Life Before Damaged Vol. 8 (The Ferro Family) (3 page)

S
moke
.

My nose crinkles at the acrid odor. I try to breathe through my mouth instead, but the smell of scorching fumes makes my throat seize up.

Fire.

I open my eyes, panicked, sitting up in my new bed, in my new room in Ferro Mansion, drenched in cold sweat. Flames are everywhere, surrounding me. I’m trapped.

I gasp, try to scream but I can’t speak. I’m calling for help, but I have no voice. I’m alone, and no one can save me. Terror rips through my body as I press myself into a corner of the room.

Slowly, the flames morph into human shapes. Burning people reach out with flaming arms to pull me into the inferno with them.

I frantically back up on my bed until I’m pressed up against the intricate hardwood headboard, and I scream again. Sizzling hands grasp and pull at me, my skin blisters under their touch. I scan the room with my eyes, desperate for an escape. A clear, narrow path, leads from my bed to the door, but the suite is big.

I have to run. It’s the only way out.

I sprint from the bed, blazing hands grabbing at my bare legs as I run. I’m faster; I can do this. I'm not weak anymore, and I break free. I pass the living room and make it to the grand foyer by the wooden front door. I place my hands on the handle and realize the metal is freezing cold. I yank my blistered hand back and glance behind me.

The fiery mob is closing in on me, their faces morphing into focus. It's Philip, Zeke, and their skydiving buddies. They're calling my name, leering, asking me to join them. Philip's normally kind eyes are full of vengeance.

Wrapping my hand with the hem of my nightshirt, I try the handle once more. The door opens, and I run out, expecting to be on the front lawn, but I’m not. I must have gone through the wrong door because there are hallways that stretch endlessly in either direction.

Ice covers the walls. It’s so cold. My breath comes out in white puffs of steam, and I hold my arms tightly around me to keep warm. I don’t know where to go. Nothing looks familiar anymore.

I turn to my left and run, barefoot. With a stitch in my side, I tear down an endless icy corridor for what seems like hours. Impenetrable ice covers all the doors. I keep sprinting. I finally see the end of the hall. A single, ice-free door faces me. I try the handle. It’s neither hot nor cold to the touch, so I turn it.

I’m suddenly outside, on the vast grounds of Ferro Mansion, standing on soft green grass. I’m safe. I bend over at the waist, my hands resting on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I hear laughter from behind a nearby rose bush and tiptoe towards the sound. I wish I hadn’t.

On the other side of the bush, Pete sits on his bike, shirtless. Moonlight glistens off of the sweaty sheen on his skin, defining each toned muscle. He's holding a single rose in his hands, caressing the petals gently with his fingers as if it's the most precious thing he owns. Women surround him, dozens of naked women. They are clawing at him, trying to get him off of his bike. He looks at them lustily, hunger in his eyes.

When he sees me, his expression changes. He appears sad, lost. I step toward him, but the naked women push me back, hissing, their snakelike tongues darting out. Pete drops the rose to the ground, and it freezes on contact, shattering. He kicks the bike's engine to life and takes off, fast. He speeds on the icy covered ground and as he rounds the corner by the front gate, I see the back wheel lose traction.

The motorcycle tire slides out from under him as the bike races forward, and thrusts him into the pavement. His battered body slides toward the front gate, not slowing. Rungs of metal from the ornate decoration at the foot of the gate are shaped like arrowheads. There’s no helmet to protect his face, no jacket to save his skin. I scream out as loud as I can, horrified.

My voice fills my head as the cry of terror rips from my body.

Darting up in bed, I gasp. My voice is still in my ears. I must have yelled. My heart is still pounding and my body is covered in sweat. It seemed so real. Even though I know it wasn’t, even though everything is fine, my emotions can’t recognize the difference. My body is still ready to run or fight.

I push away the damp hair that clings to my face. There’s no fire--there never is. I take in my new and now slightly familiar surroundings, taking deep calming breaths. I’m safe. I pick up one of the plush pillows and hug it tightly to my chest.

I’ve been living in Ferro Mansion for two weeks. My life here isn’t so bad if you like cold and loveless isolation. I haven't spoken to Philip since our horrible breakup at the drop zone. Erin tried to stop by several times, but the butler keeps sending her away. All I can get from her are text messages. I miss her.

