Watch Me Fall

by Nora Flite

  My walls were down.

  The men were amazed when I didn't lose my balance in the first attack. I saw the white, bulbous eggs of their eyes. “Hit him again, Raff!” Shiny Teeth demanded, his pipe at his hip.

  Another arm came for me; I slapped it aside, grabbed the elbow and threw him to the ground. I was screaming, I couldn't stop. The noise was beautiful.

  “Fucking shut him up!” Who had spoken? I didn't care. Fingers went into Raff's hair, my muscle bulging as I pulled. The man went down, his nose crumbling on my knee.

  Thump thump thump, my heart was open.

  I was more alive—more free—than when I danced.

  Why had I kept my walls up?

  “Take him the fuck down!”

  At my feet, the man I'd knocked out was moaning. His skin was white, shiny like a sea shell in the sand. I didn't see Shiny Teeth swing the pipe; it punched the side of my left knee, shattering bone and creating black shapes in my vision.

  The men left standing were breathing rapidly. “You hear that?” Shiny Teeth asked.

  “Sirens, yeah. Shit! Forget this. Let's get the hell out of here.”

  Shuddering, I twisted on my palms in the street. I could hear the faint sound of cop cars, too.

  Metal clanged, the pipe landing nearby. My eyes shot to it, then to the retreating men. One of them—the tallest—was hesitating. “You really wanna just leave him here like this?”

  They didn't mean me. They were staring at their moaning friend.

  “Fuck him,” Shiny Teeth grunted. “Let him take the fall.” Sunken, pea-sized eyes flicked to me. “Listen up, asshole. We're leaving you alive. You tell the cops this fucker hit you with that pipe, that no one else was here, or we'll find you again and finish the job. Got it?”

  I said nothing. They didn't wait to see if I would. Turning, the pair fled down an alley, abandoning me in the rain with my mangled leg.

  The man coughed, adjusting on the hard ground. His nose was dripping blood; it looked black in the late hour. The sirens said cops would be on us in minutes. They'd show up, look at the scene and call an ambulance.

  Only one of us would be needing it.

  At my feet was a gift. This man had assisted with breaking me into pieces... with killing the only family I had, as abusive and shitty as they were. He'd helped me come undone.

  Crawling forward was agony.

  Feeling my fingers on his throat was anything but.

  Blame him for what happened. That had been my instructions—Shiny Teeth's warning. Fine, I'd happily oblige.

  The flesh under my hands went from pale to purple. He made small gurgling sounds; I ignored them. He scrambled to break away, but I was locked on. Glistening eyes gaped up at me, begging me to save him. He couldn't know I was just as trapped as he was.

  My madness, my wrath, had finally found a suitable target. The beast had been starving too long. It wanted to tear someone to chunks, wanted to let loose and finally make someone else suffer. He was just unlucky that he'd been within reach.

  Sitting there in the rain, blinded by the pain of my shattered knee and fragmented future, I watched the light fade from my attacker's eyes.

  And I loved every second of it.

  ****

  Self-defense. That was the official ruling.

  The police hadn't seemed interested in anything further. There was no questioning of the timeline, they just took my word. I'd been attacked, I'd gotten my assailant down, he busted my leg and I choked him to death to save myself.

  No one cared about a dead drug dealer.

  I doubted anyone cared about me, either. I sat in the hospital for days, forced to suck down pain killers as my leg healed. It was a gruesome wound.

  “You'll be walking without assistance in six months,” the doctor explained. “You might never play professional football, though,” he had chuckled. He was trying to be kind; to make me laugh.

  So I'd given him a tight grin... and managed not to tell him to fuck off.

  My first only visitor came at the end of the first week. The brisk knock on the door lifted my eyes. A gentle, older face met mine—the judge I'd recognized from my audition. Where did I know him from before that?

  “Hello there, Carter.” That heavy, familiar French accent sparked a memory I'd shoved away. A time when I'd been small, my first dance studio—when ballet had been a pure joy.

  The images hurt my skull; I pushed them deep. “I know you, don't I? Mr... Mr. Vince?”

