Stalking The Dancer

The rusty hinges squeal as I pull the wooden door open. Moths swarm above my head underneath the glowing floodlight. It’s the middle of the night on a Sunday, the only time the studio is empty. Everyone is driving home from competition weekend, where they’ll rest in a futile attempt to repair a week’s worth of damage on their bodies in a single night. I walk in and smell the musty aroma that reminds me of home; the cracked tiles beneath my feet telling the story of every dancer who’s walked over them. I’ve come through that squeaky door thousands of times in my life and the sensation never seems to get old for me, at least not yet.

The click of my crutches in the silence is a sobering reminder of why I’m here rather than passed out on a bus seat with a first-place trophy in tow. The cast on my right leg weighs me down in more ways than one.

I head down the hallway to my right and scan the metal lockers that line the wall as I go. Stopping at number twelve and turning, I balance on my crutches so that I can twist the lock until it clicks and the locker is open.

Empty aside from my silver chain dangling from the coat hook, I snatch what I came for and stuff it in my hoodie pocket. I’d cleared everything else out last week, the last time I was supposed to be here. But in my sexy-as-hell pity party, I forgot the most important thing I own. The star charm brushes across my fingers as I pull my hand out of my sweatshirt, maybe I should put it on. No, I want to leave in case anyone’s coming back tonight. No time to waste.

I’m not technically allowed to be here... or to still have a working key. But getting close to the owners slowly revealed information about this place, including its security: there is none. A camera sits above the front desk for ornamental purposes only, it hasn’t been functional in years.

I’m hobbling toward the door as the hairs on my arms stand straight. A chill runs through me and settles behind my neck; someone’s watching me. The sensation is unmistakable but I can see that the parking lot is empty aside from my shitty, white Honda Civic.

Against my body’s warning and my better judgment, the fear of being caught by a former teacher outweighs the fear of being brutally murdered by a stranger in the parking lot. My crutches are clicking their way along the tile once more as I shove any discomfort to the back of my mind.

The door is properly locked up and I’m fumbling to get my key ring back in my pocket for a few seconds before the goosebumps spread like wildfire for the second time since I’ve been here. I don’t give a fuck about the keys anymore as I rush to get in the car and lock the doors. My breathing slows at the safety my car provides, but the feeling that I’m being watched doesn’t go away.

I’m seriously losing my mind.

~

The sun is beaming me in the right eye and stealing my dreamless sleep from me. I roll over on my back and stretch like a cat.

I look down to find my blanket wrapped around my cast in a burrito and my clothes from yesterday crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed. My tiny studio has a kitchenette and a bathroom, the only amenities to note. The building is old and the deli downstairs isveryloudlyopen twenty-four-seven, which makes this the perfect place for me to hide from anyone I never want to see again.

The past few months have been sort of like my world was sucked out from under me by some cosmically cruel vacuum. I’ve been spinning through life, with no steady income or living situation, everything is temporary. Except for me and the fact that I’m here, have to survive somehow, and can’t figure out how.

I roll out of bed and grab my crutches, wanting to get a bagel from downstairs. I probably have something I could eat in the fridge, but Mrs. Schwartz makes fresh bagels every morning for the deli and I can’t resist giving her all of my money in exchange for pure gluten joy.

Mornings at Schwartz Deli were always busy. The front room is typically filled with customers eating or waiting for food. This morning is no different, with people bustling in and out, the line leading to the counter moving steadily. It’s loud, although I knew that without coming downstairs, and the bell above the door seems to ring in an endless chime.

I like the hustle and bustle of a busy place much more than eery silence, which is all I had growing up. My mom still lives in the little town I grew up in, the same creaky house, and the same overgrown lawn; going home is like looking at a picture, it never changes. Sometimes I feel that way, stagnant in my life. Three weeks ago the doctor told me I’d never dance again and I’ve been walking through life in slow motion ever since. Rather, hobbling through life.

Mom took me to my first dance class when I was two years old and I haven’t stopped since. It’s all I ever wanted to do, style never mattered much to me. My peers found specialties throughout the years but that never happened for me. I dance for myself, in whichever style the day calls for. I’m not perfect by any means, but I think I took every class that my local studio offered three times over by the time I graduated high school.

I’m halfway through the line when the little hairs on the back of my neck alert me to someone’s presence. It’s the same feeling I had last night, that I’ve been having for the past few months. I’m looking around the deli, making uncomfortable eye contact with anyone who will volunteer it. No one is piquing my interest, everyone seems to be minding their own business. I stand on my tiptoes to glance out the windows, but there’s no one out there either.

I think I must be going insane but then a light tapping falls on my shoulder. To my embarrassment, it’s the older woman behind me asking me to move forward with the line headed toward the register.

There’s nothing left for me here...

Except bagels.