Page 41 of The Breaking Pointe

new year, old me

NOELLE

My arm extends out, feeling the space beside me and finding nothing. I don’t even want to open my eyes to look at the proof that he left me here in bed. I didn’t realize how much of an early bird he is when he’s not grieving or feeling distraught. Painfully, I open my eyes to a squint, enough to see the digital clock on the dresser beside the bed.

9:22

I groan the second that my brain processes the time, then push myself up from the bed to study my surroundings as if it’s my first time in his bedroom. Everything is neat and tidy, and it always smells like him. Everywhere. I wish I didn’t have to leave it. Ballet is always my number one. Before any man, or any friend, and before any other priority comes dancing. That’s something that has never changed since I was a little girl, yet the feeling is vastly different this morning.

My mind has changed. Everything about how I see ballet

seems so far from my reach. My insides are trembling at the thought of going to rehearse. Being that it’s New Year’s Day, I’m even more opposed. I don’t feel brand new, nor do I feel like I get to start all over. In fact, each of my limbs feels like it might fizzle and burst violently as soon as I show myself to the public eye.

Last night, Colton made everything feel like a dream—the way he always does. Before I could realize it, he altered my shitty day from a cold, nasty black cloud with bad news, into delicious homemade pot roast, an outdoor heater, and watching the ball drop on the patio together. In all the time I’ve spent here in the city, that was the closest I had ever felt to the ball drop. It’s just as large and sparkly as it is on TV as it is from afar. He was unfazed, but I, of course, was mesmerized. When I’m with him, there’s no such thing as wrong or not good enough. He’s motivated to make me smile, and when he does, it gives him a high. I can tell.

I should be happy, but I’m not. What if I’m a bad person for being ungrateful?

Would this be considered ungrateful?

Moving the blankets, I get out of the bed and search for my slippers with my feet while rubbing my eyes and embarking on my small excursion to the art room. It’s possible he’s not in there at all—but I know him.

He’s been waiting for the new year since Trey forced him into a break. It’s a quiet, peaceful morning, and it’s his last day before getting back into training for the new season. If he’s going to do anything, it’s gonna be spending time on being creative while he still has a chance. Not like he isn’t constantly doing that, anyway. I couldn’t channel the same artsy ideas as him even if my life depended on it. In another life, he is an architect, and

I’m sure of that.

Pushing the door open, softly, I step into the art room and see Colton’s bare back facing me as he hunches over his pottery wheel, wiping his forehead with his forearm and advertising his muddy, clay-ridden hands. My feet insist on staying in place so that I can watch him be himself for a little longer, without knowing I’m here. He’s in his most natural state, in his best element, and all the tension that he tends to carry around with him rolls off of his shoulders and gives him a break. When it’s him in this room, nothing can stand in his way. Demons don’t exist. Only he does.

That’s how putting on a pointe shoe feels to me. I know he knows that because he gifted them to me. We both know what makes each other feel the most authentic, but better than that— we both adore the authentic versions of ourselves.

I think we’re the first ones to do that for each other, and that’s beautiful.

Still pondering those thoughts, I take them with me while walking toward him and resting my hands on his shoulders. He freezes up and peeks over one shoulder, examines my fingers, then looks up at me, flashing a grin that holds a boyish charm to it.

“Don’t stop for me,”

I tell him, placing a hand over his head and noticing the dampness, his freshly lined up facial hair.

“Why not? Now that you’re here, I wanna pay attention to you,”

he says, kissing my hand”

Happy New Year, love of my life,”

he adds, kissing it in different places now”

How do you feel? I thought you might sleep in longer.”

“I’m better,”

I say, looking at the pottery wheel, as I lie, aimlessly”

I can’t believe it’s a new year already…”

His eyes tell me they know that deep down, I have a laundry

list of things I want to say, but zero confidence to say them all”

C’mere,”

he says, patting his lap as he swings his bottom half around for me to sit.

Taking his offer, I sit on his lap, disregarding any clay in the midst for the sake of being closer to him. He rests his hands away from me and brushes his cheek against my arm.

“Talk to me. You have more to say, and it’s written all over your face. Something is off.”

He calls me out.

Sighing, I shove some hair behind my ears and bring my hands together on my lap”

I wish I didn’t have to go to rehearsal. It makes me feel guilty that I feel that way,”

I confess.

“You don’t feel well. It doesn’t have to be a physical thing for you to not go, right? Can you like—call in sick or something?”

He shrugs.

One corner of my lips rises higher than the other, listening to his suggestion. It’s sweet, but he has no idea the consequences of missing even an hour rehearsal.

“It doesn’t exactly work that way.”

