Page 45 of Dollhouse

“Enjoy it. I’ll leave you alone if you want to dance for a little bit.” She nods, giving me another smile before we say our silent goodbyes and I leave her to test her new studio.

She deserves it… but I’m not yet sure why I feel that way.

The crowd erupts into a cheer of applause as I complete my final performance of the night. The heavy red velvet curtain comes down from the ceiling, closing off myself and the rest of the dancers from the audience. I’m breathless and sore, sweat lining my body.

I can still hear the audience clapping from backstage and a wave of relief comes over me at the sound.

They’re clapping for me.

They’re cheering for me.

I’ve been with Ciel Ballet for a year now and have been the lead in every single recital. Tonight, the performance was of Romeo and Juliet, and of course I played Juliet. I was given the role without even having to audition for it.

I never have to audition.

Most of the other dancers here don’t like me. They’ve been here longer than me, yet they think I get special treatment. In a way, I guess I do.

For me, dancing is as easy as breathing.

Yes, I put in a lot of work, but I swear in another life I was a ballerina, and that’s why it’s so easy for me now. The other girls spent their entire life in ballet classes and preparing to move to pointe and become the dancers they are today. I’ve only had a year of professional dance lessons.

Three months was all it took for me to graduate to pointe, and by the time I reached six months with the company, I was preparing for my first solo recital. Willa says I was born to be a ballerina.

Thanks to her, I get to do what I love every day. Getting to dance and do something I’ve wanted to do since I was a child makes it all worth it. It makes all of the things that go on at home worth it.

Backstage, the other dancers mingle and talk amongst themselves. I have my own dressing room, and since they don’t talk much to me, I slip past them and go up the stairs that lead to my dressing room.

The moment I step inside, an eerie feeling comes over me when I see the vase containing two dozen white roses on my vanity table.

Always two dozen, and always white roses.

Gulping, I grab my sweater that’s hanging on the back of the door and pull it over my arms, suddenly feeling too exposed. I don’t have to read the card to know who the roses are from.

They’re fromhim. They’re always from him, always waiting for me in my dressing room after my performance. I get a lot of flowers after my performances, but he’s the only one who gives me white roses.

White because white symbolizes purity.

I find it funny, considering he knows that I’m not pure.

I’m standing in front of my vanity staring at the flowers when the door creaks open. I don’t need to look up to know who it is, I feel it in the air the moment he enters my space. My skin prickles, a shiver runs down my spine, and my stomach ties in knots.

He stands behind me, his fingertips trailing over the exposed skin on the back of my neck, his touch burning. “My little bird, you danced beautifully tonight, as always.” He turns me to face him, his eyes as dark as the devil’s.

“I thought you were away on business.” I’m disappointed he’s here. It’s been nine days since I last saw him, and he said he was going to be away on business and would miss my recital tonight. He’s not supposed to be here.

He studies my face carefully, his bushy black eyebrows pulling together in a deep V. “Little bird, are you not happy to see me?”

“Of course, I’m happy to see you. I just didn’t expect you so soon.” Lie. I’m not happy to see him.

With his next breath, he crushes his lips against mine, stealing a kiss I didn’t want to give. I wonder if he can taste the lies on my tongue. “Get changed. We have a long night ahead of us.”

* * *

The music stopsand I stumble, falling to my knees as I’m pulled out of a memory and back into reality. I roll onto my back, taking slow deep breaths to calm my erratically beating heart. I remind myself that it’s just a memory and I’m not with him anymore.

He’s dead, and I’m free from him.

Sitting up, I raise my right hand to trace over the scars on the back of my neck and on my left shoulder that are hidden beneath my butterfly tattoo. The scars that he left on me.

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