Pas de Deux by Samantha Belleman

The weight always comes before my dream ends, pulling me out just enough to force my eyes open. The room is still, but I feel a shifting on top of me. I strain my fingers trying to move them. Nothing. I try to swallow but can’t. 

My eyes are the only things I can move, but as I try to look for anyone, anything to save me, the weight bears down harder. It feels deliberate, a slow pressure on my thigh, a hand around my throat. The heat in my chest screams at every nerve ending to move, but there must be  a lag because nothing obeys. 

When it finally does, I jerk upright, coughing, clutching my neck. I throw the blankets to the side, stumbling off my bed. The room snaps fully into place, but my body doesn’t. I take short, halted breaths between coughs, but every time I try to breathe in fully, my throat catches. I cross my arm over my shoulder and hit my own back, trying anything to make it stop. 

It’s minutes before I can breathe again. The clock reads 3:30. Same as yesterday. Same as the night before. 

When my alarm goes off at six, my throat is still raw. I tell myself it’s allergies. Everyone has a lingering cough this season. 

#

The metro rumbles, occasionally jerking to a halt.

I watch the city skyline out the window across the car until a man sits a few chairs down from me, and I can feel his gaze linger a moment too long. I take my phone out of my bag and hold it in front of my face, pretending like I have something important to read. 

As I open it, I see a message from Mia. 

“I’m so excited to see you tonight!”

I exhale, and reply, “Me too!”

She quickly texts back. “No more work trips for a while now. Just you and me babe.”

I smile a little and try to hold onto that sentiment. 

#

The lights in here are too bright, too white, reflecting off the large mirrors lining the wall. The body of my leotard clings to me as sweat drips down my back, and the mesh of my tights are damp and itchy. I take a long drink of water and roll up and down the arches of my pointe shoes. 

Bryan stops beside me, smiling, and brushes his blond hair off his forehead. “I don’t know how you’re wearing long sleeves right now.” He gestures to himself in shorts and a soaked navy t-shirt. 

I give a quick laugh and a lie. “Accidentally skipped laundry day, had to use my reserve leotard today.”

“Hey Bryan,” Ms. Carmen calls as she ties her thick, black hair into a long braid. “Could you close the door?”

“Yes, miss,” he says and runs across the room. 

“I heard Mark is choreographing in Chicago now,” Ms. Carmen mutters to one of the other dancers and throws a scarf over her pointed shoulders. “Lucky bastard.”

My throat tightens but then Bryan is back in front of me. He extends his hand. “Shall we?”

It’s the kind of question I never got to answer before. 

I inhale as much as I can, let it go, and then take his hand. “I suppose we should.”

He leads me to the center of the floor as a soft piano begins. It’s nearly automatic. My body accepts the music and then pushes it out through my fingertips. 

The ballet “Giselle” begins with a peasant girl dancing around her village. I follow the music’s flute. 

Then a young man appears, disguised as a peasant, but he’s secretly a prince and her eventual ruin. In just this dance, he declares his love for her. 

I step forward into an arabesque, and Bryan’s hand comes to my waist. Before I can catch myself, I flinch. 

Ms. Carmen’s voice cuts through the piano. “You’re dancing with him, not alone.”

For a second, it’s not her voice at all, but another, close, behind me. 

“Trust me. Don’t fight this.”

My stomach twists, and then it’s Ms. Carmen again. “You have to let him lead.” 

Giselle let him lead. Doesn’t she even question how a man she’s never met before just appears in her village? Maybe she should’ve known better. Then none of this would have happened. 

I extend my spine, pulling my weight up and out of my shoes. Keep smiling. The music slows, and we shift into a final pose.

“Very good,” Ms. Carmen says. 

I relax, dropping my arms. When I glance at the mirror, for a second, I swear my reflection still holds the pose, her arms lifted. But I blink, and she’s followed. 

#

Steam clouds the glass shower walls, hiding me from the outside. I turn the water up, hotter, hotter, until I can feel it. I run my body wash over my chest and arms. Then again. Something still isn’t clean. I pick up my washcloth, scrub my arms again. Again. 

I scrub again. 

As my skin starts to burn, I catch myself, my breath coming in short bursts. I throw my washcloth to the side and put my head under the running water, the heat spilling down my hair onto my shoulders. 