Pete is kind to me, but I hardly ever see him. Jonathan hangs around the house, but he's a massive flirt--his resemblance to Pete makes me uncomfortable.

I avoid the indoor pool and spa because that seems to be where Mr. Ferro keeps his bouncy boobs. I have no inclination to engage in brain-numbing conversations with them. If I have to listen to the virtues of acrylic, gel, and silk nails again, I'm jumping out of a window.

I feel like I’m in prison, which is fitting, considering that's where I belong. The only locations the Ferro family chauffeurs are allowed to drive me are to school and back. I’m getting a serious case of cabin fever despite the fact that this place is huge and has everything I need--everything except what counts most in a home.

The clock on my nightstand shows 2:58 a.m., and I can’t go back to sleep. Pushing the blankets away with my feet, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I pad across the large room and open the closet door. I step inside and grab my dance bag from the little golden chaise, and pull the strap across my shoulder.

Silently, I pad down the hallways. The only thing that brings me any joy is the unused ballroom I discovered on my second day here. It’s my salvation. When I’m not in school or studying in my room, I’m in the ballroom dancing. I dance until I can no longer stand. I dance until I can’t feel anything but pain from pointe, or overused muscles crying out for rest.

At least I can fathom that type of pain. I can ice it and make it go away. I wish I knew how to ice the nightmares.

I pad inside and flip on one of the chandeliers. I mute the light so it’s glowing softly, only illuminating the center of the room ever so slightly. Mirrors surround the edges at various places as does ornate gold moldings. The combination of gold and pale light makes it feel like candles glowing around me.

There’s a scent in this room too, something fresh and free. It’s somewhere between lilacs and rain showers. It’s a happy scent, something from childhood that I can’t quite put my finger on. The ceiling is like a canvas, painted by a master. It’s not a copy of the Sistine Chapel or something that existed long ago, but rather, it’s something new, but timeless. The pale blues and whites sweep across the ceiling making it resemble the sky. If you look at it for any length of time, you can see nymphs and beautiful faces peering down. The way the painting was done makes them muted, but it’s as if they’re there, watching down on you—and it doesn’t matter if you notice or not—they’re still there.

I tie my hair up into a loose bun on the top of my head, before grabbing my slippers from the bag. I lace up the ribbons of my pointe shoes around my ankles and stretch my muscles, bringing them to life.

I dance to the silent music playing in my head. I perform piqué turns over and over across the room, the world blurring around me. My lines are perfect, and everything is held in position, as it should be. Brisk grand allegros are counterbalanced by slow flowing adagios; all executed while keeping the utmost control over every muscle in my body. I’m holding myself in one piece instead of letting the fragments fall to the ground, finding inner and outer strength in my dancing.

Time becomes obsolete. I’m breathing hard, covered in sweat, my nightshirt clinging to my body like a second skin; it feels wonderful. I feel alive and ready to take on the world.

A rush of life courses through me as I dance in the center of the vast room. The shadows surround me, but they make no difference. If I hold focus, if I control the dance, then nothing can touch me here. Not Constance. Not Dad. No one.

I push my body to the edge. My muscles scream and my feet need attention, but the pain makes me feel alive. I know the burn of muscles and the sharp agony of pointe. I cause it, I control it, and I can stop it.

I’m breathing jaggedly now, and rush across the room with my arms out, bending forward, ready to go into another routine when I notice sapphire eyes watching me from the shadows. I stop abruptly and stifle a scream by pressing my fingers to my lips.

P
ete is sitting
in a dark corner of the ballroom, straddling a chair, his front pressed against the backrest, one hand on his cheek. He makes no apologies. He simply says, “I love watching you dance. I can almost hear the music playing in my mind.”

“Holy shit, Pete! How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough.” He’s utterly calm and it’s completely aggravating.

“I'm not here to be your private peep show.” I turn without another word and sit on the floor to pull off my shoes. The knot on the ankle is tight so it takes me a moment. I hear Pete get up from his chair and pad toward me.

He picks up my bag, and places it next to me before sitting on the floor beside me. The air is charged like something weird is going to happen. I can’t take more weird.

Pete runs his hand through his hair and stares at the wooden floor. “I’ve been here a while. I’m sorry I scared you, but I didn’t want to interrupt and cause you to stop.”

