Endless Love

by Nelle L’Amour

  Re-entering the world of ballet—Gustave’s world—was a rude awakening I wasn’t prepared for. Maybe I’d shined as The Firebird on stage, but I knew now that my performance had been fueled by pure adrenaline. I’d been away from the reality of what it took to be one of “Gustave’s girls” for almost a year. Along with the others, I was immediately put on a diet of music to nurture us. Meals were sparse, a bit of protein and some vegetables; nothing over a few hundred calories. While Gustave taunted us with the fine wine he drank at dinner every night, we were allowed none. I missed my dad’s delicious sandwiches, blintzes, and matzo ball soup. Within a week, I was definitely “elongating” to use Gustave’s pet word to mean I was getting skinny. My collarbone was protruding as were my ribs. I found myself chilled to the bone, having to layer myself with heavy sweaters, scarves, and leg warmers every minute of the day, including practice. It didn’t help that the massive chateau had poor heating, which Gustave felt kept us sharp and on our toes, no pun intended.

  The days were grueling—all work and no play. Breakfast was served at seven o’clock in the dining room, and by eight, we were in class, doing barre exercises and Pilates as well as practicing moves. Lunch was served at noon, and soon afterward, rehearsals began and continued until six or later if there weren’t any emergencies. And there was always something… a dancer coming down sick, straining a muscle, or having a catfight with a fellow ballerina.

  The only way I kept track of time was that we were constantly reminded of how many days away we were from the Paris performance. With each passing day, our warm ups and rehearsals became more grueling. On his ruthless quest for perfection, Gustave became more temperamental, more demanding, more intolerant.

  And with each passing day, I grew weaker, more depressed. More imperfect. My dancing wasn’t as good as it should be. Constantly, Gustave yelled at me and belittled me, criticizing every move while Mira, who had recovered from her foot injury and was playing my nemesis, the evil Black Swan, looked on with a smirk. My leaps weren’t high enough, my footwork not fast enough, my armwork not fluid enough. I became a body in motion without any meaning because I was losing belief in myself.

  As Gustave broke down my spirit, my body broke down in tandem. I felt dreadfully thin, my hipbones now jutting and my tummy concave. Every muscle hurt, and my feet were so sore there were days I almost couldn’t take another step. Not even the ointments, aspirin, or bandages at night could relieve the pain as Gustave worked me harder and harder to the point of exhaustion. My reflection frightened me. Gone was the spirited, determined, healthy girl who had arrived here. In her place, stood a gaunt skeleton of a woman with sunken cheeks, dark circles under her eyes, and veins popping along her emaciated neck.

  And I looked sad. Terribly sad. Something more was eating at me. Bringing me down. Destroying all of me. After so many years in this insulated world of dance, I had been seduced by real life. And by one special man, who I couldn’t get out of my mind or my heart. Ryan Madewell. My love for him was far greater than my love for dance. Deeper, more encompassing. I missed him so much and it frustrated me to no end that I couldn’t communicate with him. The way I’d left him with no closure or hope gnawed at me. Oh, God! What had I done? Regret filled every cell, every muscle, every bone of my body as my aching heart sank deeper and deeper, taking with it my joie de vivre, my joie de dance. I had made a terrible, terrible mistake leaving Ryan, the man I loved with all my heart and soul. The man who loved me as much as I loved him. Maybe more, if more was possible. Only the wise and compassionate Madame Kapinski sensed my emotional and physical turmoil, which was compounded by worry for my father, but there was nothing she could do. “Ma chérie,” she told me after one particularly hard rehearsal, “your dance career eez fleeting, but true love never ends.” She was right; it would likely be over by the time I was thirty, maybe sooner. Then what? Would my greatest love be my greatest loss?

  Hopelessness consumed me. I felt trapped in this castle, trapped in my own body. Rather than dreaming of curtains rising and standing ovations, I found myself crying myself to sleep every night, and shortly after darkness claimed me, the nightmare that had plagued me throughout my dance career returned to haunt me. It took place in a cemetery, the one my mother was buried in. Except instead of one tombstone, there were two. Hers and mine side by side. Stacked against hers, a bouquet of fragrant Asian lilies; against mine, a bunch of blackened, dead roses. And there I was—dancing on my grave—unable to stop, no matter how exhausted I was. As if I was cursed to dance until I dropped. Night after night, the dream recurred until the sound of my own desperate screams awoke me. Shaking to the bone and drenched in cold sweat, how I wished Ryan was next to me, to hold me, to comfort me, to love me.