I finally relax as the water stings my face until I can’t tell if it’s coming from the shower or my eyes. 

Sometimes it’s easier to let it happen than to say no. Easier to float out of my body and watch it happen to someone else. Easier, until the water runs hot and my skin won’t come clean. 

#

Mia’s laugh fills our table, sweet and soft. The restaurant is dim, the walls a dark, charcoal black, drawing them closer. A singular, golden light sits at the center of our table. 

“And then they threw him into the pool!” Mia beams and then pauses. “But don’t worry, he could swim.”

I smile as I listen to her and nod. She looks beautiful as always. Her wispy bangs hang down, framing her face, and her black eyes are traced with blue eyeliner. 

The waiter interrupts my thoughts. 

“Ladies, we have our house red.” He shows it to the both of us, and Mia smiles at him. 

He nods and pours it in her glass first and then mine. 

Mia raises her glass to me, and I pick mine up to clink it with hers. 

“To no more long distance,” she says. 

“Finally,” I reply.

She takes a sip, the deep red perfectly matching her lipstick. 

When I bring it up to my own mouth, before I can take a sip, the scent reaches me. A sharp, fermented sweetness. My stomach clenches, and my hand grips the glass harder. I hold it there for a moment, still. 

“C’mon, you’re so tense all the time,” his voice echoes. 

He had put the bottle in my hand. “It’s just one drink.”

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about this taste on your lips. This scent suffocating you. 

Mia’s voice cuts in. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

I set the glass back down on the table and force a smile. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I just realised I’m driving tonight.”

Mia tilts her head but then nods. “No, don’t be sorry. I should’ve thought about that.”

The moment passes, and Mia goes back to sharing her adventures overseas, the alcohol painting a delicate pink on her cheeks. 

I push around the food on my plate, and, when Mia asks, I say something about a big lunch. The acid in my stomach pushes against the walls, bloating and thrashing like it hates me. 

Her hand reaches across the table, and she interlaces her fingers in mine. I want to tell her everything, but the words crawl up my throat and die there. She looks at me with love, with trust. If I tell her, that will change.  

#

I don’t remember falling asleep or even going to bed. These days I stay up as long as I can until sleep forces me down. 

The weight comes again. On my chest, on my throat with fingers that aren’t there. 

My eyes shoot open, but the room looks wrong. Everything is too pale, too distorted. A shadow leans over me, darker than the rest of the room. His face shifts between a blotting silhouette and something too familiar. A face that I had so diligently deleted from every photo in my camera roll. 

I can smell him. Alcohol, cheap cologne, laundry detergent that never quite washed the sweat out. 

“Stop,” I try to say, but my mouth won’t move. The sound escapes as a wheeze, and the air is heavy, pushing into me from all sides. 

The shadow leans closer, and I swear I feel its hot breath against my ear. 

My vision distorts until I’m back in that room. The white light, the carpet burning against my shoulder blades, the weight of him pinning me on the floor. 

I snap and wake with a gasp that rips against my chest, my hands clawing at my neck. Sweat drips down my arms as I throw myself out of bed again. I stumble into my kitchen, the sound of desperate coughs filling the silence of the morning. I grasp the edge of a table, hunched over. I just need to take one full breath. Just one in. But I can’t seem to. For a moment, I think I might still be in the dream because that smell, the same one, hangs in the air. 

When I finally inhale, my head rings, my whole body shivering with sweat. I slowly lower myself onto the ground. The cold kitchen tiles press against my arms and legs as I stare up at the ceiling. I tilt my head to the side and catch the time on the oven. 3:30. 

#

I glance in the mirror and nearly jump when I notice the turtle neck of my leotard riding down. I tug it up, the fabric clinging around my throat. 

Dust drifts through the air, shimmering in the morning light coming from the studio windows. It looks like Willis, laced in white, dancing through Act II of Giselle, haunting the men who killed them with betrayal. 

The mirrors are dirty. He used to stay back to help me clean the floors and mirrors. I hated cleaning duty, but it helped having someone there. 

“You have real potential,” he’d say. “Just loosen up a little.”

I wanted to believe him. I tried to ignore the way he looked at me through the mirror. The kind of gaze that feels like a ghost is watching you, but will only become real if you look back at it.  

Now my reflection watches me too closely yet stays a step behind. I catch a loose piece of hair sticking out of my bun in my reflection. I pull out a pin, twist the hair around my finger, and tuck it back in place. 

