SWNOVELS Breakers: Chapter 20
Pen
The film crew triple check their equipment that’s placed about the auditorium whilst I stand just off centre stage and try to calm my racing nerves. This is the first time I’ve actually been inside the auditorium since starting at the Academy. Tucked away at the back of the building on the ground floor, it’s surprisingly large and can seat a couple hundred people comfortably.
Seated in the last row of seats in the stalls are the Breakers, as well as Clancy and River. Unsurprisingly, neither Tiffany nor Sophie came to watch me dance. Not that I give a flying fuck about their absence. I’m pretty sure if Tiffany could get away with it, she’d have tried to sabotage my performance today. She’s a spiteful bitch like that. Clancy already told me she had some pepper spray ready just in case. I fucking love that girl.
As the director, Scott, talks to Madame Tuillard on the other side of the stage, I go through a series of warmups to ease the tension and nerves in my body. I know what I’ve choreographed is good enough, but that doesn’t stop me from doubting myself. Old habits die hard and all that.
“We’re going to start filming in five minutes, Pen,” Scott says, giving me a thumbs up.
“Sure,” I reply, shaking out my hands and the tension I hold there.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement down the aisle, but as the stage is so lit up the rest of the auditorium has been thrown into semi-darkness and I can’t see who it is until they step onto the stage. Expecting one of my guys, I’m taken aback somewhat when I’m faced with D-Neath.
“Alright, Pen?” he asks, striding across the stage towards me.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I question.
“No reason,” he replies, something flickering in his gaze, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand. Why do I feel creeped out around him? “I just wanted to wish you luck…”
“You want to wish me luck?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” I reply bluntly. The fact of the matter is, this is the first real conversation we’ve had since I started here, and since he referred to me as ‘that short snappy bitch’, when he spoke with Xeno after I caught him talking on the phone to Jeb that time a while back, I know he dislikes me. I guess the feeling’s mutual.
“I ain’t been too forthcoming. A lot on my mind. You know how it is,” he says, giving me a gold-toothed smile that’s a little too salacious for my liking. Fucking creep.
“Uh-huh.” I pointedly flick my gaze to Madame Tuillard then back at him, raising my brows as I do. “I see how it is,” I reply, reading this situation perfectly well. He’s a player. I’d bet my life he cheated on Madame Tuillard and that’s what she’d referred to when we spoke before.
“Anyway… break a leg?” He winks, allowing his gaze to rove over me in a way that is clearly sexual. I lift my chin, looking down at him even though he towers over me in height.
“The only thing that will be breaking is your face if you keep looking at me like that,” I reply quietly so only he can hear. He opens his mouth to respond, then obviously thinks better of it. Plastering on a fake smile, I cock a brow and wait. “Was there something else?”
He gives me a once-over, then shakes his head. “Nah, nothing else.”
“Duncan?” Madame Tuillard calls out from across the stage, drawing his attention away from me. “Come and meet Scott.” She gives him a wide grin and my heart sinks for her. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been shagging students at this school. What a player.
As he walks away, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, the arrow on my internal cunt-o-meter hitting the red zone. D-Neath doesn’t give me the chills like my brother or Jeb, that’s not what I’m feeling. Apart from his clear disregard for Madame Tuillard’s feelings and player bullshit, there’s something else about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. Shrugging off the feeling of disquiet, and benching those thoughts for another time, I bend over and touch my palms to the floor, stretching out my hamstrings whilst mentally going over the routine in my head.
“Alright, Pen, let’s start shooting. Are you ready?” Scott asks after another couple of minutes.
Straightening up, I stride over to my mark on the stage and nod. “I’m ready.”
The auditorium quietens, and the lights on the stage shut off. For a moment I’m pitched into darkness, nothing but the faint red light coming from the camera recording. My skin prickles as I
focus my thoughts, centering myself as I wait for the music to start. I remind myself in the few moments of quiet who this dance is for. I’ve no idea if Madame Tuillard knows anything about my history, or my brother, but the moment she told me I would be dancing to this song I knew how I wanted to perform to it. I wanted to tell a story with this song, but it isn’t just a lyrical piece. This is me acting as much as I’m dancing. I’m merging the two disciplines to get my point across. My body might move to the music, but the expression on my face will have power too. I’m fully aware that there’s a chance my brother is going to see this video, and as such the message within it is for him.
This is the one and only time I will dance for my brother.
I want him to see this performance and fucking rage. I want him to know that I won’t be beaten down anymore. I won’t be held back by him. I won’t be repressed, afraid, fucking terrified. I won’t let the fear eat me alive. This is me showing him I’m fucking done.
This is me saying I’m fighting back.
Come get me motherfucker. Come and fucking get me.
As the opening piano sequence begins, I stand in my black shorts and matching crop top, barefoot in a pool of dim light. My head is bowed, my hair falling forward in a shroud, my feet hip-width apart and my hands loose at my sides. I breathe in deeply through my nose and as I draw in a deep lungful of breath, the first line of the song begins to play.
Just like that, a flip switch’s inside of me. I feel the rage in my limbs as my fingers crawl up my body, clutch my face and grip my hair. Pulling at the strands, I tip my head back and scream silently. I remember how David used to take great pleasure in grabbing my hair and yanking out clumps of it when he used to beat on me. There were so many times he dragged me across the floor by a fistful of hair as I clawed at his hands, as I twisted and fought for him to free me. If he watches this, he’ll understand. I know he will.