“Well, you should have. This was for me, I didn’t want anyone to see.” I undo the second knot on my other ankle and remove my second shoe. My eyes focus on my fingers, nervously wrapping and unwrapping the ribbon around them. Pete rests his hand on mine, gently stopping my fidgeting.

“I know.” Pete presses his lips together and folds his hands in his lap before glancing over at me out of the corner of his eye. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I can’t be sorry for watching you dance. You wouldn’t have danced like that if you’d known I was here. It would have been muted, censored even. The way you dance when you think no one is watching is pure. It’s like watching a poem coming to life. That wasn’t only your body moving to music. You were baring your soul.”

I cut him off, “Which is private.”

“Some confessions can’t stay private – they’re too pure, too perfect.”

I want to laugh but something tells me not to. “That was far from perfection, and unless you’re studying to be my partner, you need to tell me what you’re doing here. And don’t make light of this and blow it off. You watching stole something honest from me. You owe me the same level of intimacy in return.”

Pete doesn’t laugh or blow it off. Instead, he remains next me and watches his hands. After a moment he takes a deep breath, nods in agreement, and parts his lips. “You’re right. I owe you that.”

I watch the side of his face out of the corner of my eye. My stomach flip flops in the moments of silence as I wonder what he’s going to say. He could shatter this with a wry look or a joke, but he doesn’t. The space is charged like there’s lightning in the air, but it’s all coming from him.

I reach for a little towel in my bag and pat my face. That’s when he starts speaking again.

“It reminded me of me.” He’s tense but trying to hide it. He keeps the curve of his spine, but his eyes dart around the room as if he wants to run. Pete wrings his hands as he explains. “And I owe you more than a sentence since I saw something you didn’t really want to share.”

I glance at him. “No, I didn’t—but I’m listening. Make us even Ferro. Tell me something that’s connected to you on such a deep level, something you can share or show me, something you hide from the world.”

He nods slowly and I can tell how hard it is for him to do this, but he does. He doesn’t protest or tease me. “I don’t know if this is enough, but it’s not something I talk about. Ever. The books you found in my room—the poems. They’re not just rhythmic words on paper. Poetry is a baring of the soul. It’s making yourself vulnerable to the world with every word, every pang of pain, every tear of remorse. I see what I feel when you dance. I’ve been looking for a connection, wondering if they’re similar—dancing and poetry. And I’m not certain, but both are beautifully strung together—forged by feeling, emotion, and technique—to form the perfect balance.”

His words strip away my anger until I feel naked beside him. The way he speaks, with such conviction tempered with uncertainty—but a sincere desire to know—floors me. The words tumble out of my mouth because I can’t hide my shock. “There’s more? How can there be more?”

Did I just say that out loud? Eyes wide, I glance away from him quickly not wanting to fathom the expressions on his face. I’m in my damp nightshirt and panties, nothing else. I tuck my legs underneath me, trying to hide from him. But I feel naked regardless and what I just said made it worse.

Add in the fact that he saw me dancing and not some pre-arranged choreography that was meant to please an audience. He saw me pour every bottled up emotion I have onto the floor. The frantic desperation, the slow ticking of time, the melancholic sadness, the hopeful joy of something better yet to come. It’s like he said, to the untrained eye, it’s just movement, but Pete gets it, somehow.

“More? More, what?” His tone is so soft, so careful. Pete reaches for my hand and presses it lightly on top of mine. “Gina, tell me.”

My stomach is swirling too fast. This is not supposed to happen. I can’t think when he touches me. I slip my hand away from under his and look up into his intense sapphire eyes. “I can’t. It’s nothing.” Fake smile, I find it and plaster it on my face before looking at him.

Pete’s gaze sweeps over me before resting on my bare feet. They’re mangled and less than pretty. “You know, there’s no trace of anything like that in my life.” He tips his head toward my feet.

I suddenly want to hide them and my face flushes with embarrassment. They’re calloused, cracked, bleeding, and bandaged. They’ve been broken and repaired so many times that they don’t look feminine any more. I try to laugh it off. “You mean a big ugly mess?” I smile at him.

For the first time in a long time, Pete meets my gaze and shakes his head. He swallows hard and confesses, “There’s nothing ugly about your feet. They show passion, dedication, endurance, promise and hope. They are a testament to the type of person you are—you don’t give up and you’re willing to endure whatever it takes to get what you want, come Hell or high water.” The corners of his lips rise for a moment and then fall. “I have nothing like that, and never will.”