I shake my head”

Every rehearsal counts. I have to be there,”

I explain.

He nods back at me, lowering his head with each bob until he’s looking at our legs.

Taking one finger, I bring his head back to eye level with mine, pecking his lips before softly speaking”

Show me how to do it?”

I ask, nodding toward the wheel.

The darkness in the brown of his eyes suddenly becomes brighter and livelier as he perks up and swings us around. Abruptly, he moves me between his legs, placing me perfectly in front of the machine with ease. With his chest pressed against my back, and his arms cradled around mine—his messy hands find their home on mine.

“Press your foot on the petal. Like driving a car, it doesn’t

need to be hard. The lightest tap is just enough,”

he directs me. Glancing at the petal, I squint one eye shut, fearing the outcome of my foot against the metal platform. My toes push against it, ever so slightly, and immediately the wheel begins moving, startling me back into his torso. Quickly, I realize how serious he was about the sensitivity of the petal, and a snicker

slips out.

“Sorry—don’t think I’m stupid, please,” I blurt.

“You aren’t stupid, stop that,”

he commands, quickly kissing my neck and scooting us closer”

Keep holding your foot there. Leave it at that speed. Now we just need to mold our clay,”

he says, advancing our lesson by moving my hands onto the rotating clay, lightly.

The more he pushes my hands into it, the more I can see the shape of a pot growing between our hands. But more impor- tantly, I can feel him breathing onto my neck and discreetly stealing whiffs of my lingering perfume. He’s not even good at hiding it anymore. There isn’t one lick of shame in his yearning at all.

“Am I doing it right?”

I timidly ask.

“Mhm,”

he hums against my skin, holding his lips against the space below my ear.

The tension between us makes all my focus walk out of the room. My eyes fall shut as I lean back against him, feeling his embrace all around me—almost pulsating through my body the longer he holds me.

His touch knows exactly how to make me tremble and conform to his every advance.

“Just relax with it. Don’t be afraid of it.”

His words capture me, making me look at him.

Right as I turn my head, his lips are waiting for mine, and

catch them, connecting like a magnet as he leans his head in more, begging for me to kiss back.

And of course, I do, forcing a breathy moan to slip out of him. Constantly, he’s sending me reminders. Every time he gets the chance to intricately slip his charm into something, he will—all for another attempt to shower some form of affection over me. That is why I am in love with him. This moment is why I am in love with him. He’s transformed me into someone who’s wondered why people love to be in love—to wanting to be the subject of some romantic science project. Spoiler alert: he’s the scientist.

Needing a chance to catch my breath, I take his bliss away by pulling back to fully look at his face, lifting my foot from the wheel.

“I’m so happy the woman before me gave me a chance to experience you. How could someone be so ignorant and give all of this up?”

I quietly rile.

His eyes batter around, checking out my face while still stunned by the loss of my lips against his.

“I know that I’m not for everyone. But you stayed. You’re more than special to me.”

He squeezes his arms around me, mimicking a tight hug.

“You make it hard to walk away,”

I murmur, squishing the clay between our fingers and watching it lump up.

His body grows limp and his hands slips away from mine, resting on his legs. The tension between us alters with his body language. It’s discomfiting, and both of us can tell. Straining at the leash of his lingering silence, I wait for him to say anything at all, just to ease the feeling.

“If I don’t ask you this, I’ll just keep thinking about it.”

He talks at his lap.

I know where this is going”

Just say it,”

I respond, quickly.

He brings his head up and focuses his eyes on me”

Are we… gonna talk about last night?”

he asks, unsure.

The tension is now so thick, I can barely move”

No. I want to. But I can’t,” I answer.

He closes his partly opened mouth, pressing his lips together as he contemplates.

“Do you trust me?”

He retracts his confidence as he speaks.

Just. Be. Honest. He won’t hurt you for being honest.

“I do. Then, a lot of times, my mind tells me not to. It tells me that you’re playing tricks on me, and that none of this means anything. It’s harder than I thought to fight the ideas I have of being in love, and being loved.”

I twist my body as much as I can to get a better view of him, continuing, “By you, specifically, because you’re a kind, gentle person. I know that, yet every day I wait for you to turn into a monster…”

I breathe, “but then you remind me that you aren’t a monster at all.”

He lingers in his mute state. His unmoving expression is both scary and unpredictable—the way his eyes never look away from mine.

“Words don’t do the same justice as actions do. I can see how showing you who I am would be more effective than me only saying it…”

he begins, reaching for his hand towel and bringing it over my hands, rubbing the clay off as he looks at me again”

So, I’m just going to keep showing you. Until you’re sure that I’m not here to harm you in any way.”