  Unable to fall back to sleep in a bed that was as empty as my aching heart, my insomnia and depression took a toll on me in practices and rehearsals. I was on the edge of hysteria, the verge of collapsing. And then it happened, two days before we were scheduled to go to Paris, the first stop of our European tour, I did a pirouette in practice and lost my balance. There was no way I could stop myself from falling to the hardwood floor. Crumpled in a pile of tulle, I burst out in tears. Sobs wracked my body.

  While a number of my peers hurried over to see if I was okay, I heard Mira cackle.

  “Hahaha! You are so pathetic!”

  My tears fell harder, faster. Then, another harsh voice, thundered in my ears. Gustave.

  “Rehearsal over. Everyone dismissed.” He slammed his cane on the floor, the sound reverberating in my ears. “Get of here. Allez, allez! Now!”

  The air filled with the pitter-patter of feet scuttling out the room like frightened mice as I remained huddled on the floor, still sobbing. Then, another sharp bang of Gustave’s cane ripped through my ears.

  “Get. Up.”

  The two little words swirled around in my head as if they were foreign and I was trying to comprehend them.

  “Did you hear me?” Gustave’s voice grew harsher, louder. “GET UP!”

  Curling into a fetal position, I hugged my knees and let my sobs rock my body. As tears poured from my eyes, I could feel him looming over me.

  “There’s only one letter that separates a mouse from a muse. Which one are you, Willow?”

  I couldn’t get my mouth to form words. Not even one syllable ones. As I hugged myself tighter into a ball, he slipped the tip of his cane under a spaghetti strap of my leotard and tugged at it.

  “Well, which one?”

  I felt like neither. I felt like nothing.

  “Answer me!” His voice thundered with a mixture of impatience and anger. Then, with his cane, he snapped the strap, detaching it from the stretchy garment. The fragment crawled along my chest like vermin.

  “ANSWER ME!”

  My sobs only grew louder in heaving waves as red-hot tears burned my cheeks. And then—WHACK!—I shrieked. Oh the pain! Gustave had hit me with his cane! Rubbing my throbbing thigh with my right hand, I managed to lift myself halfway up onto my other elbow. My watering eyes met his. Madness flickered in his charcoal orbs, and without warning, he struck me again. This time harder. The excruciating pain radiating throughout my body, I cried out again.

  “Gustave, why are you doing this?”

  His eyes smoldered as a wicked smirk curled his lips. “Don’t you know? You need discipline. Or should I say need to be disciplined.”

  “W-what do you mean?”

  “You need to ask that?” His face darkened with fury. “I put so much into you, gave you a second chance…the opportunity of a lifetime… but you’ve lost your passion for dance.”

  My eyes stayed on him, my heart pounding, as he played with his cane, shifting it from hand to hand. Trembling, I scooted away from him, fearful he would whack me again.

  “Where do you think you’re going, my oiseau?”

  As I scooted back further, he followed me, taking long undeterred steps, his cane stamping the floor with each one. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. My heart
beat double time with each ragged breath, my sobs punching through my pained muscles, bones, and flesh.

  “P-please,” I begged tearfully. It was the only word I could manage.

  My eyes stayed on him as terror filled every cell of my being. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, his lips snarled. He breathed in and out of his nose as his face heated with a mixture of madness and lust. I’d seen this expression before and a new fear seeped into my veins.

  Then, a few feet away from me, he paused and turned his cane upside down. Relieved, I didn’t see it coming. In one swift move, he hooked my neck with the handle and hauled me toward him. I gasped in pain and in need of air.

  “You’re hurting me,” I choked out as he applied more force.

  Leering at me, he laughed. “You should be used to pain, my oiseau. It’s what a dancer’s life is all about. No pain, no beauty.”

  To my horror, he kicked me hard again, and as I winced, he dug the toe of his ballet slipper into my cheek, crushing it as if he was putting out a cigarette. As if I was to be disposed. Trembling with fear, I put my hands to my face to shield it.

  “Don’t worry, ma chérie. I would never harm that pretty face of yours. I need you to look flawless in Paris…unless you want me to replace you with Mira. My other sweet little muse would kill to play the part of the White Swan.”