Across the room, a crash, the sound of a barre hitting the floor, shoots through me. My hand jerks, and the pin stabs deeper. 

Someone laughs nervously, apologizes, and picks the barre back up. 

When I look up again, there’s a small bead of red above my collar, dripping down my neck. I stare at it for a moment before wiping it with my thumb and bringing it to my mouth. The blood coats the tip of my tongue, and it’s oddly good, familiar, like something I’ve been craving. I tuck the pin back in.

Bryan comes beside me. “You ready?”

I nod, and we walk to center. The music starts. 

As he steps forward, I step back. Giselle teases her lover. His hands catch my sides, and for a second I can’t breathe. My hand presses against his chest, meant to be gentle, caring, but it lands harder. I force a smile and lightly push him away. 

I’m supposed to be flirting, not repulsed by his touch, but my chest is stuck until the music finally stops. 

Ms. Carmen claps slowly, walking toward us. “It’s not terrible.”

I grip my hips and nod.

Her eyes linger on me, and she adds, “You’re so tense lately. You need to trust him.”

“Trust me,” he had said once. “The audience can tell when you’re not surrendering to it.”

I nearly laugh. “Yeah, working on it.”

I catch the edge of my sleeve riding up and quickly pull it down. Bryan’s eyes flicker at the movement. 

“Still missed laundry day?” he asks, quieter this time. 

“Yeah,” I say. “Just busy.”

He nods, still watching me. 

The truth is I’ve been doing laundry every day. Washing and washing, trying to get the scent, the feeling out of my clothes, my sheets, my skin. But nothing works. Nothing ever comes clean.

#

On my way home from the studio, the metro is much more crowded than usual. I manage to wedge myself in and grip tightly onto the pole next to the door.

When we get to the next stop, more people push in. A man’s arm lightly grazes my back as he passes by, and I move even closer to the pole. 

I can feel the edges of other people hovering against me. 

A figure steps onto the train. From behind, his dark hair and the slope of his shoulders look too familiar. I don’t see his face. 

I don’t think. I just get off at the next stop.

When I realise where I am, I run my hand over my face. I guess I’m walking home. 

#

The house smells like violet and chamomile tea. Mia always prefers the lights low, clean sheets, everything sweet. She makes the house feel gentle, safe. 

We sit together on the living room couch and kiss for a long time, slowly. My hand holds the side of her face. Her skin is so soft and warm. Mia traces carefully up and down my back. And I feel okay. It’s just us and our heartbeats. 

But then the smell hits me. A faint, lingering wine clinging to Mia’s lips. 

My stomach twists, and suddenly I’m there again. 

My eyes closed. Hot breath against my face. Stop.

I jerk away. 

Mia blinks, startled, her hands still on my back, and then quickly says, “Hey, woah, it’s okay. Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No, sorry. I just—Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mia says. “What’s wrong?”

If she knew, she wouldn’t touch me at all. 

I sigh. “Nothing, really.” I reach for her face. “Please, let’s just go back to us.”

Mia watches me for a moment and looks like she might say something but then concedes. 

I pull her face back to mine. For a while, we stay like that. Then she shifts, pulling me on top of her. I tilt my head down, bringing her closer to me.

Her movements start to grow stronger. I feel lost in the moment, focusing only on the feeling of her under me, but then she slowly snakes her hand up to the side of my neck. Her fingers wrap around it and squeeze lightly. I try to ignore it. Her touch is so soft. I try to push my body even closer to hers. Like the feeling of her will distract me. Her hands wander to the zipper of my jacket, and she begins to pull it down. The sound drags me out of her warmth and back into the cold of that night. The violent tug of my clothes. 

I close my eyes and strain to focus on the moment, but it’s not Mia’s hands I feel. It’s only his voice I hear.

“See? You like it when someone takes control.”

I jerk away again as I snap into reality, still in her lap. 

Her eyes widen, and she drops her hands. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

I am frozen for a moment before I manage to say, “I don’t know. I must just be tired.”

She nods. “Okay, that’s okay. Maybe let’s just slow down.”

I finally take a breath. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

I move off of her lap and sit next to her, my head against her shoulder as she gently runs her fingers through my hair. I watch the clock on the TV, counting down until 3:30, until eventually I fall asleep. 

