Page 4 of Daughter of a Monster

I move to second position.

Then third.

There’s a faceless head between my legs.

Fourth.

And fifth.

They come as easily to me as breathing. I repeat them over and over, never breaking eye contact with the ashen girl who stares back at me, mimicking my moves. It was something my therapist told me to do. Find something simple. Something rhythmic. Repeat it over and over again until my mind goes blank.

“First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.”

Gasping breath. Lips twisting. Moans of ecstasy.

My eyes snap open, focusing on the scar on my shoulder. The pale, jagged skin shines in the light cast across the room from the streetlight just outside my window. It almost makes it look silver.

“First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth,” I chant a little louder.

Ragged breaths. Rhythmic grunts. Muscles and sinew glowing with sweat, heaving over me.

Squeezing my eyes shut again, I try to will the vision away. “First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth,” I say, bolder. My counting increases its pace until my movements flow into each other in continuous motion. “First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth.”

My phone rings. I open my eyes. The girl staring back at me has flushed cheeks, glassy eyes and wild hair. Moving with heavy footsteps that belie my profession, I grab my phone. It’s my mother.

I take a deep breath so my voice comes across as calm and in control. “Hey, I can’t talk right now, I’m in the middle of—”

“We haven’t spoken in weeks.” My mother’s voice is weary. She’s been leaving messages for days. I haven’t returned any of them.

How do I tell my mother I want to forget her existence? How do I tell her that ever since she came back into my life, I wanted nothing more than to run away and become someone new?

How do I tell her I’m going to do it again?

“I’ve been busy.” The weariness in my own voice matches hers.

There’s silence. Painful silence. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy, chatty, perky even. But not anymore. Having your entire life destroyed can do that to a person. I know it’s not her fault. She is a victim even more so than I. But she reminds me of everything I want to forget.

“How are you?

“I’ve been busy.” I sound like a broken record. A broken record of lies.

“When are you coming home?”

Never. That’s the answer I want to give. I came here to escape, to become someone new. And even though it looks as though I won’t be able to stay here, the one place I know I won’t be going is home.

“I may not be,” I say it so quietly I’m not sure she hears. But then she sighs. It’s one of those sighs of disappointment. One that makes me drag my bottom lip between my teeth and bite hard enough to draw blood.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got a job,” I lie. “Tutoring.”

“But what about Marchand’s? I thought dancing was your dream.”

“I’m never going to be able to make a career out of performing, I’m not good enough, but tutoring would allow me an income and the chance to dance. And this job pays well. It will help.” More lies.

“You know there’s money there if—”

“I’m not touchinghismoney.” I spit the words out vehemently, disgusted she would even suggest it.

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