  Quivering, I processed his words. There was no doubt in my mind he was still fucking Mira. And would bash my face if I didn’t acquiesce.

  “I-I want to dance in Paris, Gustave. I-I do.”

  His cane still hooked around my neck, he kneeled down beside me. He was wearing tights and a T-shirt that revealed every rugged muscle of his chiseled body. Between his powerful thighs, an enormous erection bulged. I looked away only to have him jerk my head forward with his cane.

  “Look at me, Willow. I have so much to offer you. Or have you forgotten?” Snatching one of my hands, he forced it onto his colossal cock and smiled wickedly. Bile rose in my chest and I swallowed hard to keep myself from vomiting.

  “Do you know what your problem is, my little bird?” he asked as he moved my hand up and down the curve of his thick, pulsing shaft.

  Biting down on my lip, I shook my head.

  “I think you’re distracted.” He groped a breast. “By that pathetic boy toy in New York.” He squeezed harder, eliciting a whimper.

  “N-no. He’s nothing to me.” He’s my everything.

  To my relief, he released my neck, setting his cane down beside him. My relief was short-lived. On my next breath, he gripped my shoulders and shoved me down onto the floor. My head hit the hard wood with a thunk as he threw my legs over his shoulders. Kneeling between them, he stretched the crotch of my leotard with his hands and sunk his teeth into the spandex.

  “Gustave, what are you doing?” I croaked as he moved his thick fingers to the small hole he’d made. SWOOSH! My legs shook as he ripped apart the fabric and then yanked down my tights to my ankles.

  “You need to be fucked. By a real man who knows how.”

  Oh, God. NO! Gustave Fontaine was going to fuck me.

  “P-please don’t do this to me.”

  “Shut up and spread your legs,” he growled, ignoring my plea.

  A mixture of fear and dread filling every cell of my body, I did as he asked. With my tights still on, my movement was limited.

  His lascivious eyes zeroed in on my folds. They lit up like spotlights.

  “My little bird, such a sublime ballerina-pink pussy.” He rubbed it and I froze, feeling nothing but numbness. “Still one of the finest and so beautifully preened.”

  Gustave’s ballerinas had to be hairless. No leg or arm hair, no armpit hair, no pubic hair. There was an on-staff Russian woman who waxed us regularly.

  His eyes narrowed as he stared at my mound.

  “Whoops! What is this?” Disgust colored his voice as he pinched a stray pubic hair that must have eluded the waxer. I held back a wince.

  Leaning into me, he bit off the stray. I couldn’t help a yelp as he spit it out with a pfftt. I felt so utterly vulnerable and vilified as he stroked the flawless surface.

  “Much better now. Perfection. You’re as smooth as satin.” A wicked smile lifted his lips. “Do you remember Mr. F?”

  Mr. F. I shuddered at the two words. It’s what he called his repulsive penis. Short for Mr. Fuck, as some of the other ballerina’s he’d seduced referred to it. My pulse in my throat, I didn’t respond.

  “Well, then, my oiseau, it is time you get reacquainted.”

  My eyes, wide with terror, stayed on him as he slid his tights down to his knees.

  His huge, veined, uncircumcised penis jutted at me. It had to be close to a foot long, much bigger and darker than I remembered it to be. Maybe he had it enlarged.

  “Say hello again to Mr. F.” To my horror, he put my hand to the hooded crown and forced me to rub the foreskin up and down. Both the touch and the pungent scent of it repulsed me. Nausea rose in my chest as he hissed.

  “And now, ma chérie, let’s dance.” Putting the searing tip to my entrance, he growled again.

  My heart galloped in my chest; my stomach twisted. My master was a monster. He was about to ravage me. Choreograph a rape. Panic gripped me. Oh, God! Think, Willow, think! Then, I eyed his cane to the left of me. His other big hard stick. My mind raced. I needed to distract him.

  “Kiss me, Gustave, and then come inside me.”

  “Oh, ma chérie,” he groaned, so aroused.

  Lowering his eyelids, he leaned into me, and as he crushed his vulgar lips on mine, I grabbed his cane.

  Not wasting a second—WHACK!—I smacked it across his hideous organ. The sound echoed in my ears like the climax of a symphony.

