They meticulously inspected every inch of my body, poking, prodding, swabbing, and taking photographs where they suspected evidence might be found. They even scraped under my nails just in case I had been able to scratch my attacker. It was the most invasive exam I’ve ever experienced. The most humiliating thing I’ve ever been through.
I’m so grateful to be home. Finally, after hours of questioning and going over the same details and finally getting nowhere other than I was last with Pierre, they allowed me to return to New York. Hopefully, through their investigation, they will find out who drugged me and find the person who brought me to the emergency room. I’d at least like to thank that person for saving me.
Wrapped in a cozy blanket on my couch, I stare blankly at the flickering images on the television screen. I haven’t been able to focus on anything other than trying to recall details of what happened to me, but my mind is completely blank. I can still feel the effects of the drug the person gave me lingering in my system, which is probably still clouding my memory.
Did Pierre do this to me? The cops haven’t been able to find him.
The sound of my cell phone ringing causes me to groan in annoyance. I grab it from the coffee table and let out a sigh when I see the caller ID. Talking to my father is the last thing I want to do right now, especially considering the circumstances. So, I silence it. If he’s calling, he wants something, and I’m not in the right frame mentally to deal with any of his bullshit. After everything that has happened, all I want to do is sleep and forget the last few days.
“I need to sleep.”
Before I can close my eyes and finally relax, a sharp knock on the door makes me sigh in frustration. I just want to be left alone.
I rise from the couch, my limbs heavy and stiff, and shuffle toward the front door. It has to be Dale.
As I look through the peephole, I expect to see Dale’s handsome face, but no one’s there.
As I slowly open the door, my frown deepens when I spot the single rose and black envelope with gold script. Instead of the usual giddiness apprehension fills me.
I pick up the rose from in front of my door, feeling its delicate petals in my hand, then the envelope, and close the door. Leaning against the door, I close my eyes and breathe in the unique sweet, floral scent of the rose.
I remove the card from inside the envelope and brush my fingers across the words printed in elegant gold script as I read.
Nothing compares to the beauty you possess and the grace you present to the world. But, most of all, the strength you carry is beyond anything imaginable. You are a survivor. Always remember that.
“I’m a survivor,” I mumble to myself. “Does this person know what happened to me? Did they do this to me?”
7
Arabelle
Los Angeles, California
Three Months Later
“Again, Arabelle!”
The sound of Madame Rostova’s intricately carved walking stick resounds on the concrete floor, perfectly in sync with the music. Her thick Russian accent fills the air as I catch a fleeting glimpse of her in the mirror. For the past twenty minutes, she’s been fixated on this section of the performance, her unhappiness apparent in her expression and relentless criticism.
Madame Rostova is an old-school hard ass. She’s a prima ballerina from the fifties who danced with one of the most elite Russian companies. I was introduced to her about two years ago through a mutual contact on the ballet circuit, and she’s been my dance instructor ever since. Almost every day of the week during the offseason, I train at her Los Angeles dance studio.
“Focus on the quality of your movement, Arabelle.” The pounding of her cane echoes again. “Pay attention to details! It’s all in the details! If you aspire to be great, if you aspire to be principal dancer, you need to earn it!”
As I repeat the same motions over and over again, the pressure to meet both her expectations, and my own, becomes overwhelming, causing an intense urge to scream and to rip at my hair.
Earn it! Goddamn it! All I’ve been doing since I was a kid is earning it! I want to scream, but it would all be in vain. She’s not here to listen to me complain or argue. Ever since I started working with her, my dance has seen remarkable improvement. So, without objection, I push myself, feeling the strain in my muscles.
Harder.
Faster.
Higher.
Perfection is what Madame Rostova wants, and although I know I’m far from perfect, excellence is what I aim for with every jump, with every spin, and with every movement of my body. While perfection can’t be obtained, in my opinion, it is possible to get close to it. That’s the story I’ve been telling myself as far back as I can remember.
We’ve been going at it for close to two hours. I’m okay with practicing because there are always areas I can improve on. I’m not one of those dancers who believes my ability to captivate an audience comes naturally even though I’ve been told most of my life what I do can only be done by a natural. A prodigy. But I believe that it only comes through hard work, and it’s something I’ve been working toward since my childhood.
However, no matter how much I love what I do or how much the ability comes naturally, I need a break. I need a long vacation because, during the offseason, I still have little time to relax. Mymind and body are running on empty, and it’s been that way for a long time, even though I’ve refused to acknowledge it. I never believed I’d ever get burned out with dance, but I think I’m getting close.
