The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Read Online Free
Author: Carmilla Voiez
Vivienne’s full-length mirror and flooding the room.
Breathing slower now, I sheathed my knife and strolled to the bedroom door. Already the air smelled fresher. I turned around as I reached the hallway, glancing back at the rich fabrics and heavily patterned wallpaper - a true boudoir, a shrine to her pleasure. I sighed and moved to walk away when something caught my eye. Turning back to the room, I watched as the décor altered.
Subtly at first - the colour of the light-shade, a change of carpet then everything looked different. And there was Mother, centre stage, on the bed, naked, legs splayed and mounted by a huge man. Her flushed face fixed on me and I was a terrified ten-year-old girl once more.
‘What do you think you’re staring at?’ Vivienne demanded.
‘Maybe she wants to join in,’ the oily-voiced stranger suggested.
My body shook. The man didn’t break his rhythm as he spoke. His flabby body still pounded between Vivienne’s thighs. Mother’s eyes looked cold and empty. I shook my head, denying what I saw, and turned away in horror. I fled to my own bedroom, chased by my mother’s laughter.
7
After slamming my door, I placed a chair against it and sat down, hyperventilating.
I sat for ten minutes or more, sobbing silently. Still shaking, I stood up and opened my window to breathe. In a replay of years past, I started the mental ritual of packing my things, before realising they were already safe in my backpack. The thought calmed me. I could leave. Tomas would be disappointed, I wouldn’t meet my niece and I might always wonder whether Vivienne had ever loved me, but I could go. I had power now, the choice was mine, and she could not stop me. Two steps forward, one step back - it was my dance and I trusted it not to fail me.
Recognising the shift in power adulthood had brought, I dried my tears and sat on the edge of the bed. Gradually my heartbeat slowed and the painful pounding in my chest, dissipated. I considered the pros and cons of heading home. I could tidy up, close the windows and curtains once more, lock the doors, and leave. I could keep the house keys and phone with me. Tomas would ring when he arrived at the house this evening and found me gone. I could try to make him understand, reach beyond those emotional blinkers. The remaining grocery money might be enough to pay for a bus ticket home. I wondered whether I should take a walk to the bus station to see.
Bus stations - I remembered the first time I had arrived at one. I was thirteen and the place reeked of urine. I walked, head bowed, past two young men, hovering by the entrance, blowing smoke into the rain. There was a queue at the information window. I glanced through lowered lashes at the other people waiting to travel. A child tugged on her mother’s hand, hurrying her to the kiosk for sweets. An Asian family sat on one of the benches; the father spoke loudly, not in English. His family seemed mesmerised by his every word. Entranced, I remembered standing and watching them, until the man noticed me and frowned.
The bus fare was too expensive and I needed to beg for more coins. I wondered what I would do and where I would sleep once I reached London. The motorway was just a short walk from the bus station, but I dismissed the idea of hitch hiking; the thought of being so close to an unknown man for hours terrified me. Instead I headed towards the shopping centre to beg as a pervasive drizzle replaced the rain. Pigeons swooped overhead as people rushed past, never quite touching me. Chilled air moved between us, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end. At that moment I realised I was, and would always be, completely alone.
Six years later I knew that would never change. Being alone was part of who I was. I could be alone here as easily as I could be alone in a squat in London. Without returning to Vivienne’s room to close her window, I left the house and walked aimlessly, until I reached a park
Breathing slower now, I sheathed my knife and strolled to the bedroom door. Already the air smelled fresher. I turned around as I reached the hallway, glancing back at the rich fabrics and heavily patterned wallpaper - a true boudoir, a shrine to her pleasure. I sighed and moved to walk away when something caught my eye. Turning back to the room, I watched as the décor altered.
Subtly at first - the colour of the light-shade, a change of carpet then everything looked different. And there was Mother, centre stage, on the bed, naked, legs splayed and mounted by a huge man. Her flushed face fixed on me and I was a terrified ten-year-old girl once more.
‘What do you think you’re staring at?’ Vivienne demanded.
‘Maybe she wants to join in,’ the oily-voiced stranger suggested.
My body shook. The man didn’t break his rhythm as he spoke. His flabby body still pounded between Vivienne’s thighs. Mother’s eyes looked cold and empty. I shook my head, denying what I saw, and turned away in horror. I fled to my own bedroom, chased by my mother’s laughter.
7
After slamming my door, I placed a chair against it and sat down, hyperventilating.
I sat for ten minutes or more, sobbing silently. Still shaking, I stood up and opened my window to breathe. In a replay of years past, I started the mental ritual of packing my things, before realising they were already safe in my backpack. The thought calmed me. I could leave. Tomas would be disappointed, I wouldn’t meet my niece and I might always wonder whether Vivienne had ever loved me, but I could go. I had power now, the choice was mine, and she could not stop me. Two steps forward, one step back - it was my dance and I trusted it not to fail me.
Recognising the shift in power adulthood had brought, I dried my tears and sat on the edge of the bed. Gradually my heartbeat slowed and the painful pounding in my chest, dissipated. I considered the pros and cons of heading home. I could tidy up, close the windows and curtains once more, lock the doors, and leave. I could keep the house keys and phone with me. Tomas would ring when he arrived at the house this evening and found me gone. I could try to make him understand, reach beyond those emotional blinkers. The remaining grocery money might be enough to pay for a bus ticket home. I wondered whether I should take a walk to the bus station to see.
Bus stations - I remembered the first time I had arrived at one. I was thirteen and the place reeked of urine. I walked, head bowed, past two young men, hovering by the entrance, blowing smoke into the rain. There was a queue at the information window. I glanced through lowered lashes at the other people waiting to travel. A child tugged on her mother’s hand, hurrying her to the kiosk for sweets. An Asian family sat on one of the benches; the father spoke loudly, not in English. His family seemed mesmerised by his every word. Entranced, I remembered standing and watching them, until the man noticed me and frowned.
The bus fare was too expensive and I needed to beg for more coins. I wondered what I would do and where I would sleep once I reached London. The motorway was just a short walk from the bus station, but I dismissed the idea of hitch hiking; the thought of being so close to an unknown man for hours terrified me. Instead I headed towards the shopping centre to beg as a pervasive drizzle replaced the rain. Pigeons swooped overhead as people rushed past, never quite touching me. Chilled air moved between us, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end. At that moment I realised I was, and would always be, completely alone.
Six years later I knew that would never change. Being alone was part of who I was. I could be alone here as easily as I could be alone in a squat in London. Without returning to Vivienne’s room to close her window, I left the house and walked aimlessly, until I reached a park
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