  Jolting, he roared out in pain. “You fucking cunt!”

  “You fucking monster!” I barked back. As he rubbed his swollen, beet-red cock and moaned, I whacked him again harder, bashing his balls. This time, he crumpled onto his side, writhing and cursing between agonized groans. With a victorious smirk, I leaped to my feet, pulled up my tights, and dashed out of the studio. Battling the pain in my thigh, I raced down a long corridor in my pointe shoes, making my way to the entrance of the chateau. Fortunately, it was dinnertime and everyone was in the dining hall. No one saw me or stopped me. When I got to the massive front door, I let out a sigh of relief that no security guards were standing by. They, too, must be eating dinner. Praying there were none outside, I swung open the heavy wooden door…Yes! Not one!—and darted outside.

  The blast of the mid-December air was a shock against my skin. The temperature must have been near freezing, and a thick fog blanketed the night sky. Shivering, almost bared, I refrained from hugging myself as I sprinted down the long winding, unlit road that led to the chateau. My teeth chattering, my thigh throbbing, I kept running and running. I had to escape this prison! That monster! I had to! I had to! I had to get home! I wanted to be back with my father! And above all, back with Ryan! My love!

  Charging out of the ungated property, I found myself on another long dark, desolate road. I had no idea where it led to or where I was going. All I knew was that I had to get as far and fast away from Gustave as I could. Every limb burning, my lungs on fire, I willed myself to keep running. Maybe with luck, a kind driver would pass by and give me a lift into Paris; it couldn’t be that that far. I had no money with me—nor my clothes or passport. But maybe, someone at the U.S. Embassy would take pity on me, get in contact with my father or Ryan, and help me get home.

  About a mile in, my wishful thinking came to fruition. I saw headlights coming toward me. Without thinking, I ran into middle of the road and waved my hands at the vehicle. Snowflakes, the size of silver dollars, began to fall.

  “Help,” I cried out, jumping up and down.

  The speeding vehicle, with its bright lights, got closer. My heart pounded with anticipation. Hope. As I stood in the middle of the road, still brandishing my arms and screaming for help on the top of my lungs
, it began to blizzard. The falling snow mingled with the fog, creating a dense white veil. The headlights got closer and closer, but why wasn’t the car or truck slowing down? Then it hit me… too late. Oh God. In my white leotard and tutu, I blended in with the chalky landscape like a snowflake. The driver didn’t see me!

  “Stop!” I cried out, the headlights a few feet ahead of me on the slippery road. A loud horn roared like a siren as the vehicle’s brakes screeched in my ears. Like a deer in the headlights, my unblinking eyes grew wide and I couldn’t move. My mind shut down and then—SMACK!—I was thrown a hundred feet, twisted in the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. A mangled heap of muscles and bones. The excruciating pain radiating from my head to my toes.

  “Oh, mon dieu!” I heard a husky masculine voice cry out as the vehicle door swung open. Heavy, rapid footsteps, crunching through piles of dead, snow-laced leaves, thudded in my ears.

  As I lay there on the icy road paralyzed in agony, the man rushed up to me and covered me with his jacket, mumbling something in French I didn’t understand. A Hail Mary? With the little that tethered me to this earth, I met his forlorn eyes.

  My consciousness waning, I watched him pull out his cell phone and, after punching a few numbers, talk rapidly into it. It was all mumbo jumbo to me as life ebbed out of me. I’d read once that you never know who’ll be the last person you see as death takes hold of you. As my eyelids lowered, I managed to reach for the necklace I never took off and rubbed the ballet slipper charm between my feeble fingers. My eyes closed. I was in Ryan’s arms dancing with him on a moonlit beach. I mumbled his name as the haunting Kol Nidre played in my head. And then the pain subsided. Blackness claimed me.

  I was no longer dancing on my grave.

  FORTY-THREE

  Ryan

  I lost track of time. If it weren’t for the Christmas decorations that lit up the streets, I wouldn’t have known what month we were in. It was mid-December. Somehow, November had gone by. Despite invitations from my parents, my sister, my bud Duff, and even Mel, I spent Thanksgiving alone. I had nothing to be thankful for. My email to Willow had gone unanswered. I was in a comatose state. A zombie. It was an effort to get out of bed. Or leave my loft. I even stopped seeing Dr. Goodman, which was probably a big mistake.