  His mouth turned up at its weathered corners. “Ah, after all this time. I'm ashamed to say I didn't recognize you at first, last week, either.”

  The reminder of the audition soured my stomach. Shifting in the hospital bed, I watched my knotting fingers. “But you did, apparently. I'm sorry for my performance. I wasn't at my best that night.”

  Mr. Vince waited—a pause that made me aware of how tight my breathing was. “Yes, your parents. My condolences.”

  Condolences. His pity caused my neck to throb. “Why are you here?” I sighed, wondering if I should get another dose of my meds. I'd been going light—trying to deny myself the stuff—when I could. I took no comfort in relying on drugs of any kind. That scar was too deep.

  The mattress creaked; he sat at the base. I eyed him nervously. “Carter, I wanted to talk about... you.”

  “Me?” I sat up straighter. “Are you going to tell me how badly I did? I already know about that. Or, are you going to try and cheer me up because of this?” My arm jabbed sharply at my wrapped leg.

  “I'm here because of your audition and because of your leg,” he grunted. It was so smooth, his transition from kind grandfather to strict guardian. Again, I caught bits of memory—me, practicing in a small studio as Mr. Vince coached, cheering and patiently corrected me. “Carter, I know how much you've been through.”

  I wanted to challenge him. Something in his voice held my tongue.

  From his pocket, he slid out an envelope; my lungs shrank. “There were many opinions about your performance. Some questioned your... character, for coming that night.” He was dodging the elephant in the room; how I'd chosen to dance instead of attending the funeral. “However,” he went on, “I argued with them about your skill. Beyond that, your spirit.”

  “My spirit?”

  “There's more to ballet than just the movements. You flowed, you soared, you tore the air and I felt the rawness in you. Carter,” he said, leaning closer, offering the envelope. “Before you open this, let me express how sorry I am.”

  As my belly twirled, I took the paper. Shaking fingers carefully pried it open. I didn't know what to expect anymore. My world was on a roller-coaster.

  Reading the black ink, the words went fuzzy. “I don't understand.”

  “It's a great tragedy, but you deserved to know.”

  There was a lump in my throat. “It says... I was accepted.” After I was so sure I'd failed, this... “I actually got approved for the scholarship. So... so then why are you sorry?”

  Simultaneously, we both looked at my broken leg. My ribs quaked, fighting down laughter or vomit. Now I understood.

  The great tragedy. Crumpling the letter, I dropped it on the floor without looking. “They won't let me attend because of my leg. Right?”

  Mr. Vince frowned severely. “It would be impossible. The letter is only a formality, the scholarship will have to be given to someone else. Carter, I—”

  “Why?” I whispered, covering my eyes, digging in the heels of my palms. “Why give me the fucking letter at all?”

  “I wanted you to know you were good enough.”

  “How does that help me now?” I growled, pushing until my eye sockets ached. “It's pointless. I got what I wanted, and can't even have it! Now, I might never dance again, so why...” Why is the world so awful? I wanted to ask it, scream it. Razors wound around my center. I punched the button to dispense more pain meds.

  It wouldn't help.

  It wasn't my leg that actually hurt.

&nb
sp; The springs squeaked again. He'd moved beside me, lifting the letter from the floor. “I wanted you to know you were good enough,” he said again. “And to offer you another chance.”

  My arms fell into my lap. “Another chance.” I was too lethargic to make it a question.

  “You're young, Carter. You can do wonderful things with your life. With time and work, you might even dance as well as you did before this injury.” I didn't control my derisive chuckle. He acted like he didn't notice. “I taught you when you were a child. I'm not a teacher anymore. In a month, I'll be going back to France, taking over a dance program my father used to run. I want you to come with me.”

  Like my head was stuck in honey, it took me forever to meet his stare. “To do what?”

  His wrinkles bunched on his forehead. “Well, to change lives.”

  “Change whose lives?” What is he offering me?

