─ You are just a bitch. The leading role is rightfully mine and I will have it.
In her dreams for sure. Actually I am occupying that place and I am not about to leave it. It is time for her to be reasonable.
Chapter 2Caitlyn
The day of the premiere has finally arrived. Despite an upsurge of letters, for me very unpleasant, I was able to succeed by emptying my mind as much as possible, and by letting go out, through dance, all the emotions that lingered on me. That had not been without difficulty since the letters had become more and more threatening in the run-up to the show. The last one, the very same day of the show, did not arrive at the theatre like all the others, but directly at home, to my sanctuary, to my refuge, which then seemed to be less safe and less comforting. Therefore, the choreographer found my expressions a little too aggressive during our last rehearsal, and asked me to use makeup to soften my facial features tonight to the maximum, but overall he is satisfied with my performance.
My grandmother is here, I know, I feel her eyes on me. She had no time to visit me at my dressing room before the performance, but I always know when she is here. I immediately feel more soothed, which I need a lot. Like for any autistic person, noise, crowds, are factors difficult to bear. Fortunately, the hall is plunged into darkness and the audience is silent, focused on the music and dancers who evolve fluidly on stage, telling one of the most famous children's tales. I make my entrance with some pirouettes on pointe. I close my eyes and let the music take me away. I feel the vibration of the sounds from the tip of my toes to those of my hair, waving in rhythm, occupying all the available space on stage. My heart beats with the violin notes, my breathing accelerates as my steps are linked. I feel everything at the deepest of my being: Aurora’s exile, her isolation in the middle of the forest, the joy of finding her loved ones, the pain of losing them as soon as she is back, and the hope of finally being loved. This ballet is made for me. It kind of traces my own life, from the time I left Florida to the time I found my place on stage. No prince charming for me, but a great love all the same: the love of dance. This passion that fills my heart with joy. Time runs so fast on stage. At a frantic pace that I cannot realize. Very quickly, too fast, the ballet is over. The curtain is lowered to the deafening applause of the audience. With all this uproar I feel my shoulders tense. I wish I could run away from the crowd, but it is not possible. I am the first dancer of the show and the spectators are largely here to see me. I manage that the ovations do not to go on forever, but that is the only compromise I have been given. Therefore, I clench my teeth while the whole troupe joins me on stage and we greet the audience together as soon as the red velvet curtain rises. The room is now lit, allowing me to realize the extent of people that came, and I prefer not to prolong this vision that makes me panic. I am looking for my grandmother's eyes. She is in her usual seat, on the balcony to the left of the stage, and I focus on her face. Her features have not changed since her last visit ten months ago. To believe that time has no hold on her. Her silver hair is straightened in a sophisticated chignon and her outfit highlights her slim waist. I may be far away, but I can guess her pride in her look and in her smile. I see from the corner of my eye my parents by her side, but like every time they look at me, their faces do not express anything. No joy, no pain. It seems that my performance and my success have left them indifferent. I wonder why they keep coming to see my premieres since they never seem to enjoy ballet. Fortunately, the curtain finally drops and I can erase my facade smile that creates cramps in my zygomatics. The whole troupe jumps for joy and kisses, taking care to avoid me. Everyone has understood that I am not tactile. Only some dancers pay attention to me and nod to congratulate me.
─ You are pathetic. You think you are so much better than everybody else that you cannot even rejoice with us.
It seems that Agatha has not exhausted all her energy on stage. She is full of gall for me. I prefer to ignore her and turn my back on her to go to my personal dressing room, but my competitor has decided otherwise. She stands in front of me, blocking my way, and raises her voice so that all eyes are on us.
─ Look, you have nothing to gloat about. Your performance was not terrible. Only mediocre. Do you have a preoccupied mind perhaps? You should leave the show before you ruin it for good.
─ Leave her alone, Agatha. Caitlyn danced very well tonight. She has been fabulous, like always.
Alex... My guardian angel against all odds. Our story was brief and of little interest, but it turned out that to me he became a much better friend than lover. He is the only one who has adapted to my versatile character and my obvious lack of communication. He rapidly realized that it was not meanness on my part, but that was the way I was. He is the defender of the oppressed and the just causes. I believe that I alone represent most of his work as a knight in shining armor, even though I am not the only one to benefit from his unconditional support. I am probably withdrawn, but Agatha does not like anyone and makes some of us feel it. I take advantage of Alex's intervention to sneak discreetly down the hallway while Agatha shouts her bile to anyone who wants to hear her.
