She tries to move from under it, but he pulls her foot, dragging her through the foul stuff. Then he kicks her backside, and her tiny frame flinches.
Fuck me. I want to murder him with my bare hands.
He orders her not to move, and he threatens to fetch the hammer and doing what he’s always promised. Then he’s gone.
I stare at the screen, my heart thudding painfully.
She curls in on herself and turns her head away from the dead rotting fish head.
As she stares at nothing, she starts to sing.
At first, I struggle to hear her, but then I pick up the melody, and my stomach flips.
Holy fuck, that song! I’ve not heard it in years. It’s an old Russian folk song, and Dasha and I used to sing it back when we were kids.
Hearing it takes me back to the cold, dark St. Petersburg winters. The despair, the violence, and that girl. Only young. Eight, maybe nine. The girl who became my friend, and years later something much more.
Now that girl is lying broken on a stone floor covered in stinking food.
My heart hurts seeing this. She’s a precious fucking jewel, not something to be covered in trash.
And then, I know.
I know what I want to do with Dasha.
I don’t want to hurt her.
I don’t want to make her pay.
I don’t want my vengeance.
All I want, all I need, is to save her.
Chapter Four
Dasha
I’m flying, in that perfect moment of flow where the music and my dancer’s body meet to create fleeting perfection.
My back hurts and my body aches from the cold stone floor last night, but none of that matters now, in this perfect moment in time.
When I’m dancing and it’s going right, everything else fades to black. It’s the only time I feel alive in my skin. The only time I feel like me.
I perversely enjoy stretching out and feeling the pain. It’s as if despite all Jasper does, my body doesn’t break. It’s flexible, and trained, and even when that bastard does his worst, I bounce back.
When the music stops, I sag and get my breath. I hold my head high and walk off the stage to the rhythmic clapping of our choreographer.
Backstage there are five or six girls sitting around and two of the leading male dancers. In the world of ballet, women call the shots. A prima ballerina like myself gets to choose the male dancer she wishes to partner with, so most of the time the men are at least cordial to me, unlike the women.
“Hey, Dasha,” one of the men calls out to me. He’s a handsome, dark-haired, dark-eyed, Italian, and lots of the girls fancy him.
“Hi,” I say feebly. I don’t know how to relate to people anymore. Not since my life turned into a horror story.
“Stuck up bitch,” one of the girls says in French loud enough for me to hear. I speak French now. I taught myself when this became my adopted home.
I smile at her and carry on toward the dressing rooms. If only she knew that she’s jealous of a ghost. A wraith that floats through life feeling nothing but fleeting moments of joy when she dances.
Voices reach me from within the dressing room, my dressing room. I hesitate. Jasper’s I recognize, but not the woman. I push open the door to find him leaning over a small, very young girl. She reminds me of myself when I first started dancing for the company.
She turns to me and smiles nervously. I recognize her as one of the girls from the new intake of dancers to be trained.
“Ah, Dasha. How are you feeling today, my love?” Jasper comes to me, puts an arm around me and kisses my cheek.
It takes all my self-control not to wipe the wet he leaves there off.
“I’m good thanks, my love.” I smile at him and hope he can see he’s still not worn me down the way he wants.
“This is Louisa,” he says, “from Scotland. She’s going to be a star of the future, I’m sure. Maybe you can tell her all the things I’ve done for you?”
His shark smile makes me sick. Then I get a glint of hope, a ray of bright light in the dark I live in. Does he want to replace me? I’m getting older. I’m only in my early thirties, but for a dancer that’s like being fifty. If he replaces me, I’ll be free. I look at Louisa and swallow hard. She’ll be his new captive, though. I don’t know if I can do that.
Freedom, a voice whispers. She’s not your responsibility,; you could be free of him.
I’d lose my career, but so what? I’d still be able to dance, for pleasure, for myself. I wouldn’t worry about him harming my mother, or slandering me, or taking a hammer to my feet. No, he’d simply find a new interest and leave me alone. I smile at her and make the terrible decision. “He’s the best you could wish for. I am where I am today purely because of Jasper.”
She grins happily. “Thank you both so much. I’ll speak to my mother, Jasper, and be in touch.”
When she closes the door leaving us alone, Jasper turns to me. “Don’t be sad, my little tantsor.” He pronounces dancer with the Russian wording, tantsor. “I’m not done with you yet. She will simply be a side project.”
And just like that the bars slam closed again.
He goes to my desk and picks up the mail delivered to me here at the company, the way he always does. It’s mostly fan mail anyway. Recently, I’ve had two nasty letters that have had Jasper freaking out. Not me. It will be some idiot is all, I tried to tell him, but now he’s trying to get me some sort of protection. The only thing I need protecting from is him.
His eyes narrow, and he rips the envelope of one of the letters viciously.
“What is it?” For a moment, I forget our mutual animosity, too struck by his expression.
“Have you been opening any of your own mail?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Why?”
“Are you sure?”
“I think I’d know if I opened my letters, Jasper. What is this about?”
“This.” He thrusts a letter at me, and I read it. “Another little love note from your sick fan. Been here days it looks like.”
Why are you ignoring me? You better stop ignoring me. These aren’t idle threats. I’ve been close enough to smell your perfume. Dior, good choice. You are going to feel my love in the cold hard blade I cut your beautiful, perfect throat with, my swan.
Your Prince.
What the hell? I drop it in shock. This is worse than the others. He’s been close enough to smell my perfume? I do use Dior often. Order it every three months, a gift set of the perfume, shower gel, and body lotion. Damn. The thought of some hate-filled stranger so close makes me feel sick.
Jasper picks it up and sighs. “I need to know if there have been more. This is a real threat this time, my love.”
“I haven’t read any other letters, I swear it. Of course, I would tell you if there were more. This is terrifying.” I shudder at the idea of some deranged stranger watching me from the dark of the seats.
He starts to go through the other mail; some of it is over a week old. He stops and focuses with laser-like intensity on one of the envelopes. My heart rate picks up speed as he opens it.
“Fuck,” he shouts. “You need protection now. Why the hell can’t I get someone? You’d think it would be easy, the amount I’m willing to pay.” He takes out his phone and dials someone. After a few moments, he speaks in French.