Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,47
the pain. You need the judgment. You need my eyes on you, demanding your obedience. You dance to obey. You stand at that barre every day obeying the commands of the ballet master because you need that thrill you get when you please him.”
“It's not sexual.” But I don't deny the rest of it. There's no point. That’s why I dance. I need the control. I need someone else besides me to be in control and tell me what to do. I need to just worry about executing the steps perfectly and nothing more. I need the peaceful space it creates inside my brain.
Another chuckle. “Isn't it? Isn't it just another kink, cupcake? I took your dark little needs out of the shadows and made them explicit. I made you exist for me on my stage. And you kept coming back for more because I saw you. I saw what you needed, and I gave it to you. But if I'd met you in any normal way, you would never have done it. You needed permission. You needed just a little threat to push you over the edge into my arms.”
I don't have an answer to any of this. I know he's right. And if he could read me so easily, could others? I'm blushing furiously now.
“There's nothing to be ashamed of. Most dancers are masochists. Did you know ballerinas have a pain threshold three times higher than the general population? I wonder if that's training or if it's self-selecting. Maybe only the strong survive. That's why you were drawn to Conall.”
“No! I never wanted him to hurt me.” I don't care who Sebastian is or how much power he has to destroy me, he will not imply that I somehow asked for the things Conall did to me. The way he hurt me, abused my trust, made me live in so much panic that the only safety for me was the sanctuary of the studio or the stage—where everything was controlled and nothing was unpredictable.
“Shhhh. I know. You thought you saw a kind of dominance that you needed. It's so easy for the young and uninitiated to think they see dominance when it's really just abuse. I know what you need. But if I had come to you, you would have run from me. You would have taken one look at my scarred face and...”
“It doesn't make you ugly,” I say. And it doesn't. His photograph used to be splashed across every dance magazine in the world. So I know what Sebastian Trent looked like before the accident that ended his career, but the scars don't lessen his beauty. I guess there’s a level of attractive nothing can touch.
“But they make me look dangerous. And after Conall, you never would have come to me on your own.”
I sigh. I can't deny it. That's probably true. And he does look dangerous. He looks lethal. Not that I can see him right now. He's hidden in whatever shadowy nook he lurks in.
But though he may look dangerous, his hands on me feel like home. Is that why he thought I wouldn't show up tonight? That look on my face on stage? That flinch?
Did he think it was revulsion? That all my little fantasies were shattered in a moment at the reality of the scars marring his perfection? Did he think the world he'd created for us on this secret stage was shattered now as clean beautiful lines were replaced by sharp broken ones?
“What happened Sunday? How did you end up on stage with me?” I ask because I have to know. No one knew much the night of the performance, and the decision makers at the company who do know seem to have taken a vow of silence on the issue.
Even though Sebastian is a disembodied voice, even though he's still hiding from me, our typical formality is broken in the wake of this revelation which I haven't been able to stop thinking about for three days.
“I was backstage, careful not to draw attention to myself. I stayed in the shadows and out of your path. I wanted to watch your first principal performance from the wings. There are so many unique things to see from that vantage point: your quick costume changes, you working through your nerves before going onstage, your elation coming off stage, words of congratulations and great job from the other dancers waiting in the wings to go on. It's something I can't get from a box