savage 06 - the savage dream

by Blodgett, Tamara Rose

  It was all worth it. The stress, the work.

  Then Carlie wormed her way inside my defenses despite every obstacle I’d thrown up in her way. Declared herself my friend when it went against every promise I’d made to myself. I broke them all with our friendship. What she sees in me I’ll never know.

  Carlie knows about the ballet barre I installed in my dorm room, which doesn’t have space for it; it’s pretty tough to hide and it’s my only décor. A huge metal bar driven into studs behind drywall. Yeah, so beautiful. I move my bed every day and go to sleep each night looking at it. Trying to forget. Ballet blanks the pain; it’s the eraser of my memories.

  Each day I execute my barre exercises, just as I did every day when I was another girl. Now I am a woman, with woman-sized desires and dreams. My traumatic memories haven’t robbed me of my humanity. No matter what happens there’s a stubborn spark that wants to live.

  Carlie has begun something inside me with the whisper of the ballet company visiting the U Dub campus. I ignore that something, beat at it when it appears, reject it, but it refuses to let go and blooms inside me.

  Hope.

  It’s all Carlie’s fault. I was just fine when I didn’t have any.

  Now it’s here and there is no hiding from it.

  I open my mouth as I put the blue contact in, blinking once, hoping the damn thing will sit correctly. I’ll never take having perfect vision my whole life for granted again. At the end of the day I can’t wait to tear the suckers out of my eyes; they dry up like popcorn farts and burn like hell.

  I stand away from the mirror, applying the barest hint of colored lip gloss, giving my eyeballs time to rest from the abuse of inserting contacts. I brush my teeth, squirt vanilla body spray on all the high points and cover my deep-ginger lashes with chocolate-colored mascara.

  I flutter them and decide they look just right. Next, I plait my hair into two thick braids. Even braided my hair is past my breasts; its former deep auburn is now dark blond. Its length is my only concession to my former life. Despite its length, it is nondescript, nearly invisible.

  Just like I want it.

  I study my hairline for roots. Finding none, I step away from the mirror, then turn back to it and stick my tongue out.

  It’s a glaring blue from the Blow Pop I’ve just ruthlessly sucked on.

  I need to grow up.

  I saunter off just as the knock comes at my door.

  Carlie doesn’t wait for an invitation, she just bursts in.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Why bother knocking?” I laugh.

  She flicks her hair over a shoulder and puckers her lips, giving a dismissive shrug.

  I don’t see her stuff my ballet slippers in her backpack.

  “Ready?” she asks innocently.

  “Yeah, just . . .” I collect a few things, ramming them into my oversized Guess purse, which I swing over my shoulder.

  It’s a rare day off and I am really dragging ass. I’m sore from the barre and twirling in the middle of a dorm room with only the walls watching my perfect performance.

  Pathetic.

  “You wore makeup,” Carlie says, eyeballing my pathetic attempt to look cute.

  “Does mascara and lip gloss qualify?” I ask.

  “Hell, yeah! Especially for you,” she exclaims vigorously. “Miss au naturel.” She giggles behind her hand.

  “Bitch,” I say.

  “Sticks and stones and all that happy ho-ho shit,” she replies, completely unperturbed by my shameless name calling.

  “Why did you tell me to wear makeup?” I ask, suspicious as I cross my arms underneath my breasts, my eyes narrowing. I slam my dorm door, rattling the knob to ensure it’s locked. It never closes right.

  We move away from the door and I impatiently wait for her response.

  Carlie’s brows arch and she pouts at me. “Because: you will look attractive to the opposite sex. If it takes my last breath, you will look cute even while we sweat.”

  I look down at my yoga pants, the turned band at the top a muted tie-dye pattern, with a tight deep-blue tee and my braided hair rounding out the hippie-chic thing I’ve got going on.

  “I think you’ll have to try harder,” I say.

  “If you were just sluttier,” Carlie says mournfully, hiding behind her dark curly hair.

