Page 1 of Daughter of a Monster

chapter one

BERKLEY

Sometimes I think they know. A stranger passes by with a lingering stare. Someone turns to the person next to them and whispers furtively in their ear. An eyebrow hooks in suspicion. I can almost hear their thoughts, their murmurs of disgust.

They must know.

But nothing can link me tohim. To that family.

Nothing but blood.

Water splashes up my legs as I cross the street, dousing me in droplets of mud. The city is depressing. Everything is gray. The streets, which I expected to be wide and teeming with life, are more like winding rabbit warrens with shops crammed into small spaces and walls of concrete towering either side, only showing glimpses of the sky. But at least here I can hide. There is no better place to blend in than where people gather in throngs. Here, I’m just a fledgling dancer. Insignificant. Unnoticed.

I sprint to the entrance down the alley, eager to get out of the rain. Pushing through the door, I shake the droplets of rain from my hair and pull the headphones from my ears. In the changing room, I tug my sweater over my head, push off my shoes and scamper to the dance hall, ignoring the aches and pains of my muscles. Trying not to attract attention, I join the group, lifting my leg to the barre and folding over myself to stretch. But Miss Marchand notices anyway.

“Late again, Miss Berkley?” Her voice lifts at the end as though her statement is a question, but I know it’s not.

I choose to ignore her. Closing my eyes, I lean backward, allowing myself to relax into the position and calm my breathing. My body complains as I force it into the familiar stance, but I breathe in the pain. It is my friend. My constant companion. But I can still feel Miss Marchand’s cold glare. After a while she sighs, deciding her chastisement was enough and continues counting as we change positions, working through the sequences of stretches.

No one talks. It’s the way it always is during practice. Miss Marchand likes to hear only her own voice.

Don’t speak unless spoken to.

Don’t move unless told.

Don’t breathe unless permission is given.

Those are the unspoken rules of the Marchand Dance Company and Miss Marchand governs with an iron fist. Due to her repeated rhythmic counting, we’re not even allowed to warm up at our own pace.

Not that I’m complaining. Far from it. I know how lucky I am to be here. Even if it is only as an understudy. Or the reserve for an understudy. I’m not even sure how far back in the succession line I am. I’ve never dared to ask. I put everything I can into practice and then head to the local supermarket and stock shelves all night before heading home and practicing in front of the mirror in my downtown apartment.

Dance. Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat. That is my life. And what I lack in talent and God-given ability, I make up for in passion.

“Miss Berkley,” Miss Marchand’s voice snaps me to attention. “Since you so clearly had better things to do other than arrive on time, perhaps you would like to show the class through the sequence we went over yesterday. A refresher, if you will.”

Dominic catches my eye. He winks, flashing a smile of encouragement. He’s the only one here who’s made any effort to befriend me. Not that I’ve made any effort either. I keep to myself. I avoid places and people I may know from my previous life. All I want to do is lose myself in dance. Nothing more. Nothing less. But there’s something different in Dominic’s smile. His smile is usually wide and open, but today there’s a hesitation, as though he’s holding something back.

Stepping to face the class, I take position directly in front of Miss Marchand and wait for the nod of her head. Even though my body aches at the thought of this particular sequence, I’m grateful for all the times I threw myself to the ground last night, attempting perfection. I never obtained it, but I am better than I was yesterday.

After a painful minute of silence, Miss Marchand nods and my body starts to move. I dance by muscle memory. I train through repetition. I may not be the most elegant dancer, but at least I know the moves.

“Insufficient,” Miss Marchand snaps. “Again.”

During my second attempt she informs me I move with the grace of a hippopotamus wading through mud. During my third attempt, she sighs dramatically. “For goodness sake, Berkley, stop panting. You sound like the backing track for a porno.” That earns a few chuckles from the rest of the company, but Miss Marchand’s stern glare is quick to silence them.

After my fourth attempt she tells me I need to do something with my breasts. They’re too distracting. I grit my teeth, lift my chin and prepare to do the dance again.

“Adequate. Barely,” is her comment when I finish the fifth attempt. Despite the burn of my muscles, I swell with pride. Adequate is a compliment when it comes from Miss Marchand. But my pride is short-lived.

“Now, Monique, if you would be so kind as to show us how it’s supposed to be done.”

There is no denying Monique is better than me. She’s one of the principal dancers. I watch in awe as she throws her body to the floor, not even a whisper of a thud to be heard. She’s as light as a feather caught in the breeze. She has more grace in her little toe than I can ever hope to possess within my entire body.

I lose count of the number of times we run through the sequence. My body works on autopilot, Miss Marchand’s voice becoming the backing track to my suffering.

The life of a dancer is wrapped in pain. I wake with stiff and sore muscles. Each day, I force myself to practice, force myself to repeat the same movements over and over again until my mind is numb and I no longer just feel the pain. I live it.

Dance is my torture and my relief, my sickness and my cure.

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