Stepping forward a few steps, I punch out with my fists, I lash out with my legs. I fight back with every enraged step just like I did as a kid. Sia sings about being worn down, about struggling beneath someone’s abuse.
He wore me down. He beat me. He hurt me. Abused me. Was cruel. Vindictive. Vile.
I was a child with no one to protect me. No one. All I had was myself. I was just a fucking kid.
But I never once allowed him to destroy my soul. He might have beat me black and blue. He might have torn the hair from my head. He might have kicked me, slapped me, punched me, but he never, ever broke me.
Dance saved my life as a kid.
Right now, I’m using it to express everything I was never able to say.
Digging deep, I put every unspoken word into my dance. Every movement I make with my body is a fuck you to the man who hurt me in the worst possible way.
As I dance, I imitate the way I’d fought him as a defenseless kid. My body is all hard edges and sharp angles, turning it into a weapon as I try to fight back. Lifting my leg up, my knee bent, my foot raised, I kick out. I follow through the movement with a raised fist, my face twisting up in agony.
But he was always too strong.
I drop to my knees, my hands reaching upwards for that invisible tormentor, as I claw at the memory, my face twisting in agony. He fucking wore me down. He pushed me to the ground. He bruised and clawed. He punched and kicked. Right here on the stage I curl up into that ball. Trying to make myself small, hidden, invisible.
I curl up wanting to disappear.
NO!
This dance isn’t about being small, suppressed. This is about fighting back. This is about getting back up every time I’ve been knocked down. This is about finding strength. Courage.
Tears stream down my face as my fingers claw at the floor, as I lift my shoulders up, my forehead pressed against the wooden boards of the stage. My right leg straightens as I kick out to the side. Pointing my toes, I push up onto my hands and look directly into the camera then I slam my fist against the floor repeatedly before sliding out my left leg so that I’m now sitting in the splits, my legs horizontal to the floor. With the next beat, I bring my legs together in front of me. Reaching up, I punch at the air then lie back, place my hands above my shoulders and kick my legs up and over my head in a backwards floor flip, landing on my feet with grace and ease.
Swiping at my eyes, I flick my gaze to the spot in the auditorium where I know my Breakers and my friends are sitting. I jerk my chin at them and I fucking smile. I can hear nothing but Sia’s voice sounding out over the speakers, but I know I have their support, their love. I can feel their energy. It gives me the fire, the fuel to keep dancing.
Focusing back on the camera, I reach out with my hands and claw my fingers, imitating how my brother would wrap his around my throat. Then I grab my wrist with my hand and yank it down, stamping out my anger before throwing my arms wide, and twisting away in a pirouette.
That’s the moment I let go. My feet practically fly across the stage as I dance just like a bird set free, just like Sia sings. My wings are no longer clipped. I’m no longer broken. I’m no longer beaten to the ground. I’m no longer silent.
Dancing is my voice, and by God, it’s fucking loud. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs with my movements. I’m roaring, fucking hollering. Every step is a word that I yell.
For so long I let my fear rule me. I held it all inside.
Not anymore.
Running across the stage, I jump upwards into a straddle split leap, ripping through the air. I fucking soar, my legs wide, my arms flung out, a brilliant smile spreading across my face.
When I land, I immediately spin out into a series of pirouettes until I’m back at the spot on the stage where I started. With a heaving chest, I throw my arms wide then tip my head back in another silent roar.
Then I use all that strength, that courage and I funnel it back into the second half of my routine, into hip-hop. Stepping into the Superman move, I throw my arms up and kick back with my legs before changing tempo and transitioning into the Stick and Roll, jerking my elbows back as though I’m pulling on a rope whilst my knees turn inwards. With every step, I draw on the dance I shared with my Breakers when we were kids, using it now.
I dance for that kid who fought for her life and made me into the woman I am today.
I dance with strength, courage and fierceness.
When the song finishes, the final chords playing out over the auditorium, I stand covered in a sheen of sweat. I feel that rush of power I always get when I dance and funnel all of that energy into my eyes as I look directly into the camera.
This is for you David. This is the one and only dance you shall ever get from me.
Fuck you.
Fuck you, David.
Then the spotlight flicks off and I’m pitched back into darkness. Silence greets me, and for a moment all I can hear is my heavy breathing and the pulsing rush of blood in my ears.
Then the clapping starts.
Followed by cheers.
Whistling.
Stamping of feet.
When the lights turn back on, every single person in the auditorium is on their feet for me. My gaze automatically goes to my Breakers at the back of the studio, only they’re no longer there. Instead, one by one they step up onto the stage, looking at me like I’m the most precious person in the world. They look at me with adoration, with love, with understanding, kindness, and a fierce protectiveness. Xeno swallows hard and I see the emotion leaking from his gaze as Dax puts an arm around his shoulder. York and Zayn are grinning, their love and affection obvious.
“Kid,” Dax murmurs. “Come here.”
I run to them, to my boys, and I throw my arms around Dax’s waist, pressing my tear-stained cheek against his chest. Just like that, they wrap me up in their love, gathering around me. They don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks.
This is us.
Fuck you, David.