  I slug her and she yelps, giving me hurt eyes, then she smiles. “I’ll wear ya down, you’ll see.”

  “Never!” I stab the air with my fist as we turn the corner and a wall of noise hits me. Everywhere I look there are students, older adults and an odd assortment of people I’ve never seen. It’s too much to take in. I turn to Carlie; obviously, we totally can’t work out today.

  “Hey,” I say, looking into the deep auditorium that doubles as a gym. “What’s going on . . . what are all these people doing?”

  But Carlie’s already moving and doesn’t hear my question.

  An older woman is seated behind a folding desk and Carlie speeds to the desk, her flats making no sound as they whisper across the floor.

  She signs in to some ledger and I start taking it in.

  A totally hot guy comes to me with a numbered paper and a safety pin. “Hey,” he says, and I stare numbly at him. I can’t think of a thing to say.

  “Hi!” Carlie blurts from beside me, fluttering her sooty eyelashes at La Hunk. “This is my friend Jess Mackey.”

  Hunk smiles at me and I sink into his pale gray eyes—drown, more like. “I’m Mitch,” he says.

  I stare.

  Carlie elbows me with a traitorous cackle. God, can she be more obvious? “I’m Jess,” I stick out my hand and he swallows it in his own.

  “I know.” He smirks and a dimple flashes into place, disappearing just as quickly. He swings back long dark hair that refuses to stay out of his eyes.

  “Right,” I say, heat flooding my face.

  He steps into my private bubble and my flush deepens; my heart starts to speed when he reaches for my thin T-shirt and I shrink away from him.

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs beside my face, his minty breath tickling the sensitive skin there. “I’m attaching your number.”

  What number?

  I look around and see about fifty girls with their hair slicked back in tight buns, some high, some on the nape because they’ve been zapped with the unlucky thick-hair gene like yours truly.

  Realization slams into me.

  The Seattle Pacific Ballet Company has arrived. This is the audition Carlie tried to bully me into attending a few days ago. Heat suffuses my body in a sickening nauseous wave. I turn to leave and Mitch puts a staying hand gently on my arm. He jerks his jaw toward where a mock stage has been set up. “It’s this way, dancing girl.” He smiles, his teeth very white in his face.

  “I can’t do it . . . I’m not signed up,” I say, folding my arms again, the paper with my audition number crinkling underneath the gesture.

  His smile widens into a grin as he dips his head to look at a clipboard that just magically appears. Mitch runs a long, tapered finger down the assembled names until he reaches midway. He taps it once and I jump slightly. He lifts his chin, a light dusting of dark stubble sprinkled on the slight cleft that bisects it. “There you are,” he says softly. “Mackey, Jess.”

  He sweeps his hand in front of me; I give a death glare to Carlie and my traitor friend winks at me.

  I can’t not audition without looking like an ass.

  My feet are dragging like lead fills my shoes.

  My slippers!

  Carlie jogs to my side and hands me my ballet slippers. I seethe at her; she smiles sweetly and whispers, “Break a leg.”

  I gaze at the stage like it’s the fabled pirate’s plank. My stomach clenches as I move to take my place in line and watch the girl onstage.

  She’s perfect . . . breathtaking.

  The music ends softly and she moves off the stage. The judges whisper and I know immediately who they’ll choose.

  It won’t be m
e.

  I think of Faith and what she would have wanted. I think of how I love her still. Of how this dream of Faith's that I reach my full potential, that I escape the madness of a household ruled by indifferent tyranny and jealousy born of privilege and entitlement come to an end... and a new beginning. Thad can't reach me here, and this is my way to honor Faith, and in so doing- myself.

  Then an extraordinary thing happens. When it is my turn I float up the steps and onto the temporary stage as they put on Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven.

  It’s from before.