Watching his hands give each of my fingers a massage, I think of a challenge. I real one—a test.

“Go with me. My first meeting is on Monday. First of the year, too,”

I casually inform him.

His hands slow down and come to a stop.

“Noelle, I want to, but I can’t bail out of my training,”

he nearly whispers.

The regret is there, and so is the sheer aura of culpability. But they don’t need to be, because nothing is his fault. Rather, my hopes are always too high, and assuming he’d be available for me with his new team around was ridiculous to begin with. He’s about to be a star. A commercial success, and I’m about to be watching through a window, with nothing to show for myself but good attendance at a domestic violence support group, where I’m too shy to speak, and a failed dance company that I’ll drag behind me until I accept that I’ll never find a place for it to thrive. I can’t help but feel puny. I pull my hands away from his, becoming numb again. I want to melt into the floor like the aged paint stains that had become one with it already. I raise from his lap, searching for a way to stop myself from being more of a

handful.

He hurries to clean his hands off, and uses only a few of his fingers to stop me by taking my hand.

“Hey, hey, hey,”

he says, spinning around in his seat, almost leaning out of it.

“It’s okay, it was a dumb question, Cole,”

I say, trying to mediate the conversation.

“It’s not okay. You’re upset, and that leaves the possibility that you’re gonna leave the house upset with me, and I don’t like that,”

he says, slowly pulling me between his legs.

All I can do is look at his face. His hair, his eyes, his mustache, his beard. There’s not one word that I can say when I know that none of it will change the outcome.

“I don’t want you worrying, or doubting my love for you. I won’t allow it. We’re gonna have a beautiful night, alright? I’m gonna make it special. It’s gonna be worth your while. If there’s

a way to make anything easier for you, you’re gonna tell me, right? I promise I’ll listen, if you do,”

he explains, now holding onto both of my hands and squeezing them with a soft rub from both of his thumbs.

Giving him a clueless gaze, I wait for the punchline, licking my lips to activate words.

I still can’t think of anything to say. Now, all I’m thinking is that I’m in a strange time warp, and none of this is really happening.

“Do you…still wanna celebrate together?” he asks.

I muster up a different topic, disregarding everything as my brain now overloads with questions.

“Did you and Hannah argue? Ever?” I appeal.

His head bobs back a bit, and his brows become scrunched, but he still answers”

Yeah. We argued a lot. Why do you ask?”

“Did you get mad at her? Yell?”

I pry more.

Shaking his head, his brows hold tight in their shape”

Sure, but I maybe only yelled twice in our relationship. I like to talk things over—what is this about, Noelle?”

“I just need to know, okay?”

I demand, impetuously.

He shuts up, biting at his bottom lip and chewing at the skin before tossing his arms around my waist and hugging it. Though his expression is a tantalizing one, he doesn’t pull away.

“I won’t yell at you, either. The last thing you can do is make me angry,”

he says into my stomach”

And if you don’t believe me, I’ll keep doing what I have to do until that idea has been erased.”

I place my hands over his head, digging my fingers through his locks and pursing my lips together as he stays there.

“What if you change your mind? You’re bound to get tired of this at some point. That’s exhausting to have to do, Colton,” I

rebut.

“Making you feel loved is not exhausting. Feeling unloved is. Trust me, I would know.”

He persistently speaks into my belly, squeezing my sides.

Why argue with the truth? It is exhausting, and no matter what I say, he’ll find something to do or say that goes against all of my excuses. What good is there in trying to make him stop? He’ll get tired, and wear himself out. I won’t have to make him leave if he does it on his own.

* * *

Standing in the corner of the stage, every memory of being on it before teaching the girls floods back into view. The cold, hardwood is different from the studio’s. Not as hollow, and uncomfortably more firm, yet dauntingly familiar. The mirrors here reflect my silhouette easily, but additionally, they reflect every ounce of emotion that’s been coursing through my body since I arrived. I can feel my toes almost cramping with how hard I’m curling them inside my pointe shoes.

I take one big, deep breath, melting into the music—giving it permission to pull me in.

I begin with a few graceful pirouettes, spinning slowly at first, feeling the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. My arms extend like delicate wings, and every leap becomes an expression of the freedom I’ve so desperately longed for. But the more I move, I can feel every part of the rehearsed choreography slipping into something deeper—something more sinister.

Every plie’, every saute’, is becoming fueled by a blend of determination and desperation. I’m now pushing my body to its limits, battling fatigue with each grand jete’, making my heart

race with the rhythm of the music. I know in my heart that the choreography isn’t meant to be interpreted with anger, rather it should be a celebration of movement—but my body feels like telling a different story today. One that feels more real to me, and every depended stretch is making sure I remember every little detail in order to do so. Slipping into the next combinations, my body flows with every movement until my composure is weakened.

