The Explorer's Apprentice

31:Abby Gets to Dance

Abby Bronte

Abby Bronte doesn’t want to think.  If she could, she would disappear from the world and absolutely never, ever, come back.  Never has she felt so terrible and abused.

She knows that she has to leave.  Obviously, she can’t lie here forever.  But she simply can’t move any of her limbs.  She can’t even move a finger.  She’s absolutely exhausted, and sickened.  Even opening her eyes to see the dirty, dark, smoky room around her would be too much.  The smell of tobacco and alcohol around her is almost enough to make her sick.  The feel of the silky blanket and springy mattress under her battered, stripped body is enough of a reminder that she could vomit.  The thoughts that stomp around her head, jabbing into her, making her relive the previous scene of her life repeatedly, makes her want to die.

What’s almost worse is Charlotte’s reaction to the ordeal.  She’s not mad, or utterly upset and hopeless like Abby is.  For once, their positions have reversed.  Abby’s never even kissed a boy before, and has now given up her virginity.  Whether it’s in her body or not doesn’t matter.  It’s that she’s been so twisted and contorted, in so many emotional ways.  Charlotte, however, is used to this.  And Charlotte’s been controlling every last movement, every last thought, for the past hour.  For when Abby was shoved into the dark room with a greedy, filthy man, she immediately gave her thoughts away to Charlotte.  Without Charlotte, Abby wouldn’t have survived.

It’s because of Charlotte that Abby sits up, and takes a deep breath.  Blindly, she dresses herself.  It’s difficult when her fingers are trembling, but the simple task keeps her thoughts at least a bit busy.  Busy enough to ignore the chaotic thoughts.  Once she’s sure that she’s at least a bit presentable, she opens her eyes to the utter darkness surrounding her, a single ray of light running from the door frame to the foot of the dreadful bed.  She runs toward it.  Now that her muscles work, she just wants to run forever.  Maybe even off the boat.

Somehow, as she bursts out of the grimy room and into the brightly lit hallways, she doesn’t break into a full on sprint.  She manages a reasonable expression, and finds herself fixing her dress.  Walking quickly, but not so much so that anybody would take notice, she heads toward the elevator.

“Down,” she says automatically.  Her voice sounds normal; not jittery or terrified whatsoever.  Charlotte is handling this so much better than Abby is.  For a while, Abby takes the back seat and lets Charlotte do what she does best.

 As the elevator descends, a faint sound gets louder.  Some sort of violin, shouting, and joyous laughing comes from somewhere.  Eagerly, Abby steps closer to the exit.  Whatever it is seems very distracting; exactly what she needs right now.  “What is that?” she asks nobody in particular.

“It seems as if the below decks are having a party,” the elevator operator comments with a knowing smile.

Perfect, she thinks.  Both Abby and Charlotte adore dancing, and do it well.  A memory, Charlotte’s memory, flashes vividly through her mind.  She remembers when her best friend Vivian told her about the classes; she never had anything negative to say about them.  Charlotte had begged her mother for months to allow her to come, and after much begging, her mother had obliged, making her promise not to tell daddy.   She remembers a new pair of soft pink ballet shoes hanging from her small hands on her first lesson.  The pale hand that wasn’t gripping the ballet shoes was clasped around her best friend’s hand as they entered the studio to a room full of giggling little girls.  Charlotte had been so happy for those few lessons.  She remembers exactly how she felt twirling around in a leotard and trying to stand on the tips of her toes, only to fail and fall to the ground laughing.

She also remembers the night her daddy found those beautiful, pink ballet shoes under her bed.   He had hit her mother across the face, brandishing the shoes in the air with his other hand.  A young Charlotte had run across the room and begged him not to hurt her.  The painful blow she had received was enough to throw her across the room, and remind her not to cross him again.  The look from her mother after that had been enough to convince her never to stand up to him again.