Page 157 of The Breaking Pointe
it.Though his expression is a tantalizing one, he doesn’t pull away.
“I won’t yell at you, either.The last thing you can do is make me angry,” he says into my stomach.“And if you don’t believe me, I’ll keep doing what I have to do until that idea has been erased.”
I place my hands over his head, digging my fingers through his locks and pursing my lips together as he stays there.
“What if you change your mind?You’re bound to get tired of this at some point.That’s exhausting to have to do, Colton,” I rebut.
“Making you feel loved is not exhausting.Feeling unloved is. Trust me, I would know.” He persistently speaks into my belly, squeezing my sides.
Why argue with the truth? It is exhausting, and no matter what I say, he’ll find something to do or say that goes against all of my excuses. What good is there in trying to make him stop? He’ll get tired, and wear himself out. I won’t have to make him leave if he does it on his own.
* * *
Standing in the corner of the stage, every memory of being on it before teaching the girls floods back into view.The cold, hardwood is different from the studio’s.Not as hollow, and uncomfortably more firm, yet dauntingly familiar. The mirrors here reflect my silhouette easily, but additionally, they reflect every ounce of emotion that’s been coursing through my body since I arrived. I can feel my toes almost cramping with how hard I’m curling them inside my pointe shoes.
I take one big, deep breath, melting into the music—giving it permission to pull me in.
I begin with a few graceful pirouettes, spinning slowly at first, feeling the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. My arms extend like delicate wings, and every leap becomes an expression of the freedom I’ve so desperately longed for. But the more I move, I can feel every part of the rehearsed choreography slipping into something deeper—something more sinister.
Every plie’, every saute’, is becoming fueled by a blend of determination and desperation. I’m now pushing my body to its limits, battling fatigue with each grand jete’, making my heart race with the rhythm of the music. I know in my heart that the choreography isn’t meant to be interpreted with anger, rather it should be a celebration of movement— but my body feels like telling a different story today.One that feels more real to me, and every depended stretch is making sure I remember every little detail in order to do so. Slipping into the next combinations, my body flows with every movement until my composure is weakened.
And so, the blurred vision takes over. So does the weight of my past.
There’s a theory that when you perform certain moves, the muscles inside of you can stretch in a way that releases long term pain from trauma.It opens you.I’d like to describe this moment as such, but it feels deeper, more intrusive. The moves are straight forward. Every muscle pain recalls moment of what I claimed to be tenderness. Moments that had all turned toxic, lies masked by pretend love, and the silent guilt that expressed itself through grave silence, all these years.Thisis how easy my jobbecomesa wasteland,
instead of a beloved dream. It isn’t always this way, but at this time, it’s no longer
about the beauty of performance for me, but the raw truth of my experience.
I can only convey that on the stage.I’m hungry to learn how to convey it beyond such a small space.
The melody intensifies, instigating my already heightened emotions.Ileaphigher,butmybodyfeelsasthough it’s hanging onto several anchors, pulling me back down. Somehow the sorrow finally explodes within me.In the midst of an intricate sequence, I stumble into my landing, losing my balance—taking an ill-fated turn that almost mirrors my life. Crashing into the floor, the impact echoes through the empty building, and so do my whines of pain. Rather than brushing it off, as they tell us to or how I tell my students, I lie there and soak it in.
My sobs have finally broken through the dancing facade thatIhadworkedsohardtouphold.AsIlieinplace,I feel every ache and bruise from not only the fall, but every fall before, and not just that, but every blow that Daniel successfully struck upon me.Maybe this was supposed to be a moment of release—a culmination of everything I’ve been holding inside—but it feels like my gut is being stabbed and twisted.I’m no longer a petulant, little ballerina, curious about the Big Apple.I’m not that girl anymore who only used dance to express what words could not, reclaiming her narrative with each new dance, but now I’ve been robbed of every outlet. I miss the will I had when I first got on the plane to be here.
I need to rise up.I’m not that girl, but I’m someone. Wishing simply wounds the heart, and if I find the girl from
the first plane ride, maybe we can be one again. Just better, and smarter.
* * *
Trudging to my front door, I wrestle in my bag to get my keys from the bottom.Just in time for my thighs to begin burning and my ankle to start throbbing from the tumble I took earlier.All of which I will not be disclosing to Colton because he’ll insist on relaxing instead of having a fun night where we forget about everything that’s negative and focus on us. I love when we do that. That’s when it’s least about me.I have more chances to make it about him and forget that I’m even a living organism. Life feels good when I can do that.All I need to do is take a high speed shower, and then change before he gets here.
Pullingmykeysfromthebottomofthebag,theyfly out of my hand and onto the concrete.Sighing heavily, I kneel down to grab them, and suddenly a sharp meow slices through the faint hum of the city around me, the blistering winds of the night feeling like a jagged blade.
My heart jerks in my chest as my head rises to the window beside the front door to see the curtain wafting into the outside, and Chucky sitting on the window sill. His eyes are wide, staring down at me as if it was me who has surprised him.
“Chucky?Your mother better be home, or you have got some serious explaining to do about this window being open, you little orange cotton ball,” I say, taking a deep breath asI stand up and shove my key in the door and rush inside.I march to the window and retrieve him before instinctively
reaching out to fix the curtains and close it—all while trying to ignore my heart skipping a few beats in the process.
“Hey, Lauren?Are you here?”I call, setting Chucky on the floor before setting my things down on the couch, waiting for a response. Nothing but an icy chill runs down my spine. I’m alone, but there’s a presence, and it isn’t just mine—
somethingisoff.Whyisshenotfuckingsayinganything?
Looking around the empty living room, I reach in my bag and get my phone, seeing a few missed calls from Colton.
“Shit…” I mumble, walking into the kitchen aimlessly as I unlock it to go to my messages.