  “I'll send you a formal letter in a week. Consider everything it says. And this time, Carter...” He pushed the crinkled envelope—the reminder of my lost scholarship and dreams—into my hands. “Don't just casually throw it away.”

  - Chapter Two -

  Three Years Later

  Noel Addison

  Sweat. Stretch. Smile.

  Pain... always pain... and repeat.

  This was my mantra. Oh, I know it might sound grim. What person who thrives, grows, and chases their dreams doesn't sound a bit grim? In their own head, anyway.

  In reality, I followed my mantra; I smiled. God, did I smile.

  With my arms making an arch over my head, I swayed like a bit of cattail on the side of a lonely pond. The breeze was my blood, I felt it guide me two and fro. If my muscles argued, well... I just drove them harder. The goal was to picture yourself from afar, but if you truly wanted grace, you had to be in the moment, too.

  Sweat. Stretch. Smile.

  That was what it meant to be a dancer.

  Poised on the tips of my ballet shoes, I caught myself in the mirror of the studio. You had to be careful, you needed to be aware of your fellow dancers. During a performance, if every sense and cell wasn't focused so you could see who was in front of you, note their pace, and still keep your line with the girls running to the sides, they'd notice. They, of course, being the instructor or the audience.

  The audience was far more forgiving.

  My reflection spun with me, stark black leotard against see-through skin and elegant limbs. As a growing teen, they'd been 'lanky' until my instructor had scolded me. She'd made it clear, only clumsy kids could use that word for themselves.

  But I was a dancer.

  We were always graceful.

  My hair was yanked back in a scalp-shining bun. I ached to release it; I could feel every root wanting to rip free. I never got used to the sensation, even if the familiar tension brought me comfort. It was as much a part of my dancing gear as my shoes.

  Like every session, I was dead tired by the end. “Okay!” Mistress Anna, our instructor; her voice was crisp, lacking sweetness. “Tough, huh?” She was wiry, a blunt haircut that shimmered like a crow's feathers. I'd trained with her long enough to know there was a tenderness inside of her hard critiques and brutal observations.

  Breathing heavy, I moved back towards the barre—the horizontal poles bolted into the walls for warming up and perfecting technique. I wiped away sweat, ears ringing with the fading music piping from the stereo. There was a hum around me, girls prepping to cool down and stretch in between getting direct comments from Anna on their mistakes during the last routine.

  “Through the toes each time, Kim,” she said behind me. “Remember that. Noel?”

  Ah, crud. I had hoped to slip out quickly. “Yes, Ma’am?” Turning, I shouldered my duffel bag like a robber about to make a run after a heist.

  “Are you rushing out before stretching?” she asked.

  All eyes were on me. I was used to scrutiny; my classmates often watched me, judged me. “Yes, Ma'am.” I had never been the type to avoid hard work or cut corners. If anything, I was first in and last out of the studio. In the recent months, something—someone—was more important than a few minutes of stretching.

  Anna shook her head, arms tucking into a pretzel shape. “Tsk, Noel,” she sighed. “It's bad for the body, you know this.”

  I gave an apologetic smile, sliding backwards towards the exit. “I know, I just...”

  Coldness melted on the edges, and my teacher hesitated. I never asked for much, not me. She had to know what was on my mind. These days, it was hardly a secret. “Come in an hour earlier tomorrow,” she demanded, showing me her stiff back. The others glared at me, hating that I was getting special treatment. I didn't blame them for that. In ballet, in dance, we all wanted to be special.

  Not waiting a moment longer, I thanked her and fled from the studio.

  ****

  “I'm home!” I'd run the whole way, my lungs relishing in the burn. Dropping my bag inside the door, I spotted the red purse on the kitchen counter. Mary, I thought with a flicker of fear. She leaves by six, why is she... I sprinted to clear the stairs. Mom, in spite of her struggles, resisted any suggestion to switch her bedroom to the first floor.

  My wriggling worm of paranoia died when I heard my mother laughing. It was wispy, but the sound told me everything was fine. Knocking, I pushed the door aside and spotted the two women.