  The notes breathe through the auditorium, making the fine hairs of my neck stand at attention. The music robs me of thought, forcing my body to execute moves I forgot I knew. My arms sweep, and I pirouette, spinning and snapping my head to find my corner. The soreness from earlier melts away as my body heats with familiarity. As I whip my leg up, my foot is parallel to my head for a fraction of time and then I land softly, only to immediately rise to the balls of my feet as I approach the judges with their riveted stares. The length of the song and its sad ending beg my limbs to undulate in a perfectly timed flutter of classic swan arms. I draw nearer still while keeping my elbows level as my arms float in a wavelike pattern and the balls of my feet propel me forward just as the final piano notes fall.

  Then once more their sorrowful notes swell and fill the auditorium in melancholy triumph.

  I stop, dipping into a graceful plié, and assume first position.

  My hands are cupped slightly and I tilt my head, looking off to the right of my position.

  The utter lack of noise causes me to look at the judges as I relax my shoulders and my hands drop gracefully to my sides.

  They have stood and every eye is on me. Including the gray gaze of a certain hunk named Mitch.

  When the applause breaks out I don’t know whether to cry or run.

  In the end, I stay.

  My eyes scan the crowd and notice the one person who does not clap.

  A man leans against the back of the cavernous gym auditorium, his black eyes seeming to attack me, and I take an involuntary step backward from the burning intensity of his gaze.

  Carlie interrupts the moment, throwing herself at me.

  “I knew you could,” she whispers, strangling me in an epic hug that cuts off my airway.

  I gently push her away and look for that disconcerting male presence. Hostile.

  But he is gone.

  Just like he was never there.

  Read More

  THE TOKEN

  Volume One

  Copyright © 2013 Marata Eros

  Kindle Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  “Love sears the heart immortal

  The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”

  ~ Prologue ~

  “You're dying,” Dr. Matthews says.

  Two words.

  Final.

  Complete.

  Desolate.

  I feel my fingers clench the armrests of the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.

  If his words aren't enough to convince me, I see my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.

  Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to the softly glowing X-ray reader.

  I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit surface.

  The light glows around the tumor, immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of disregard.

  Just the facts, ma’am.

  I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak of his desk. It's very large, an anchor in the middle of his prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.

  I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged by what might be sympathy. After all, it's not every day he tells a twenty-two-year-old woman she's got moments to live.

  Actually, I do have time—months.

  It's just not enough.

  I look at the mess that's my brain, at the damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom. For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own greets me.

  Mitchell, Faren.

  I back up and Matthews reaches to steady me.

  But it's too late.

  I spin and run out of his office as his voice calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a time.

  I see my car parked across the street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't deny.

  I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.

  I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.

  The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.

  Powerless.

  The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I've already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.

  My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.

  I sigh. Safe.

  I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.

  There's a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and smiles. “It's going to be okay.”

  That's when I know I'm not in heaven.

  That's what people say when nothing is okay.

  ~ 1 ~

  One month prior

  I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.

  Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.

  I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.

  Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?

  Delete, delete, delete.

  I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.

  I put my handgrip on the corner of the end table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.

  I leave my laptop open and walk back to the stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of
my hands as I've been taught.

  As I teach others to do.

  I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh, forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.

  The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I sigh. I want to chop off my hand.

  I want to cradle it against my chest because it still works. Just not perfectly.

  Like my life.

  *

  “Another headache?” Sue asks.

  I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan who's up first.

  Bryce Collins. Pain. In. My. Ass.

  I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They make it all worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.

  A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents. We can compare later.

  Right now, it's all about the work.

  “Hi, Bryce.”

  He mumbles a reply as I hand him the first merciless task. The huge rubber band fits around the pole in the center of the room. Mirrors line the wall and toss back our struggles.

  And our triumphs.

  I watch as he half-heartedly goes through the motions of his straight leg kicks. When he reaches twenty I scoop my hand down and latch onto his hamstring and he groans at my touch. “Bend your knee a little,” he does while giving me a look that could kill. I stare neutrally back until his gaze drops and he finally digs in.