And so, the blurred vision takes over. So does the weight of my past.

There’s a theory that when you perform certain moves, the muscles inside of you can stretch in a way that releases long term pain from trauma. It opens you. I’d like to describe this moment as such, but it feels deeper, more intrusive. The moves are straight forward. Every muscle pain recalls moment of what I claimed to be tenderness. Moments that had all turned toxic, lies masked by pretend love, and the silent guilt that expressed itself through grave silence, all these years. This is how easy my job becomes a wasteland, instead of a beloved dream. It isn’t always this way, but at this time, it’s no longer

about the beauty of performance for me, but the raw truth of my experience.

I can only convey that on the stage. I’m hungry to learn how to convey it beyond such a small space.

The melody intensifies, instigating my already heightened emotions. I leap higher, but my body feels as though it’s hanging onto several anchors, pulling me back down. Somehow the sorrow finally explodes within me. In the midst of an intricate sequence, I stumble into my landing, losing my balance—taking an ill-fated turn that almost mirrors my life. Crashing into the floor, the impact echoes through the empty building, and so do

my whines of pain. Rather than brushing it off, as they tell us to or how I tell my students, I lie there and soak it in.

My sobs have finally broken through the dancing facade that I had worked so hard to uphold. As I lie in place, I feel every ache and bruise from not only the fall, but every fall before, and not just that, but every blow that Daniel successfully struck upon me. Maybe this was supposed to be a moment of release— a culmination of everything I’ve been holding inside—but it feels like my gut is being stabbed and twisted. I’m no longer a petulant, little ballerina, curious about the Big Apple. I’m not that girl anymore who only used dance to express what words could not, reclaiming her narrative with each new dance, but now I’ve been robbed of every outlet. I miss the will I had when I first got on the plane to be here.

I need to rise up. I’m not that girl, but I’m someone. Wishing simply wounds the heart, and if I find the girl from the first plane ride, maybe we can be one again.

Just better, and smarter.

* * *

Trudging to my front door, I wrestle in my bag to get my keys from the bottom. Just in time for my thighs to begin burning and my ankle to start throbbing from the tumble I took earlier. All of which I will not be disclosing to Colton because he’ll insist on relaxing instead of having a fun night where we forget about everything that’s negative and focus on us. I love when we do that. That’s when it’s least about me. I have more chances to make it about him and forget that I’m even a living organism. Life feels good when I can do that. All I need to do is take a high speed shower, and then change before he gets here.

Pulling my keys from the bottom of the bag, they fly out of my hand and onto the concrete. Sighing heavily, I kneel down to grab them, and suddenly a sharp meow slices through the faint hum of the city around me, the blistering winds of the night feeling like a jagged blade.

My heart jerks in my chest as my head rises to the window beside the front door to see the curtain wafting into the outside, and Chucky sitting on the window sill. His eyes are wide, staring down at me as if it was me who has surprised him.

“Chucky? Your mother better be home, or you have got some serious explaining to do about this window being open, you little orange cotton ball,”

I say, taking a deep breath as I stand up and shove my key in the door and rush inside. I march to the window and retrieve him before instinctively reaching out to fix the curtains and close it—all while trying to ignore my heart skipping a few beats in the process.

“Hey, Lauren? Are you here?”

I call, setting Chucky on the floor before setting my things down on the couch, waiting for a response. Nothing but an icy chill runs down my spine.

I’m alone, but there’s a presence, and it isn’t just mine— something is off. Why is she not fucking saying anything?

Looking around the empty living room, I reach in my bag and get my phone, seeing a few missed calls from Colton.

“Shit…”

I mumble, walking into the kitchen aimlessly as I unlock it to go to my messages.

I could feel them before they touched me, but most im- portantly, I could smell his cologne. And not in a good way. A large hand lunges around my mouth and tightens against them, clenching in place. The tighter it gets around my mouth, the colder it feels. Unable to scream, my cries of terror are dismantled and quickly silenced by the force of my body being

pushed into the nearest counter.

“If you shut up, this will be so easy, Noelle,”

a guttural, revengeful voice commands.

My instincts cause me to do the first thing my body can find control of. As hard as I can, I bite into the fingers of my attacker, gaining freedom of my face again and belting out the loudest scream that my diaphragm can handle.

Fighting to escape his grip again, I manage to turn myself around to face him.

To face him. Daniel.

“Get off me!”

