Atlas Grove, once a dancer with dreams of dancing under the stars, now lives petrified in the shadows of abuse. To escape her living nightmare she must keep her head down and work hard, being her senior year this is her last chance to get out. Altho...
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Carrie lets us into the massive foyer, I take Blaze straight to the kitchen and ask her to get the first aid kit. We pass the living room where Brady is passed out clutching a box of McNuggets, Vixxie the same but with milkshake covering her dress and Ethan is watching some reality TV show that reruns every night.
"Sit." I tell Blaze and he sits in one of the kitchen stools, then I evaluate the fact that I'm still too short to reach his face properly even if he is on the stool, "This isn't going to work, hold on." I climb onto the other stool for balance and sit on the counter in front of him. Carrie returns handing me the first aid kit, casting Blaze a worrying look then scutters off mumbling something about ketchup on her coat.
I lean down slightly, placing my fingers on his sharp jaw so I can tilt his head up. His blue eyes follow my concentrated gaze, I swallow briskly looking at the gash on his forehead and his busted lip. They don't look too bad but they don't look too great either.
"That needs some ice," I murmur looking at the shiner on his cheek. I hop down from the counter, his hands steadying me as I reach the ground and scurry around Carrie's modern kitchen trying to find where her ice is kept.
I come up trumps wrapping some in a hand towel and place it slowly on his cheek.
"Hold that there." His hand replaces mine, it gently brushes against my skin, sparks simmering over the makeshift ice pack. I skim my fingertips over his slit eyebrow, he doesn't even flinch. "I think that's going to need some stitches- I'm sure Carries got some butterfly stitches in here." I rummage through the small box, pulling out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton pads.
I pour a few drops onto the gauze and gently clean the blood that's fortunately now dried but has still trickled down his face. This shit usually stings like hell but Blaze sits there calmly just watching me, his lips turning up at the edges like he's enjoying this...
"If you wanted to play nurses so bad you could have just asked Blondie." He winks with his good eyebrow and I feel my knees limp slightly on the counter accompanying the heating blush on my cheeks, I give him a light shove deflecting from my flaming face, "I'm kidding chill ... or not." I carry on dabbing at his injuries trying to be as gentle as I can. "You're a good nurse though, where'd you learn to do all this."
Besides cleaning myself up after I'd been beaten down or cleaning my mom or sister whilst they lay unconscious, "Dancers gets hundreds of injuries, it's an occupational hazard. Stress fracture one day, torn hamstring the next, it's a tough thing. Back when I used to dance all the time, I never wanted to take a break... there's always someone waiting to take your spot and if you take a day off you miss things and get bumped back down- your careers over before you've even started. I guess that's one of the reasons I was scared to start again. Dance is like a drug, once I start I can't stop and I always want to be the best, who doesn't but being away for so long I know I'm not where I was and I'll need a lot of training to catch up again." I sigh, it's a competitive and harsh Industry, cutthroat. But it's one I've craved since I could walk, "Anyway, to stop myself falling behind we'd patch ourselves up and deal with the pain, I'd superglue my cuts together, rip off my toenails and tape my sprained ankles to the inside of my pointe shoes." I giggle, remembering the pain and agony I'd go through every day to do what I love- it may seem crazy but it's worth it. "That and my mom was a nurse." After she stopped doing what she loved.
