The Right Moves (The Game #3)(29)
Author: Emma Hart

My hands, linked together by my fingers and resting on my stomach, tense. My eyes burn and my head pounds as a memory pulls itself up from the depths of my mind. I’m sinking, falling deeper and deeper into the past, flattening under the suffocating weight of it.

And everything stops.

I can’t feel my heart beating. I can’t feel the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe frantically, gasping and choking as I take in too much air too quickly. I can’t feel my legs despite my best efforts to move them, and my arms feel like lead weights against my body. I’m paralyzed, stuck in a day long past, facing a person I trusted and loved. Facing the person that betrayed me and abused me in the worst ways. Facing the person that drained the will to live from my body day by day.

It’s like I’m straight back there. It’s as real as the day it happened.

I’m shaking just as hard as I was then; I’m just as scared as I was. I’m still cowering under the cold blue-green eyes that pinned me in place, and I can still feel the throbbing of my ankle as I fell backwards. I can hear my voice as I pleaded with him to stop, to calm down, to just take a step back and breathe for a minute. I can hear my crying over his deathly calm voice, the one that was more threatening than any amount of yelling he could do.

And the worst, I can feel his skin against mine. I can feel the tightening of his fingers as he grabbed my wrists and pinned them against the bed, the heaviness of his body as he pushed me into the mattress, the soreness of his thumb digging into my jaw as he held my face level with his.

I can hear his raspy whisper as he quietly threatened me, and smell the lingering essence of beer and vodka on his breath as it swept across my face.

I can hear, see, feel.

Everything.

All of it.

Just as clearly as when it really happened. It’s there, playing in front of me, around me, on me.

Real.

I know it’s not. A tiny part of my mind is screaming at me that it’s not real, it’s not really happening, it’s all in my head, but my logic can’t override my fear. I can’t break free from the hold this Pearce has over me.

I can’t rid myself of the pain or the feeling of dirt across my skin. I can’t stop the sobs that are wracking my body or the floods of tears I know are falling from my eyes. And the shouts. I can’t stop the shouts, because I want it to stop. More than anything. I just want it to stop. I need it to stop. I can’t make it stop, though, because I’m not in control.

I can do nothing but ride it out. I can do nothing but lie here, watching the memory play out in my mind and on my ceiling. I can’t fight it, I can’t focus on anything other than this. It’s the last memory I have of him. The worst one. The one that crushed whatever spirit I had left. It’s the one that tipped me over the edge.

And it stops.

He’s gone. The touch of his hands, the smell of alcohol, the blackness as I held my eyes tightly shut, it’s all gone.

And in its place is the warm embrace of my mom, rocking me gently and whispering in my ear with a shaky, tear-filled voice that everything will be okay.

Chapter Fourteen – Blake

If emotions were visible, Abbi’s would look the way the sky does when there’s a huge storm brewing. They’d look like the clouds do at the point of indecision, when they’re not quite sure whether or not they want to let loose and pelt you with everything they have. Her frustration each time she f**ks up a step is like a bolt of lightning; fast, startling, and deadly. Her determination is the thunder, rolling overhead, peaking and dropping every so often.

And the storm is visible in her eyes. In her eyes, I can see the heavy clouds, full of rain, the way I imagine her eyes are full of held-back tears. The shadows there are darker than usual, and they just keep darkening, taking her over.

She pirouettes out of time and stops at the barre, smacking it with her hands. She grips it tightly, bending forward and hanging her head so her chin touches her chest. She looks so helpless standing there, her back heaving with the deep breaths she’s taking to calm herself.

I recognize it. I recognize it all.

This is her having a bad day, one of the days when the depression claws at her and doesn’t let up. When it won’t let her breathe or even think for herself.

I watched Tori act the same – the uneven steps, the uneasy leaps and turns, the overwhelming anger at something you should be able to but can’t control. And then I held her while she cried it all out.

I won’t watch Abbi cry it out. I can’t watch her do that.

I cross the empty studio floor, the rest of the class long gone, and stop just behind her. Her knuckles are white from her strong grip on the barre, and I uncurl her fingers from it. She flinches like my touch is burning her, and I take a deep breath in, reminding myself she’s not really here. Whatever is driving her right now, it’s not completely her.

Depression is a crazy thing. It can take the most headstrong, rational person and turn them into a quivering, blubbering mess of heartbreak over seemingly nothing at all.

Abbi’s head is still hanging and her eyes are focused on the floor. I pull her into the center of the room silently, the only sounds the swishing of our shoes against the floor. I stand to her side, wrap an arm around her back, and cup her chin with my other hand. I raise it up slowly so her eyes are facing the corner of the room, and take my hand away to rest it on her stomach.

Seconds pass until she moves en pointe shakily, and I give her a minute to gain her balance before I walk around her. My eyes never leave her, flickering up and down her profile, from the furrow in her brow to the downturn of her lips. I guide her round, feeling the movement of her stomach as she breathes in and out again.

She stops, drops from pointe, and shoves my arms away from her. She tears her bun out and lets her hair fall loose as she storms across the room. Her hands fall back on the barre and she steps back so she’s leaning right forward.

“Abbi-”

She shakes her head. Her silence is worse than any word she could say or any sound she could make. Abbi turns to face me, her hair falling naturally around her face and her eyes filling with the tears I know she’s been holding in. Her lips quiver as she swallows, and I’ve never seen anyone look quite as vulnerable as she does right now.

“I can’t do it,” she says so quietly I can barely hear it. “It’s not working. I can’t dance today. I’m just one big mess.”

I look her dead on, my stomach twisting at the absolute pain in her eyes. She’s no mess. Her emotions might be, but she isn’t. “Then you’re one hell of a beautiful mess.”