by Kitty Thomas
“Relax,” he whispers in my ear.
As if that's even a possibility. Having a psycho light a match near you while you're blindfolded isn't exactly something that inspires relaxation in most normal people.
“It's your birthday candle,” he says. “Now, I'm going to remove the blindfold for a moment so you can see your cupcake. If you turn around to look at me, you will be punished.”
Punished. I don't know what that means, but I don't want to know.
“Will you turn around and try to look at me?” he asks.
“No, Sir. I don't want to die.”
“I didn't say I'd kill you. I said I'd punish you. Or maybe report you. I know you just murdered someone last night, but this obsession with killing is just unhealthy, Ms. Lane.”
There’s suddenly a flash of knowledge that pops into my head—like that creepy unexplainable psychic intuition people sometimes get. And maybe I'm wrong about this, but I have the sudden very strong feeling that he's already taken a precaution. Maybe he has a ski mask with the mouth cut out to allow unobstructed speech.
I just don't believe he would take this risk with me. He wants to know if I'll turn around and try to find out who he is. If I do that, and he's wearing a mask, I won't have any greater knowledge, and there will be another price to pay for the disobedience.
He removes the blindfold, and I use every ounce of discipline my training has afforded me and resist the urge to turn around. I look straight ahead at a chocolate cupcake, with light pink frosting and a small red candle on top.
He leans close to my ear. “Close your eyes, make a wish, and blow out the candle. But don't tell me what it is, or it won't come true.”
What the fuck is happening right now?
I should wish that this man didn't know my secret. I should wish to be free of whatever demands he may make of me. But I can't waste my wish on that. I wish for what I always wish—every year since my fourteenth birthday. I wish to be a principal. I wish to be the star.
I know it's an inane ritual, and wishing for the same thing for the tenth birthday straight isn't going to make it more likely to happen, but still, I wish. Because you just have to.
He secures the blindfold back around my eyes, and then he feeds me the cupcake. This time it's more intimate. It's not a fork, it's his hand... his finger pressing a bit of the pink buttercream frosting into my mouth. It tastes homemade. Did he make the cupcake, too?
I only worry for a split second that the cupcake is poisoned. But I'm now more concerned about something else. This feels like a seduction. And I don't want to think this thought, I desperately don't. I want to shove it back into the dark pit from which it came, but I can't stop it. His voice is sexy. Like... panty-melting, rough gravel. An auditory fucking orgasm. A throbbing need starts between my legs at this observation.
I am deeply disturbed. I know this. There are no more excuses now. After killing someone and then just going about my day the next day, and now finding someone who is basically my part-time captor, sexy, I really should be committed somewhere with soft padded walls and a nice calming view of a tree.
I don't even know what he looks like. I do know he's young. Maybe in his thirties? I can tell now that his voice isn't being magnified by a sound system. This psychopath is going to kill me or hurt me, and I'm speculating about how old he is and how hot he may or may not be. Well, now we know. I would have been one of those stupid twits trying to help Ted Bundy.
“Stop thinking so much,” he says. “Just enjoy your cupcake.”
One might assume that it's only the high-stress situation that makes me not worry a cupcake and lasagna will make me too fat to move across the stage. But that's not true. I mean, sure, I can't eat pasta and sugar every day, but most dancers eat a lot more than you might think. We're burning a ton of calories every day, and we have a lot of muscle that keeps our metabolism revved at a high rate. Most of us eat a normal amount of food. Really, we do. We need the fuel.
A glass prods at my lips, and I find the liquid he poured into the new glass is water. I didn't even get a chance to glance at it while the blindfold was off. My hands are still on the table. I haven't moved them since I first placed them there. Because he told me not to, and it's just not worth it to fight him on that, not when he hasn't started doing anything horrific to me yet.
“Don't move until I tell you to move,” he says. Then there is more table clearing, something else placed on the table, and then he's gone.
In the silence that follows, the thought occurs to me... if he's really letting me leave this building and carry on with my life for the most part, and I truly believe he's part of the company—which I do—then this is a man I see nearly every day. This is a man I know. At least from a distance. And it must be from a distance because I don't recognize his voice. So one of the principal dancers, or one of the choreographers or instructors who only works with the principals?
Several minutes have passed of me contemplating all this when his voice booms out over the speaker again. “You may take the blindfold off.”
I take it off. Sitting in front of me on the table is a black gift bag with gold tissue paper and gold glittery letters on the front that say: “Happy Birthday.”
All the dishes and the gun have been taken away. I try to shove away the thought that he has my gun now. I really don't think he's going to shoot me with it. And I haven't died yet from the food. No, he has far grander plans than a quick death for me.
“Open it.”
I pull the bag toward me, remove the tissue paper, and take out two large and clearly very expensive bottles of bath oil. The label reads “warm vanilla”. I know the principals are paid very well here, but even so, I'm starting to doubt this guy is a principal. I mean, why would he spend this money? What is this guy's game?
