Up. Again.
I watch, transfixed, as she repeats her trauma. Reliving the moment Anton destroyed her, over and over, trying to rewrite the ending through sheer force of will.
Blood seeps through her pointe shoes. Fresh blood mixing with old stains.
She knows I'm here. I can see it in the way her spine straightens slightly, the way her shoulders tense. But she doesn't stop. Doesn't acknowledge me. Just keeps dancing, keeps falling, keeps trying to fix what can't be fixed.
After the tenth fall—maybe the twentieth, I've lost count—she finally stops. Stands in the center of the studio, breathing hard, swaying slightly.
"You should lock your doors if you don't want visitors," she says, not turning around. Her voice is rough, breathless.
"You're bleeding."
"I'm always bleeding." The words carry weight beyond the physical. "At least this blood is mine by choice."
She attempts another lift. Her ankle gives out completely. She goes down hard.
I'm across the studio before I think, catching her before she hits the floor a second time. She's lighter than she should be, all muscle and bone and stubborn will.
"Enough," I say.
She doesn't fight when I carry her to the barre, set her down gently. "I have to keep trying. Have to prove I can still—"
"You're destroying yourself."
"So are you." She looks up at me, those dark eyes seeing too much. "At least I'm doing it actively instead of hiding in a shrine for fifteen years."
The words should anger me. But I made peace with the truth a long time ago..
I crouch in front of her, examining her ankle. Swollen, bleeding through the pointe shoe. I untie the ribbons with practiced hands—muscle memory from fifteen years ago, when I did this for Elena after every practice.
"She danced in this studio every day," Sonya says quietly, looking around. It's not a question.
"Yes. I had it built for Elena when we married—she couldn't go more than a day without dancing, even pregnant. Spent every morning in there, sometimes afternoons too. Said it kept her sane in a new country." I pause, sliding the bloody shoe off her foot. "The day she died, she'd been in here that morning. Left her shoes by the barre like always, planning to go back after lunch. She never did. And I locked the door that night and haven't opened it since."
My hands work automatically, wrapping her ankle with the supplies I keep in the studio cabinet. The same cabinet Elena used. The same technique I learned watching physical therapists work on her feet, her ankles, the small injuries that came with dancing at that level.
"Tell me about her," Sonya says quietly. "About what happened."
I should refuse. Should lock this all away like I've been doing for fifteen years.
Instead, I tell her everything.
"Elena was everything I wasn't. Light where I was dark. Soft where I was hard. She danced like breathing—effortless, essential, beautiful." I trace Sonya's name on the mirror again without thinking. "I saw her perform here, visiting from the Bolshoi. One night, one performance, and I knew I'd do anything to make her mine. Spent six months convincing her. Flying to Moscow, sending flowers, promises I barely understood myself. She finally said yes."
My hands finish wrapping her ankle, but I don't move. Just stay kneeling in front of her.
I close my eyes. "When she got pregnant, we were happy. Seven months along, talking about names, about the future. I was downstairs in my office that afternoon, working on something that doesn't matter anymore. Heard a sound from upstairs. Found her in our bedroom, bleeding. Someone had stabbed her. Multiple times. Stomach, chest—" The words stick. "She was still alive when I got to her. Barely. Tried to tell me something but couldn't get the words out."
Sonya's hand finds mine. Holds it.
"My phone rang while she was dying in my arms. Unknown number. Young voice, Russian accent." I close my eyes, hearing it again. Always hearing it. "He said ballerinas are meant to fall. That Elena was art and I'd turned her into possession. Then he laughed and hung up."
"Anton," she breathes.
"I didn't know that for fifteen years. Had nothing except that voice, those words." My hands are fists now. "Elena died three minutes later, along with our daughter. Seven months—viable, could have survived if we'd gotten to a hospital in time. But I couldn't save them. Couldn't protect them. Failed them both."
"Anton kills because he's broken, not because of what his victims do."
