Page 83 of Feed Your Fiends

Didn’t you want to obliterate Gant publicly, like how he publicly humiliated you? How much of a stab to his ego would it be when you denied meeting his father as his girlfriend, but met him instead for business and blackmail, all behind his back?

You could go through his phone. Send a voice note from Gant’s number to get his attention and prove that you aren’t just some random but that you want to become one. You want the check, and you want out of his son’s and the Auclair’s lives for good now that you’ve given them their answers, and they’ve given you your money.

Out of Gant’s life…

A nagging question prods at me. Did Gant really have nothing to do with the pointe shoes getting into the theatre? He’d never lied to me before. Omitted, but not lied.

He told me to my face that he wanted to torture me, shatter me.

He said how much he loathed my parents.

He said he wouldn’t fuck me until he was buried in my heart.

He said he’d do anything to keep me, including driving around Little Wing to find me, although just sitting in a car was unbearable for him.

He promised me he would never let me go. No matter what.

So far, he’d kept his word. So why would the shoes be any different? Then again, the shoes themselves are only a minor detail in this game he’s started. I shake my head. The details don’t matter. He started this, and I have to finish it. That’s what matters.

Claim the reward, publicly,Rin chants in my ear.Let everyone know that Gant’s beloved girlfriend only went back to him for the reward. All the humiliation of the play, all those nasty taunts including Beaussip’s, will vanish when they see who got the last laugh. You.

And when I laugh, I glance around Gant’s private dance studio, playing house with him will end. I’ll finally find my home, my place in the world, because I’ll have everything I need and desire.

Money.

Security.

A dance career?

I gaze down at my pink satin slippers, the same pair I hadn’t worn in years. The same pair I thought I’d never have to put on for a class again. They were still a bit snug from my residual swelling.

“Thirty minutes of dance a day. Soft slippers only. That’s all you get this week.”

And next week, when I’m back at Beaulieu? How do I expect to confidently face Gant after I cash out? Surprisingly, Gant is the least of my worries. Would I even be able to stay at Beaulieu?

Headmistress Cardot contacted me a few days ago as PR control, no doubt, excusing me from pointe class for two weeks when I return.Just two more weeks and three days. That’s all I have to make this work. To heal.

I look at the digital clock above the mirror. Thirty minutes, or I’d swell so badly, I’d begin to float.

The soft music of the Sugar Plum Fairy drifts through the speakers, and as I begin, so does the pain. It shoots through me at the first petite allegro, and I stumble, catching myself with my palms. But as I catch my breath, I’m hit with a sudden realisation… I don’t feel anything. Nothingness courses through me as I gaze at my feet that are waiting for me to get up. So what was that? Pain? Or fear?

I start again, and so does the agonizing sensation. Millions of pinpricks stab through my toes, and my knees buckle, desperate for me to get off my feet and stop the damage. I crumble, chest heaving against the Adiago flooring, but as I press my cheek to the vinyl, there it is again, that feeling of nothingness.

Up. Get up.

My trembling fingers clutch the remote, and I restart the music. I make it thirty seconds in before I swear my slippers are growing wet. That’s what causes me to slide, but when I look down, the satin’s perfectly dry. Perfectly pink and not red.

I swat at my sweaty neck and get into position again.

And again.

And again.

Ground yourself in reality.

The lights are white and soft. Not harsh and blue for Cinderella's wedding. There’s no audience. I’m all alone.

But my stumbling reflection in the mirror multiplies, stretching out like a crowd before me.

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