꧁ Cʀᴏᴏᴋs: Bᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ʙʏ Bʟᴏᴏᴅ ꧂

12.5 I ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʀᴏᴄᴋᴇᴛᴛᴇ

I had a dream last night- no, not really a dream it was a nightmare, a flashback. I was back in 1958, a year before I had Cynthia, I was 31 years old again; a 31 year old with a dream and a shit ton of dedication. I still remember that day, I was auditioning to be a Rockette... for the third time.

"Third time's a charm," I promised myself. "Third time's a charm".

I was stepping into Radio City Music Hall, bombarded with possibly hundreds of other women with the same goal as me. We all shared the same dream, and all had the same amount of dedication. I was just another auditionee. But, still, I went in and auditioned anyways. I learned the choreography, learned it with the music, and promised that this would be the day I would prove to the judges that I could do it. So, we moved from the hall into the dance room, where we were confronted with the people who would be making the cuts.

I danced. I danced like there was no tomorrow. I put a smile on my face and just danced. I was certain that this time would be it, I might make it. The other girls stood no chance.

Then, they made the cuts.

"If I call your number, please step forward: 72, 18, 36, 41, 23, 10, 95.. ... ..."

So many numbers, so many numbers, so many numbers. Each person stepped forward, and I was just waiting, desperately waiting, to hear my number called.

They never called my number. I was sent home after the first round for the third time. My heart sank into my chest and the room started spinning, it was spinning so furiously I couldn't see a thing. But, next thing I know, I'm laying in bed sobbing.

I cried all day. Everything I had worked towards for so long ever since I was a young girl was gone, and there was no bother trying anymore. My dreams of becoming a dancer were pretty much over. I was aching in pain. I lit up a cigarette and downed some alcohol but I still felt numb. I was still sobbing. Then, my husband came home from work. If there was any ounce of hope left in me, it was about to be gone. I still remember the words he said to me, cutting through my flesh like a razor over and over again.

Maybe if you lost a few pounds, you might be small enough to make it to a second round!

He laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He continued to make a mockery out of me.

Little miss "I wanna be a rockette",  baha! You're a failure, Michelle, that's all you ever are and ever will be: A failure.

He laughed some more.

I can't believe I have such a disappointment of a wife, you ugly piece of shit thought you could ever amount to anything.

He wouldn't stop.

The Rockettes are for pretty and talented women, not disgusting useless wannabes like yourself. Maybe you should get a real job, Michelle.

The rage built up in me, like a fire that just kept on growing and growing. He was only adding more fuel to it, and he was finding my misery hilarious.

I suddenly felt that same type of pain and anger the night I killed him, it all came creeping back to me. I covered my eyes and fell to the floor, screaming and howling in agony.

When I uncovered my eyes, the room was blurry and spinning in circles again, all I could see was the vision of his lifeless body. The blood, the knife, the dress, that feeling.

WAKE UP, DEAR GOD PLEASE, WAKE ME UP!

When I woke up, I swear that I saw him, in the corner of my bedroom. When I looked in the mirror, it was me the day of that audition. My tights ripped from me clawing at them, my mascara running down my face, my hair still barely in a bun. I could still hear him, it was like it never ended.

He's always there, I always can hear him, I just want to stab him in the god damn face again.

I'm not going insane. I'm fine, they need to stop telling me I need help. If I needed help I would have gotten it by now. I just want him to go away.