no words come, only the short breaths of a dying man. I press my hands deeper against the wound. Hysteria rips through me as I frantically shake my head, my eyes pleading with him as I cry, “You can’t die on me. I’m not done loving you.”

Every love story has an ending, but this can’t be ours.

The tale of the mobster and the ballerina doesn’t end like this.

Does it?

Chapter 34

Violet Cabrera

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