  “Noel,” my mom said, like she'd sensed me before I entered. Tucked deep into the thick bedding, she had the look of a ghost that had long ago given up on eating. Hair that had been as dark as mine was now thinned out, spreading across her pillows.

  Beside her, as round as my mother was gaunt, Mary looked like an Easter egg in her bright pink sweater and striped skirt. The plump woman had never fit my expectation of what a nurse should look like, but she made me smile and comforted my mother. I wouldn't say a single bad word about her.

  Mary set down a large, leathery book on the bedside table. “Sorry,” she said, standing with a groan. “I should be going, I just got caught up in your mother's stories.”

  My eyes darted to the book; I recognized the photo album. “Stories?” I asked, smiling shyly. “I heard laughing.”

  “Oh, you know me,” my mother said. “I was just going on about—well, the usual.”

  The nurse winked at me. “The caterpillar story.”

  Groaning, I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Oh, Mom. Not that one.” The time I'd brought my blanket to school and insisted on pretending to be a caterpillar all day. I'd scooted on my belly in the halls to every room. My kindergarten teacher had called home in a fuss, not knowing what to do about it.

  It was one of my mother's favorite tales.

  “Sorry, sweety.” She gave me a little look that said she wasn't sorry at all, and I had to smile back.

  “Well, I'll be off,” Mary chimed. Gathering her things, she gave me a quick hug before heading out into the hall. “I'll see you in the morning, Diana!”

  Pulling herself higher on the pillow, my mom tapped the blankets. I took the cue, scooted closer to her until we were touching. “Tell me about your day, love.”

  I told her about class, how I danced that day and how I'd have to go in early tomorrow. I rambled happily, as if my mother was not wasting away in hospice. A hospital was pointless. She was too far gone.

  My mother smiled, and listened, and never acted like she is dying. We never openly talked about it, her and I. That would make it too real, too much.

  All we talked about was ballet, my future, and Paris.

  Always Paris.

  “It's only a few more months until you leave, isn't it?” she asked suddenly.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I'm not sure I'm ready, actually.”

  “Of course you are.” Her head rolled, eyes going from me to the open window. “Everyone is ready for what life offers them. It never gives us more than we can handle.” My lips flicked up; it was hard to be somber when she was so optimistic. I went to speak, but she sighed, v
oice suddenly soft. “I miss it. That city, the way it would look at night... the smell of the canals. Everyone else hated the smell, but I loved it, that wild and wicked scent...”

  This had become normal. The way she would suddenly trail off, speaking about her past, the time she cherished so very much. And like always, I would listen, and smile, and laugh... and dream.

  I always had a dream; to be a dancer like my mother. These days, I had two dreams.

  To dance... and for my mother to live.

  I didn't know it right then, but in only three months, one of those dreams would prove impossible.

  So for now, I listened, and smiled, and laughed with my mother.

  We never talked about how it could ever end.

  ****

  The suitcase handle felt sticky. I squeezed my fingers, judged the weight and wondered how loud the crash would be if I dropped it.

  “Noel?” My father reached down, touched my shoulder; I jumped. “What is it, what's wrong?”

  Everything is wrong. It was a thought I hated; it surfaced when I let my guard down. Ever since that day we buried her—no. Before then. Ever since the doctors told us... Shaking my head, I stared into my dad's eyes.

  I knew he was trying to be strong for me. Dad's did that; they kept themselves together, acted tough so their kids—me, in this case—wouldn't crack even harder. He's suffering, too. His pain was obvious. Standing there in that airport, it hit me so violently I shuddered.

  This had been the plan—it always had been the plan. I was supposed to go to Paris, study in the Rosella Ballet Program, like my mother had. I was going to understand her and who she was.

  She was supposed to live to see that happen.

  It hadn't been right, seeing her so still—a lacquered corpse. My mom was born to move, to spin and jump and fly. Four months since we'd buried her. Only four months—how had so little time passed by?

  If I go, Dad's going to be all alone. Though he stood over me, for a moment, my father looked very small. There was a lack of color in his skin, rough stubble and a thinness from not eating right.