The Pirouette Predator

by Jade Wright

  Shoals of fish ripple the surface of the water.

  The pills are starting to take effect.

  I feel myself relaxing. Unwinding.

  That is until I peer into the bin where that speaker I'd thrown out should be. I chuck my cigarette to the floor and stomp it out as I rummage through the bin, just to make sure.

  There's empty wine bottles and rotting banana skins there, but no speaker. It should be right on the top. It's the last thing I put in there!

  I rifle through the trash. It has to be here.

  Nothing.

  I guess someone could have seen it and nabbed it from the bin.

  I don't know what those things cost but surely someone would be eager to grab it if it was just lying there.

  I try and tell myself that is exactly what happened.

  Someone just took it from the bin – but I can't quite convince myself.

  River cries from down in the garden, struggling to get back to the cottage.

  I hurry over and carefully pick her up.

  She's a tiny collie-dog. The runt of the litter. She weighs hardly anything in my arms.

  I get her back indoors and lock up behind me.

  Everyone's been told to keep their doors locked at all times now and to always check before opening up for anyone.

  I put on another episode of Criminal Minds, wishing time would just stop.

  I don't want to face the world tomorrow as a new week arrives.

  I don't want to make an appointment with the doctor but if I don't, I know that things will get bad.

  *

  It turns out there's only one doctor in the area and she specializes in children.

  I feel awkward sitting on the beige lumpy sofa, surrounded by toys and colourful posters on the wall.

  I'm twiddling my thumbs, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

  I feel exposed.

  Dr. Georgia Pienaar is tapping her pen onto her notepad, looking at me through her wire-rimmed reading glasses.

  Her hair is dyed an awful orange which clashes with her purple cardigan.

  “What can I do for you today?” she asks me.

  Her voice is sugar sweet.

  How do I explain it?

  I know this is a confidential session but I feel the need to ask her anyway. To make sure I can trust her.

  She assures me everything I say will be kept between us unless I am a threat to myself or to others.

  I don't even get two words out after that before I break down.

  She hands me a box of lavender scented tissues and sits silently, staring at me. I blow and wipe my nose until it's raw and sore.

  I tell her about Robyn, her disappearance.

  I tell her there are literally no answers and that it is infuriating.

  I tell her I feel helpless.

  I bring up what happened to River and that stupid speaker.

  I talk through sobs about Michael and Beatrix, their daughter.

  The wedding I'll never have.

  My infertility.

  I talk about how left behind I feel from all of my friends who are creating these perfect lives for themselves, about how jealous it makes me whenever I log onto Facebook.

  How much of a 'trigger' social media is for me.

  How I see these pictures of proud parents bundling up their newborn babies, the pudgy little legs, the impossibly tiny fingernails.

  What I would give to watch that silly Peppa Pig show on television parents are always complaining about with a child of my own.

  I tell her about how just the sight of one of those gorgeous rabbit teddy bears with long floppy ears is enough to pull my heartstrings apart.

  It gushes out of me like a tidal wave and when there are no words left I am out of breath.

  I haven't told her about Luke.

  I haven't told her about the journal or the threatening letter that was pinned to the shed when I found River.

  A part of me wonders if that would be crossing the line over into uncharted territory.

  Would she still keep things between us confidential if she thinks I have information that could help the investigation?

  I just don't know. I need to tread carefully.

  Her pen is flying across the open page of her notebook.

  I peer over the page but all I can see are indecipherable scribbles.

  Eventually she stops and sighs, places down her pen.

  “Have you been to see a psychologist before, Piper?”

  I nod.

  She writes down the name of one of my previous doctors.

  I don't give her all of them. I don't want her to find out about the blackouts.

  I'm still trying to figure them out for myself. I know what she'd do. Send me off for a bunch of tests I can't afford, maybe throw me into an asylum.

  I won't let that happen.

  I also give her a list of some of the meds I'm on.

  I notice her eyebrow cock when I mention the anti-psychotics. Michael had given me the same reaction when I first told him, too. It's never been an easy thing to admit.

  I want to scream at her, tell her she can't judge me.

  “Can you tell me why you were prescribed that?” she asks.

  I blink up at her, stutter a little.

  “I- I had a few... manic episodes?”

  I know I'm downplaying it.

  I tell her about how much my miscarriages changed me. Destroyed me, really.

  I tell her more about the breakup with Michael. How he'd just deleted every photo of us he had from his Instagram page.

  It made it look like I'd never been there at all. Like I'd never even existed.

  How does someone do that to a person, I ask her.

  How does someone just block you out like that?

  It's cold. Hurtful doesn't even begin to describe it.

  I tell her about how completely alone I've been feeling.

  I need her to focus on that part of my life. I don't want her to go digging into my background too much.

  She wouldn't like what she'd find out about me or my sister. That is my secret.

  “Have you noticed a change since taking these pills?”

  “My moods are better, for the most part, until lately I guess.”