I yelp, watching his hand prepare for the grip of my neck and falling victim to the action. His eyes are dead. None of my fighting means anything. He’s gone completely soulless and cold. I’m not even sure he’s human at this point.

My back is against the surface of the kitchen counter, my hands lose control of my phone, and I listen to it smack onto the floor. Using my free hands, I try my damnedest to latch onto his wrist, pushing so hard that I begin to tremble.

“Please…” I beg.

“I know you. You know that I know you. Don’t you?”

he asks calmly.

My lips move, but only air escapes. Trembling under his grip, a gentle click, yet hollow and empty, sets off below us. Softly and firmly, a cold barrel presses into my stomach. The gut feeling I had so long ago was back. And I would do anything if I could make myself disappear.

“Don’t you!”

he screams, bringing his lips to my face”

Yes…”

I shudder.

He smiles, dragging the gun up my stomach and to my jaw, continuing to hold onto my neck.

“Wouldn’t it be so insane if I just…pulled the trigger?” He

smiles more, almost letting out a bit of laughter. I shut my eyes, reciting whatever prayers I’ve ever known.

He sighs”

God, that would just be too easy. It wouldn’t be any fun. It would actually be pretty boring. And you know how much I like to have fun,”

he whispers, caressing my cheek with the freezing steel.

“Why are you doing this to me…”

I weep, opening my eyes slowly.

“Because I love you, and you don’t seem to get that, Noelle,” he snaps”

You seem to think of me as some sick joke, and now you have this rookie trying to overpower me? Are you that dumb?!”

he asks, now waving the gun around.

“I know you love me back,”

he continues, lifting my jaw so that my lips come centimeters away from touching his. “Say it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, once more, unable to stop the heaps of tears filling my eyes.

“Say it!”

he screams, fixing the barrel to my head now, battering my ears with his loud voice. I’ve never felt so weak. So frail.

So useless.

“I love you…”

I force myself to head to his demands, lying blatantly to his face as I cry more.

“Again,”

he whispers, now pressing his disgusting, open lips against mine.

“I…love you.”

I love Colton. He’ll come save me. This will all be over, and Colton will be here before anything can happen.

He fully presses his lips into mine, forcing the taste of vodka and Black and Mild cigarettes down my throat as he shoves his tongue into my mouth, grappling my neck to keep me in place.

The only sound I can make is now only audible in my head. My entire upper extremities are falling numb now, and each finger is pressed into some muscle that is bruising by the second. The tighter his hand gets, the more he is leaving my lungs without more oxygen then I ever thought I could feel within them. Using the strength in my legs, I shoot my knee into his groin, detaching his fingers from my neck and releasing both of us to the floor.

My heartbeat is now pounding in my ears, and the view of everything is becoming blurry. Still, the fear is enough to override all of my weaknesses, giving me strength to snatch my phone and push me up from the floor in time so that I can dart toward the nearest room. Swinging the door shut behind me, I realize that I’m in Lauren’s room, and reach for her desk chair, stuffing it underneath the doorknob.

“Oh no, Chucky…”

I whisper, my eyes welling up with tears the instant I say his name.

Remembering I’m on a time limit, I shakily put my phone up to my face and forcefully tap every button that will lead me to my call log and Colton’s contact.

Seconds later, shuffling stomps ensue down the hall, getting closer and closer to the door in front of me.

“Open the door, Noelle!”

Daniel yells, pounding his fist into it, causing it to rumble.

I stumble back, struggling to contain my tears now as I successfully dial his number, shoving the phone against my ear as I fall to the floor and scoot into a corner. Just as I get there, a large crack snaps throughout the door, making his entrance, one step closer, and his ability to hurt me all the more possible”

Please, please please…”

I shut my eyes, sniffling as I whimper to myself.

The ringing of the phone feels like laughter while waiting for

him to answer. I feel like I’m falling to my death and there’s nothing I can do.

This is it.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m literally leaving the meeting right now. I’m just gonna call you.”

Colton picks up, talking instantly and soothing my ears.

“Colton…”

I pant, gathering myself”

Help me—please—he’s gonna get me.”

“What?”

he asks, suddenly becoming alert.

“Daniel…”

I sniffle, dragging a hand against my nose as I listen to him pound on the door, harder”

He’s here, he got in…” I add”

Please hurry—he has a gun, Cole…”

“Stay where you are. I’m coming, sweetheart,”

he says urgently.

Suddenly, his voice goes silent, and the call sounds muted. Pulling it away from my face, I watch the screen go black as it dies.

Fuck, this is it.

I wish I were dancing. I could be a bird. I could dance away with the wind.

Far, far away.