#

The next morning, I barely tumble out of bed. I go through the motions, pulling on another long-sleeved leotard. I only got a few hours of sleep last night between Mia staying late and another early morning nightmare. 

I drag my tights up my legs, trying to ignore the way they constrict around my skin. As I put my hair up, a pin brushes against the fresh scar I gave myself yesterday. I hold it there for a second before pulling it out. I push the pin steadily back in, scraping. A burn itches against my skin, but I press down harder, digging into the cut. When I pull it out again, a warm drop trails down my neck onto the collar of my leotard. 

The doorbell rings, and I shove the pin back in and tug my collar higher. When I open the door, Mia’s standing there, a coffee in one hand, and a bag in another. 

She smiles awkwardly. “I, uh, I thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

I step to the side. “Well, in that case, I welcome you in.”

She laughs as she takes off her shoes and walks into the kitchen, setting the bag and coffee on the table. 

She pulls two sandwiches out. I lean on the counter next to her, and she passes one of them to me. 

“Thank you,” I say, and unwrap the sandwich before taking a bite. 

For a minute, it’s okay. But then my stomach starts to clench again. I try to ignore the growing pain and take another bite. 

Mia watches as I slowly eat and speaks up, “Everything okay?”

I nod. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

I look at the sandwich for a minute before wrapping it back up. “I’m just not very hungry, and I will probably want it more at lunch after rehearsals.”

“Okay,” she replies but keeps her eyes on me. 

I lean back against the counter, my gaze set on the tiles in front of me. She’s concerned. She probably should be, but I wish she wasn’t. 

“Did I do something?” she asks quietly. “I feel like I’ve upset you.”

I quickly shake my head. “No, not at all.”

“Then why does it feel like you don’t want me to be here?”

“No, of course I want you to be here.” I tug my sleeve down and cross my arms. “I think I’m just overwhelmed right now with preparations for the show. I’m tired, you know.”

“I get that. I just don’t want there to be a gap between us.”

“I know, and I promise it’s not you.” I sigh. “I just need space.”

Her eyelids flicker. “I’ve been gone for four months. You’ve had space.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” she asks, her voice louder. 

“I mean I barely have energy for work. I’m tired all the time.”

“Well, you look like you’re hardly sleeping.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You’re acting strange. You’re hardly talking. I’ve barely seen you eat. You pull away anytime I touch you.”

She steps closer to me. “Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

I don’t look at her, just cross my arms tighter. “You don’t get it. It’s fine! Everything is fine.”

She moves even closer. “It’s clearly not.”

“I need space! I don’t want you here. Just go.” 

She pauses, her frustration depleting, and I turn away. 

She grabs her bag off the counter. “Fine. I’ll go.”

#

Ms. Carmen claps twice. “Alright, pas de deux, you’re up!”

I set my water bottle down, palms damp. Bryan’s already on stage, waiting.

The strings in the music start to tune out the sound of my pulse.

“I want to see more emotion, yeah?” Ms. Carmen calls from below. “You’ve died of heartbreak, and he’s come to mourn you.”

I nod and smooth out the edge of my tulle skirt, trying to focus on each chord in the music. 

The melody starts, and I step through the first movements – lunge through, head down, filled with sorrow.

A step forward, and then I look up, hands opening out. Giselle asks, “What haven’t I given?”

“Show me the feeling,” Ms. Carmen yells. 

The feeling. I think of that night, the white light, the smell of sweat and wine that hasn’t left me. Wait, not that. Think of something else. 

Bryan and I run to opposite diagonals, reaching out. We cross again, barely missing each other.

I back up until finally his hands catch my waist. 

As Bryan tilts me, my eyes drift to the wings. A shadow stretches like it’s waiting for me there, waiting for me to come out of the spotlight and into its hands. 

The big lift is next, the one where I have to completely give Bryan my weight. 

He lowers me and sets up for the press. My body knows what to do, but as he pushes me upward, a wave of heat floods my chest. For a moment, his grip feels too tight, and a shiver runs down my legs. 

“You’re so stiff when you dance with men,” he’d said. “You just need the right partner to teach you how to relax.”

And I laughed. I actually laughed. 

My body locks at the thought, and I don’t lean back. 

