Page 12 of Nemesis

The voices trickle in around me, but it’s like my head is underwater. I can barely hide my limp as I use my hand to pull my left leg forward into each awful step.

An arm slaps my back. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” I whisper. I have no idea to whom.

My feet don’t stop moving. Out through the stage door. Down the halls.

It’s only when I reach the private bathroom and twist the lock behind me that I finally allow myself to break.

My blood boils with competing homicidal tendencies as I swirl my untouched drink.

After spending about twenty minutes locking myself up in the bathroom and hyperventilating in agony, I was expecting to return to my shitty apartment, take as long as I wanted to get up all three flights of stairs, and pass out in bed.

However, just as I finished taking off the last of my stage makeup, Ms. Irina smacked her golden cane against the dressing room door and informed me that my presence was required at the donor cocktail hour in the lobby.

That’s right.

After a twelve-hour rehearsal day and a two-hour evening show, the board would like me to make myself presentable, put on a skimpy dress, and be the eye candy for their party.

The little black dress I was provided by the wardrobe department squeezes my body like plastic wrap, making it an extreme sport to work each breath into the bottom of my lungs. They take our measurements every single week to ensure we’re staying thin enough for their standards. The bust of the dress cuts low on my chest, displaying what little cleavage I have, as well as a slit that runs from the floor-length fabric to my mid-thigh.

It’s fine. I’m used to being exposed and ogled by the donors. This is nothing new.

Just one more hour, Octavia.

Several hours pass.

By the time the clock turns eleven, I’ve plotted four especially handsy donors’ deaths (three looked like an accident), and I’ve been chastised twice by the wardrobe manager for getting their precious dress too close to the red wine.

The empty champagne flute dangles from my fingers like a stage prop as I walk through the room with a forced smile, pretending I don’t see Ms. Irina coming my way with a pep in her step.

“Octavia! The director would like to have words with you,” the old woman says as her claws dig into my flesh and pull me forward.

I wonder if she hates these parties too. If she’s reminded of the girl in the photographs, folded and positioned to capture a glimpse of youth before it fades out of reach. If they do, she hides it well.

“Of course,” I murmur, following along with an awkward shuffle. The last time I had words with the director at a donor party, I came within an inch of committing a fireable offense. Not to mention last night’s altercation still burns beneath my ribs like a trapped cough. It wasn’t enough to humiliate me in the middle of the studio or shove me in the back of the stage. I met his gaze, and I didn’t apologize. It’s practically a biological imperative for him to remind me of my place in the world.

My body revolts as I step closer to the silver-haired man holding court in the middle of the room. He’s in that stupid three-piece suit, the one reserved for swanky events with his donors. The entire group of men drinks in my approach, eyes lingering on my body for far too long before rising to my face.

“Ah! Octavia, dear,” the director preens. “Lovely performance tonight.”

“Thanks.”

I send up a quick prayer to a god I don’t really believe in that this useless cumstain drops dead before the next performance season. A wrinkled hand slips onto my lower back. It drifts lower, but I don’t dare to move a muscle.

“I don’t enjoy punishing you, dear,” he drawls with an expression that says exactly the opposite sentiment. “But that temper of yours can get so out of control. I’d intended to extend this lesson of yours,” the hand squeezes when it meets the curve of my ass. “But perhaps you can change my mind?”

Not one of his useless friends comments on the hushed innuendo, or the way his wrinkled palm lingers after the punishing squeeze. That familiar itch starts up again, rattling the flesh on my thighs.

Not from fear, I convince myself.

I don’t fear men like him—not anymore. I imagine their slow, gurgling deaths, choking around the impaled heel of my stiletto in the folds of their throats. I hide metal bats in the back of my locker and beneath my bed.

And when I’m trapped, truly trapped by circumstance and power and fucking eviction notices, I sink. I tolerate.

Don’t lose your job over this, Octavia.

That little orange slip I found on my door a few days back flashes through my memory. The first year after I aged out of the dormitories was one of the hardest in my life. With no money to start a lease and no time outside of rehearsals to find outside work, I found myself living in the ballet’s locker rooms at night. Digging through the trash for food when no one was looking.