“On Wednesdays, before you come to me, I want you to take a bath. Use this oil, rose petals, and candles, and just relax until the heat leaves the water. I’ll know if you use the oil by scent and the way your skin feels, but I can't know if you'll do the rest. It will be up to you whether you decide it's worth trying to lie to me, or just obey my orders even when I'm not there.”
Another long breath escapes me. It feels like a million years ago that I was crying, worrying about poisoned lasagna. “Why are you doing this?”
“Does it matter at this point? You are dismissed until Wednesday. When you go out into the lobby, you'll find a key on the counter of the concession stand. Use it to unlock the side door and lock it behind you when you come in each week. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?”
I sit, stunned. I still don't know what he wants from me. Specifically what he wants, I mean. I have some ideas, and I'm scared but maybe not as scared as I should be.
Padded wall. Nice calm view of a tree.
“H-how long?” I ask.
“As long as I want. Until I'm done with you.”
“And then what?”
“Then nothing.”
“You won't report me?”
“If you obey me? No.”
“What will you...”
Before I can figure out how to phrase my question, he says, “No more questions. Go home, Ms. Lane. I'll see you Wednesday night at nine.”
The spotlight shuts off, and I'm left in darkness. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I see the darkness isn't total. There are red glowing exit signs, and the floor guide lights, and a few other small out-of-the-way lights I didn't notice before under the overpowering glare of the spotlight. It's just enough for me to see the outline of my things on the stage floor. I gather them up, stuff them in my bag, and leave as quickly as I can, afraid every second that he will grab me, that he will touch me now that his identity is shielded by so much darkness.
But nothing happens. I barely have the presence of mind to grab the gleaming gold-colored key on the concession stand counter on my way through the lobby. The metal side door clangs and a gust of cool air hits me when I step outside. I run full-ou
t to my car, lock myself inside, and get the fuck out of there.
3
It's Tuesday night, and I'm exhausted. Part of it is rehearsals. Part of it is the emotional drain of what I did the other night, accompanied by last night's introduction to my blackmailer and jailer. It's putting a lot of extra strain on me, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get more than four hours’ sleep last night.
I spent all day today at rehearsal trying to figure out who this guy is. The principal dancers cluster together and keep to themselves, but I need to know if one of the male principals is my blackmailer. Or is it one of the instructors or choreographers? It's not Mr. V. Obviously. I know his voice. And this guy is younger.
All day I wondered if my blackmailer was right in front of me, quietly mocking me.
Henry pops in a DVD, pulling me from my thoughts. The movie starts. We're sitting in my living room: Me, Henry, and Melinda.
“Oh God, no, not this one again. I hate this one!” I whine.
“Nope, you have to. It's the start of the season, and we have to watch this movie. It's the ballet movie we all love to hate. It is our forever frenemy,” he says.
“It's like a hate fuck,” I say.
“YES!” Henry exclaims, shoving a bowl of popcorn onto my lap. “You hate it, but at the same time, it's so good.”
I know he brought the DVD to make us watch the bonus features. We're about halfway through the movie when Melinda says “I fucking hate her mother. What is wrong with this woman?”
“Oh, I know!” Henry says.
“Cue fragile emotional meltdown and stereotype of the uptight repressed ballerina,” Melinda says, sounding dramatic and distressed.
“Drink!” I say. Because we all drink every time this girl has some meltdown. “Where does that myth even come from? Like bitch, please, try living one day in my life and tell me ballerinas are these delicate fragile flowers about to fall apart every second.”
“They do that to the men, too,” Henry says.
“Not really in this movie,” I say. Which is probably why he likes it. The stereotypes are all on the girls this time.
“I mean in general. Like there is this assumption of weakness in men who dance ballet. And that we're all gay.”
“You are gay,” Melinda says throwing a handful of popcorn at him.
“Yeah, but I'm one of only three out of the whole company! I want a refund. I was sold a lie!”
In spite of the fact that tomorrow is Wednesday and all that may mean, I can't help laughing. I can't help trying to hold onto this moment where everything seems good and normal.
“Besides, the male dancers are always touching the female dancers pretty intimately,” Melinda says.
“If we had any other job, and our male co-workers touched us like our partners do for some of these lifts, it would be a sexual harassment scandal,” I say a little loud because I always get a little loud when I drink.
By this point, the movie has been drowned out with our rants about dance politics and how non-dancers will never understand us.
“When is Conall coming home?” Melinda asks suddenly, completely killing all the joy in this night—even though she doesn't mean to or even realize she did it.
My mind goes to the grout in the master bathroom. I'm like a hamster in a wheel with this grout issue. And I feel like I've got a guilty look on my face, but we're all drunk and nobody will notice. Right? “He said a few weeks.”
“Has he called?”
“He never calls when he's out of town.”
“I bet he's with that whore he named the boat after... what's her name again?” Henry asks.
“Stella,” I say. “And probably.”
“The Delectable Stella,” Melinda clarifies, as if this clarification needs to be made. “What kind of piece of shit takes his mistress on a not-so-secret vacation on his wife's birthday? And at the start of the dance season.”
“Conall does,” I say. “Anyway, I hate for him to watch me perform. He makes me nervous. He doesn't get ballet, and he gets weird about Henry. He thinks we've got something going on.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Must be that magical sexual orientation altering vagina you've got.”