  “Yes, a lot has been going on. It's understandable that you're struggling,” she glances over the notes she's made. I wish I could see what she's written about me. I hate knowing she's forming an opinion of me and I can't even know what it is.

  The urge to rip the notebook from her hands is intense.

  I need to see what she's written.

  I need to be in control.

  “I do remember seeing both you and your sister in my practice when you were children. Do you remember that?” she looks up at me with a kind smile.

  I don't remember. There is so much from my childhood that I can't recall. Don't want to recall. Won't recall.

  “You were such naughty little things,” her laugh is soft.

  Tears sting my eyes. I grab another tissue and dab at my face.

  Her expression turns serious.

  “Piper, both you and Robyn had severe paranoia as children. You'd been in and out of different foster homes, most of them bad,” she's staring at me intently.

  There's a flash of a memory. A man's large, hairy, calloused ridden hand in my knickers. My sister crying.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I don't want to remember.

  I can feel the panic rising like bile in my throat.

  “Breathe.” Her voice is firm, reassuring.

  She knows she's cracking me open. Bitch.

  I want a smoke.

  I want to get away.

  I don't even know how I'm going to afford this session.

  I breathe in, hold it for a few seconds and then slowly exhale, just as she's telling me to do.

  I do it again and again and again until I've slowed my heart-rate right down. Until it no longer feels like my heart is going to break straight through
my breastbone.

  When she can see I've calmed myself, she continues.

  “How does it make you feel, remembering a bit of your past?”

  “Scared,” I say. I didn't even have to think about my answer. It wasn't a lie.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  I think for a moment.

  “I haven't thought about it all in such a long time. I've been so proactive in keeping myself occupied.”

  She nods.

  Rain is pouring outside, sliding down the windowpanes like tear drops.

  “I guess I pushed it away for so long. I don't want to unearth those feelings I buried so long ago.”

  “Maybe it's the only way forward, to work through them.”

  “I feel guilty. I should have been there more for Robyn but I was always off doing my own thing,” I say, trying to change the subject.

  She takes the bait.

  “Living your life isn't something you should feel at fault for.”

  There's a flash of lightning, a rumble of thunder.

  “I could have called more often though, asked her how she was doing. When I read through our chat history I'm honestly ashamed. It was always all about me. I was always telling her about my news. Sometimes I didn't even bother asking how her life was going.”

  “Perhaps she didn't have anything new to say. You must remember you were off in new countries. You were planning your wedding. Things in your life were exciting and you wanted to share that with her,” she makes it sound so reasonable, but it isn't.

  “Right now, I'd give anything to just hear her voice. I'd let her talk about anything. What book she's reading, how her classes are going. What she's having for dinner. I just want to hear her talk. It doesn't matter if it's not exciting!”

  There's so much regret in my voice.

  “And then I feel even worse being sad about Michael as well. I shouldn't be thinking about him when there's something so much bigger than that going on.”

  “What do you think is going to make this better for you?”

  “Her coming home?!” I scoff.

  We chat about some exercises I should do.

  She gives me some leaflets and a few website addresses to check out.

  I feel like I've been scammed. She's supposed to be doing the work here, helping me. Instead, she's just pushing me over to a website filled with articles written by another doctor.

  It infuriates me that she isn't doing her job properly. That she gets paid for this shit.

  I know I won't look at the websites she's given me but I thank her anyway.

  I think she can tell that there isn't an ounce of sincerity in my voice.

  Forty-five minutes with her goes by at a snails pace.

  I cannot wait to get out of there.

  “Your anxiety is at an all time high. I am going to up your dose of quetiapine to eight-hundred milligrams a day. It will make you drowsy. No driving after taking it, OK?”

  She rips a script out of a booklet and hands it to me.

  “This is a short term thing. I want you to schedule in to see me again. We'll monitor it periodically, make sure you're doing okay.” I nod.

  In my hand, the script feels golden. This is what I needed.

  I grab my umbrella and head to the reception area to settle the bill.

  My phone pings when the transaction goes through. I almost thought it wouldn't.

  Waiting for the card machine to print out the Approved slip had me biting my lip anxiously.

  I can't bring myself to check the remaining balance in my account.

  I have no idea how I'm going to get through the rest of the month, not after River's vet bills.

  I've been living off of Cup a Soups and Pot Noodles and can feel myself becoming more malnourished by the day.

  What I wouldn't do for some fresh vegetables.

  Broccoli, asparagus, courgette's.

  My mouth waters at the thought.

  “What day next week suits you?” a young woman with a freshly snipped asymmetrical bob and a lip ring asks me.

  “Tuesday, same time I guess,” I shrug, watching her manicured fingers tap away on the keyboard.

  My script is rolled up in my hand, ready for the pharmacist.

  I finish making another appointment to see the doctor, but I doubt I'll actually turn up for it.

