Pretty Girls Dancing(24)
Remembering that had a hot burn of shame spreading in her chest. Because he hadn’t used his whip on her again. He’d taken her clothes instead.
If your behavior improves, you may earn your clothes back, Whitney. But tomorrow you’ll practice without them. Clothes are a privilege earned by good behavior. You haven’t earned any privileges.
The words had been only noise, delivered in that low, hollow voice. She’d just been relieved he wasn’t going to hurt her again. But the next day had been worse than the actual beating.
She’d been naked all day. The bra was hanging on the chain that attached to her wrist cuff, but she hadn’t dared reach for it. She’d had to stand up there in the light afforded by the computer screen and projector, knowing he could see her. Watching her bending and stretching in a way that exposed her body. What made it even worse was that she was having her period. The humiliation of it all still made her stomach lurch. There had been tampons in the meager supplies by the shower, but having to practice all day completely nude, the telltale string hanging down between her thighs . . . nothing in her life had been worse than that. Not the broken arm. Not her first real physical with Dr. Baylor. Not the whipping.
She didn’t dream of being rescued anymore. Not after that day. Now her mind was filled with images of hurting the freak herself. Of breaking free and finding a bat or heavy metal bar and whaling on him, over and over until he screamed and bled and begged. She, who caught ladybugs that had wandered into the house and set them free outside rather than flushing them like her mom did, wanted to hurt another human being.
Except he wasn’t human. He was a monster. The kind her dad had always told her didn’t exist when she’d been a little kid and hadn’t wanted to go to bed at night. Together they’d look under the bed, in the closet, and behind the door to prove that nope, no monsters there.
Now she knew better. Monsters didn’t live in your bedroom. They lived in your town or one just like it. They probably had jobs and neighbors and maybe waved to people passing by as they mowed their lawns. Monsters weren’t the frightening, fanged creatures in the stupid horror movies she watched at sleepovers with her friends.
Even though she hadn’t seen the freak’s face yet, she knew. Monsters looked just like the rest of us. And somehow, that made them even scarier.
She ended the routine with a plié in the fifth position, tendu to second, and assemblé. The simple jump had her bruised muscles screaming. The deep bow at the end pulled at the healing scars on her back. But it wasn’t pain that filled her thoughts; it was dreams of revenge.
“Bravo! Bravissimo!”
The sound of his voice turned her insides to ice. Whitney had to fight an urge to scurry to the corner, cower there, shaking, arms wrapped around herself protectively. She hated that her brain couldn’t control the reactions of her body. She should slouch right now, cross her arms, and give him the “whatever” attitude that always drove her dad nuts. She should do something, anything, to prove that he hadn’t broken her. To show she wasn’t afraid.
But she merely straightened slowly, returned to demi-pointe, hands at rest. Because her body was still afraid. And as much as she despised herself for it, Whitney couldn’t overcome that.
“You mastered the first film in the series in record time.” The freak’s voice was almost jovial. “That’s quite an accomplishment. How long did you take lessons?”
“Ten years. I quit in May.” Her voice sounded meeker than she would have liked, but in her head, where she was stronger, she was filing away details. He knew she’d taken lessons. That meant he was from around her town, right? Or maybe he’d been at her recital last spring. Seen the picture of her group in the paper.
Another thought intruded, and her stomach plummeted. Because he wouldn’t have had to learn that by stalking her. She’d told him. At least, she’d told someone she’d thought was Patrick Allen.
“Yes, you quit.” The pleasant tone had vanished. Now it held an edge that had her inching closer to the wall. “And that disappoints me, Whitney. It really does. Children need to be taught to follow through on whatever they undertake. I’m not a fan of this modern permissive parenting.”
Who gives a rat’s ass what you’re a fan of? The mutinous thought hovered on the tip of her tongue, remained unuttered. It wasn’t brave to just invite another beating for no reason. If it happened again, it was going to be for something that mattered. Like being punished for trying to find a way out of here.
“As a reward for your swift progress, you’ve earned a privilege.”
She remained silent. Unless it was a key out of her dark, shadowy prison, she wasn’t interested.
“You’ll now be allowed a half hour of television before bedtime.”
A ribbon of hope unfurled within her, only to wither at his next words. “Nick at Nite will be programmed to show on the back wall, just as your practice films are.”
A laugh almost escaped her. She’d hoped at first that she’d be allowed out of this room. Maybe through that door—there had to be a door—behind him and allowed somewhere she’d have a better chance of escape. But . . . Nick at Nite? Really? Did he think she was eight?
His expectant pause had the flesh on her arms raising. “That would be . . . nice,” she said. Enthusiasm was impossible to muster, especially in light of her disappointment.