How much longer am I going to be able to keep this up?
I'm supposed to be perfect. The applause is deafening.
I curtsy gracefully one more time, ignoring the insistent ache in my ankle. My smile doesn't falter as I tiptoe offstage and into the wings, the "good jobs" and pats on my back following me to my dressing room.
I can finally lose the pretense as I shut the door behind me and fall into the chair before the mirror, the image staring back at me looking perfect in stage make-up and make-belief.
My ankle is throbbing now.
Fuck.
The perfect daughter.
The perfect friend.
The perfect girlfriend.
The perfect ballerina.
The honest truth is that I'm none of those things, and the burden of pretending that I am is threatening to overwhelm me in a black cloud.
I'm suffocating.
I can't fucking breathe under the weight of it all.
A knock on the door breaks me out of my thoughts, and the perfectly styled head of Simon pops through.
"Hey, superstar." His smile is blindingly white. "We're heading out for drinks afterwards, are you joining?"
Can he see that the smile I give him back is absolutely fake? "Champagne is on me."
"Yes queen!"
He shuts the door again, and I quickly grab a wipe to take off the heavy makeup. Another night of pretending with people who I know for a fact don't like me. They're all just tolerating me, asking me to hang out because they think it will get them in with the directors.
I deserve every lead I get. I busted my ass off, I work harder than anyone I know. In my family, nothing but excellence is accepted.
But what happens after?
What happens when my ankle finally gives in? I will be some has-been twenty-five-year-old. Everything I've worked for my entire life will come crashing down in shards of glass, and I'll just be the daughter of people who are great.
Then I won't be anyone's shining light.
I can't let that happen.
So I get dressed in my designer boots with my ridiculously short, red dress, looking exactly like the person everyone wants me to be.
Desirable, exquisite, drop-dead gorgeous, successful. I laugh at all the fucking lame jokes my colleagues make. I play the part of the girl with the outgoing personality and the bubbly laugh.
I'm a liar.
I want to pluck the fake smiles from their faces and dig out the jealousy in their eyes with my nails.
Fakeness is the one thing I absolutely hate in the ballet world. You literally don't know who your friend is and who is silently wishing you would break your legs so they can take your spot. It's like constantly having vultures at your back, waiting for your demise.
I'm laughing with the others at something Simon says when my phone buzzes in my bag. Ben's name flashes on my screen, and I deliberately don't answer. Guilt gnaws at my subconscious, but I push it away.
My mother likes to say that we have to let men sweat a little, make them work for you. Plus, he didn't answer my texts when I asked him if he was coming to watch me dance tonight. It would've been nice to know my boyfriend is in the audience, especially since I told him I've been having issues with my ankle.
His response was: "You have everything, you don't need ballet anyway."
What boyfriend say that?
A fucking shitty one that I've been dating since my junior year in high school.
It wouldn't be easy to cut Benedict off. He's my security blanket, a fucked-up security blanket because I'm scared of the big bad world and I sometimes need him to fight my battles.
Benedict Cargill knows me. He knows what makes me tick. I will probably end up marrying him, maybe sooner than later, and our families will be intertwined. I will make everyone happy by marrying the senator's son.
Everyone but me.
The champagne is buzzing in my head. I only had two glasses. Probably because I only had an orange for the whole day.
"I'm going to call it a night." I smile at the group, who don't seem to show any indication of going home yet.
"Bummer!" Simon hugs me with one arm. "Do you want me to walk you to your car?"
"No, stay please! I have pepper spray and a mean right hook." My smile feels stiff. "See you at call time tomorrow."
I wave at everyone one last time before making my way out of the bar, walking around the building to where I parked my car.
There's a whistle that I ignore, hurrying up my steps.
I didn't lie when I said I have a mean right hook and I'm not scared to use it.
I was born and raised in this city, it doesn't scare me.
Yet I quickly glance behind me when I hear footsteps, only to find nobody there.
I shake my head, willing my heart rate to slow down. I'm being silly, I've walked these streets countless times before, and nothing has ever happened to me.
My pep talk to myself is rudely interrupted, though, when an arm suddenly grabs me around the waist from behind, slamming me against the side of the building.
A scream erupts from my throat, but my mouth is quickly covered by a hand.
The guy sneers down at me, his pupils blown out of proportion, the telltale sign of being high.
I try to twist out of his hold, but he is bigger than me and pins me with his lower body. Bile rises up my throat, and a tear threatens to escape from my right eye, but I writhe. I won't go down without a fight.
"Oh, you're a fighter." He laughs down at me. "Don't worry, I will make this quick, maybe just put
the tip in. I was just going to grab your bag, but you're just too pretty."
I scream behind his hand, only making him laugh harder, his free hand grabbing my thigh.
I'm in big, big trouble.