  CHAPTER 9

  At the pharmacy I peruse the shelves stacked with health foods and supplements. I grab a bottle of folic acid tablets and a new antiperspirant.

  National Women's Day is around the corner and there are stands selling all sorts of fluffy slippers, scarves and mugs in various shades of pink.

  Great little gifts for winter.

  There's a selection of scented candles, Chilli Spice, Roasted Marshmallow and Island Rain. Little goodies to spoil women on a day created to eliminate discrimination against women.

  I pick up a flyer about a march that's going to happen and pretend to read it.

  I'm stalling, not wanting to get my prescription while there are other people nearby.

  I don't want them to see what I have to take.

  I wish the pharmacist could packet the medication behind the counter before giving it to me instead of putting it in an open plastic bowl for everyone to see.

  “Ms. Brady!” Bibiana smiles at me. She's holding one of the candles in her hand.

  My face is instantly aflame, remembering what she saw over the weekend. How she must think of me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  Her concern sounds fake.

  Water droplets fall from her anorak onto the floor.

  Everything is so silent I can hear the drips.

  “Fine thanks,” I rasp.

  We're both in the dispensary queue, waiting to be dealt with.

  I'm ahead of her. We stand in an unbearable silence while we wait.

  Finally the pharmacist waves me over.

  “You go ahead,” I take a step back, practically pushing Bibiana in front of me.

  “Oh, you sure?”

  “Yes. You'll be late for class!” I say, desperate for an excuse.

  She nods gratefully and hands the pharmacist her script.

  He gives her a box. Of course I look.

  Birth control. Of course.

  I wonder if she's slept with Luke already.

  I wonder what she'd think if she knew he's been with me.

  Would she ever believe it? That someone like him could be with someone like me?

  “See you in class!” she beams, unabashed by the box in her hand. It's normal. I'm not.

  I'm not normal at all.

  I toss a tablet into my mouth and gulp it down with a bottle of sparkling water as soon as I get to my car.

  I don't have to be at school for the whole day anyway and if I don't take this medication now, I know I won't cope.

  *

  I'm surprised to see Chloe back in class today.

  There's fissures in her appearance. She looks exhausted, unkempt. It's the first we've all seen her since the attack.

  Her cheekbones have caved in. I can tell she's lost weight.

  That usual glint in her eyes is gone.

  She was already bony before, underweight even for a ballerina. Now she looks terrible.

  She keeps to herself, hidden behind an oversized hoodie that covers her face.

  No one quite knows what to say to her.

  She's not ready to dance again yet and has given her role to Bibiana.

  As good as Bibiana is at dancing, she's no Chloe and she knows it.

  “I'm so excited!” she trills to her group of friends, plucking at her new costume. She can't believe her luck. She's going to be the main girl.

  They're like a pride of lionesses around her, excluding Chloe from the pack.

  It's undeniable. Luke and Bibiana dance beautifully together.

  It's incredibly intimate.

  They have so much chemistry on stage it's hard to look away.

  I
t's a hard sight to see for both me and Chloe... for very different reasons.

  We're going through the routine, priming Bibiana for the role.

  Luke's lifting her up high above his head, her petite little frame balancing effortlessly in his hands. He makes her look feather light.

  They are both so focused, gliding along in perfect rhythm to the music.

  The melody, the gentle tapping of her pointe shoes on the floor, the medication – it all mixes together and I feel, for just a moment, outside of my own body.

  My eyes are heavy as I watch their bodies blur across the stage.

  I lose track of time.

  It could have been ten minutes or two hours – but suddenly I come back in to myself and the class is over.

  I see Luke approach Chloe as the other students shuffle out of the room in pairs.

  Their conversation is whispered, rushed. She's shaking her head, barely visible beneath the hood.

  I can just hear her voice, low but vehement.

  He's reaching out to touch her arm but she jerks away from him. Bibiana is massaging her toes close-by, clearly trying to listen in.

  I hear Chloe's voice rise an octave, she marches away from him and slams the door behind her.

  I'm packing up the portable CD player (yes, I still have one of those), watching as Bibiana glides up to Luke.

  “What was that all about?” she takes his hands in hers.

  “Nothing important,” he says.

  I don't think they realise I'm still in the room, I've gone so quiet.

  “Looked important,” she sniffs sulkily.

  He drops her hands. They fall to her sides.

  She looks taken-back.

  “Jealousy doesn't look good on you, babe,” he says, walking out of the hall and leaving her behind.

  Bibiana's jaw drops open, she's blinking rapidly.

  “Prick...” I hear her say under her breath.

  She's staring at the door, not quite sure what to do with herself.

  “You OK?” I ask, sidling up to her with the CD player hoisted under my arm.

  “Why wouldn't I be?” she shoots back, eyeing me testily.

  I shrug.

  “I've been in your position before,” I tell her.

  If only she knew how similar those positions were.

  From the look on her face I can tell she doesn't believe me, or simply doesn't care.