Bryan struggles to hold me without any balance, and I come down too fast. When I try to step onto the box of my shoe, my foot twists under me, a snap cutting through the music. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” Bryan is immediately down by my side, his hands hovering over me. 

Ms. Carmen’s voice slices in. “You hesitated. That’s what happens when you hesitate.”

Hesitate. Why do I always hesitate?

She walks up the stairs to the stage. “You’ve danced Giselle before. Why is it so hard now?”

Bryan helps me stand up, and I shake my head. “Miss, I can do it.”

She stares at me, and I cast my gaze down. 

Then she sighs. “Go home and rest. Ice your ankle.”

I nod before she adds, “And sleep.”

#

A slow creak, then the hum of water fills the air as I step in. The floor is cold under my feet. I shift my weight to my left, my right ankle now purple and swollen. 

Water runs into my hair, down my neck, over my chest. I pick up my washcloth and drag it once over my skin. 

Still not hot enough. I twist the knob harder until it screeches. 

I run the washcloth over my arms again. My chest. 

Something lingers there. 

I scrub again. 

My skin tingles, but the feeling doesn’t lift. 

I scrub harder. 

I should have left sooner. 

Steam curls around me, thick and suffocating. 

Why is it still there?

I scrub again. 

I should have pushed harder. 

My breath stutters into gasps. The water burns now, but I don’t stop until the cloth slips from my hand and falls to the floor, pinked at the edges.  

The steam pushes in around me, pressing against my back. I turn, but nothing’s there. 

“It’s not real,” I whisper and close my eyes. 

Something brushes up my thigh. 

“It’s not real.”

A sting, higher, sharper. 

“It’s not real,” I say louder.

A press into my stomach. 

“It’s not real!” I scream and then snap my eyes open and twist the handle off with one smooth jerk. 

The steam thins as I hold the handle for a moment, catching my breath. When I turn my head, I catch my reflection in the mirror past the shower door. It’s blurred, red, shaking. 

#

The air feels thick again, charged, wet with energy. 

The edges of my dream start to flicker, and my body knows what’s coming before I open my eyes. 

Pressure builds against my ribs, holding me down. The silhouette is back, darker, nearly solid. This time I can hear him when he leans close to my ear. 

“I know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Then, again, but, higher, softer, not entirely his voice. 

“You know what I’m going to do, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The bed swallows me, and I can’t move. My eyes dart around the room, searching for something real. 

Please. Wake me up.

“You wanted this.”

Something snaps. I gasp, and, when I open my eyes, I’m no longer lying down. I’m standing by the bed.

Then he’s there. 

Lying on the sheets like he’s always been, calm, waiting. 

Heat rises up my chest, into my hands. I can move now. 

I attack without hesitation this time. I’m on him, knees pressed into the mattress, fingers around his throat. 

He doesn’t fight. He just stares up at me, his dark eyes gleaming silver in the dark. 

I squeeze harder, and his face twists. I scream into the silence, months of holding back shattering. 

Footsteps sound outside my door, and it bursts open. 

“Babe?” Mia drops her bag and rushes forward. She crouches by the bed. I watch her, but she doesn’t seem to see me. She reaches out and shakes his shoulders. Shakes my shoulders. 

And suddenly I’m back. Flat against the bed, chest heaving. 

Mia shakes me harder. “Stop! Wake up!”

My nails dig into my throat, my own hands the ones choking. She pulls on my fingers, prying them loose. 

“Please, wake up!”

I let go. Air floods back in. I sit up quickly, gasping. 

Her hand stays on my shoulder, and she watches me, her cheeks flushed. 

I look back at her and don’t say anything as the burn in my throat hums with my pulse. 

Then I reach out to her. As my head falls against her shoulder, she wraps her arms around me. 

#

The studio is empty when I slip in. My ankle still aches, but I push my shoe over it anyway. The neckline of my leotard is low, exposing the deep purple and red bruises and scratches lining my neck. 

I lift one arm, then the other. There’s no music, no audience. I watch myself in the mirror. And I move. I dance. With my own body, however I want to. 

When I jump, for the first time in months, I inhale fully. The air cuts through my throat like a blade, but it feels clean. And I want it. I want this pain. It’s mine. 

Samantha Belleman is an undergraduate student at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology studying aerospace engineering and writing. Outside of school, she is a dancer, choreographer, and president of MIT’s Dance Troupe.