I laugh out loud at that and punch him in the arm, causing him to slosh tequila onto the sofa. I'm glad we're off tomorrow. We all know we can't be drinking like this during performance season. We have to be focused, but it's a last hoorah before everything kicks off. It's not that we never have alcohol or go to parties during the season; we just try to keep it to a minimum. We need to be in top performance condition—like any professional athlete—which is ultimately what we are.
“I don't understand why you're still in the corps,” Melinda says. “You're one of the best dancers in the entire company. They're idiots for not promoting you. Who did you piss off?”
I've often wondered the same, but it's nice to hear it from someone else, to know I'm not delusional, thinking I'm better than I truly am.
I wake on Wednesday morning with a jolt and heart palpitations. It's like my body knows even before I'm fully conscious that I have to go back to the old opera house tonight and confront my blackmailer again. I wish it was money. I wish I could just drop some amount every week in a paper bag and leave it by the back door.
I take several long, slow breaths and try not to cry, but the tears come anyway, sliding down the sides of my face onto my pillow.
What is he going to do to me? Who is he? Is he going to hurt me? And in all honesty what I mean here is: is he going to hit me? Is he a violent man? I don't really have the mental real estate right now to berate myself for my physical reaction to that voice. I know I shouldn't have this sick attraction, but a part of me is grateful for it and hope it lasts because that's better than the alternative.
There’s already so much that weighs me down that I'm not going to blame myself if some part of me wants this man. I killed my husband, and I don't feel especially guilty about that. So I've pretty much left the realm of normal socially acceptable behavior. I'm already a stranger to the world and to myself. What's one more thing?
But I am afraid he'll hurt me, like Conall hurt me. Kicks and slaps and punches—always in places no one can see the bruises—aren't a theory to me. I know what it feels like, and if this man is going to do those things... if I freed myself from one brutal monster only to be abused by another... would prison be better? I don't know the answer to that. I just want to dance. And I don't understand why that has to be so fucking complicated.
His threat of punishment Monday night surges back into my memory. What does that mean? I know what it meant when Conall did it. Though Conall never said he was going to punish me. He didn't use those words. He just flew into a rage and yelled, and threw things, and hurt me. And he was never calm about it. This man—this stranger—was so calm that even when he used that word, even as my terror climbed, there was a stillness running through me under everything because I could feel the same stillness running through him.
I make bacon and eggs and sit quietly in the kitchen nook staring out the window at the birds crowding around the bird feeder as I eat. Then I try to scrub the grout in the bathroom again. Nothing I do matters though. Not even bleach. I can still see the faint stain of the blood.
Sometimes I think maybe I'm hallucinating it. But it's not as if I can ask someone to come over and tell me if they see the blood, too, or if it's just me.
I finally give up and leave the house. We're lucky to have a huge dance supply warehouse in the city. Yes, people can order stuff online, but some things—as a dancer—you really want to try on. Even if you know your size in a certain brand of leotard, unless the straps are exactly the same and the back is exactly the same, you want to try it on so you can get a feel for how you'll move in it. If something pinches or digs in somewhere, you don't want to spend hours dancing that way.
Trying on shoes is also smart because all the brands and styles are a little different. And I like to try on leg warmers personally be
cause some of them are just way too thick—and then I'm too hot. I like a lighter material—enough to protect joints and muscles until I warm up, but not so much that I have to get rid of them in the middle of class or rehearsal to not feel like I'm going to catch on fire.
I worry the entire drive to the dance warehouse that despite the size of the place they won't have the exact things I've been ordered to wear. But then I reason it's unlikely he'll call the police just because the leotard is the slightly wrong shade or cut. Right? I don't know what this man is capable of or how he defines the word reasonable. A reasonable person wouldn't make any of the demands or threats he's made.
Luckily, this is a wasted fear. Everything he wants is here. I try on and buy several medium gray and several plum-colored leotards with low scooped backs. I grab extra tights while I'm here because you can never have too many pairs of tights. I try on and buy several new pairs of canvas ballet shoes. Mine are falling apart and definitely aren't up to his code.
They have a new line of canvas ballet slippers that a lot of the girls in the company are switching to, and as soon as I slip a pair on, I know why. They hug my foot in exactly the right places, and give me room where I need it, but none where I don't. I can't wait to dance in them.
And even though I have pink leg warmers, I can't resist the siren call of more. And definitely more hip warmers. What the fuck, right? I mean I'm being blackmailed so... it's not like this isn't necessary shopping. It's the first time I've ever mentally defended a shopping binge with but I'll go to prison if I don't buy it.
I would probably be tempted to buy more pointe shoes if my shoes weren't all custom made for me and provided by the company. I have a hundred and twenty brand new pairs. I know that sounds like obsessive compulsive hoarding behavior, but most professional dancers go through a hundred pairs of pointe shoes or more in a season.
After the shopping, I pick up a bouquet of pink roses because I'm not convinced I can believably lie to him when he demands to know if I followed all his instructions. And it's not worth the possible cost.