My colleagues are convinced that I have no character. If they had made the effort to know me, they could have guessed rage was bubbling in my veins and shining in my eyes. When I was younger, the slightest annoyance caused a violent tantrum during which I hit and broke everything I could get hold on. Then I started dancing, my seizures were less frequent until they disappeared. Dance was my outlet and I do not want to go back. Rather look dull and unsavory than crazy. When I was a kid, the first doctor my parents saw accused them of abuse. Of the 42 signs of child abuse, I had more than half of them, ranging from physical injuries to emotional and behavioral disorders. Fortunately, the social worker who was sent to my family for investigation was trained in autistic disorders, which prevented me to be sent to a foster home that would have only worsened my psychological state. The idea of expressing my emotions through an activity comes from her. A blessing. I became less violent, hence the significant drop in bruises and sores on my body, and it became easier for me to concentrate at school since I could let go in the late afternoon. Only my running away continued. I never went far. I took refuge at my grandmother’s waiting for the storm to pass. I only had to think of her, to see her appear in my mirror. She is the only person authorized to have access to my dressing room.
— Good evening Caitlyn cat.
She will always make me smile. Despite the passing years, she keeps calling me like when I was little. I put down my cotton pad and my make-up remover to hug her. Here we go. I am finally home. It is enough that she is here, no matter where, for me to feel soothed.
─ Good evening, Granny.
─ Let me look at you my kitten.
She steps aside a little and I gladly consent to her inspection. Nothing escapes her, and certainly not the dark circles under my eyes that are now visible without the makeup that camouflaged them.
─ You look great, darling. Only you work too hard and it shows. You need to rest.
─ I’ll think about it, Granny.
She raises an eyebrow skeptically. She knows me too well.
─ All right, I’ll make an effort during your stay.
─ Good. I intend to spend as much time as possible with you. I'm sure we have a lot to talk about from last time I was here.
I doubt it, but it does not matter. All I want is to be with her, even if we say nothing. And then, if I have nothing to tell her, maybe she does. I know she loves her new home in the middle of nowhere. And her neighbor. Specially her neighbor. She tells me about him every time she calls me. I think she dreams, secretly or not, that we may fall for each other. My grandmother still has dreams for me. She is so sweet.
─ Are you ready to go Caitlyn? Your parents are waiting for us to go to the restaurant.
Oh yes. The famous family dinner! The one that only takes place the evening of my premieres and which nowadays is my only contact with my parents. Yet, despite our total lack of contact the rest of the year, I have absolutely nothing to say to them, or rather, I cannot talk to them, and this dinner quickly turns into a silent and uncomfortable meal where my grandmother struggles for two hours to re-create family ties that never really existed. I am as pleased by this idea as I am to leave my place of first dancer to Agatha.
─ You are much more expressive than you think Caitlyn kitten. Don't make that face darling. This dinner is important to our family.
─ That is what you say!
─ OK, it means a lot to me. I want to reunite my son and my granddaughter.
Those pleading eyes... for a long time I have wanted to have the same eyes. That for sure would have changed my life!
─ You're a manipulator, Granny. I just have to change and I'm ready.
─ You are the best granddaughter in the world.
─ I have no doubt about that.
She stops just before going through the door to hand me an envelope that had been slipped underneath. I receive it with trembling hands. I have started to fear the mail.
─ And kitten, put on a pretty dress, please. I don't want your mother to have a seizure when she sees you show up in ripped jeans like last time.
Seeing her face at that time was certainly worthwhile. Nevertheless, I do not have the heart to smile. I open the blood-red envelope knowing in advance what it contains. All the threatening letters I have received have been identical to this one. I immediately recognize the angry handwriting all over the paper. It is coarse and violent, both in words and in the handwriting pattern, so dry and sharp pointed that has left holes in the paper under the virulence of the strokes.
” You didn't listen to me. I told you you were mine and I forbade you to show your ass in tutus to everybody. You should have quit on your own when you had the chance instead of being a bitch. Now, I am the one who is taking matters in my own hands. You will only dance for me. I will come and get you“.
My breathing is short and jerky and my hands are shaking so much that the letter falls to the floor. This is the first time that the man writes down his intention to come to see me, because he is a man, no doubt. The first letters that came to me had made me think of a fan a little too possessive. He recounted in his letters the life of a couple that he imagined for us, with a lot of salacious words. Over time, the descriptions became cruder and the words more threatening. He went from “I'm going to take you in every single way” to “I'm going to impale you on my cock and I am going to fuck you until you scream in pain”. He also blames me for my lack of reaction and involvement in our relationship as a couple. What couple? I do not know anyone twisted enough to make up a torrid story with me. The way he imagines me makes it clear that we do not know each other. Apparently, he decided to remedy this fact. I take my cell phone out of my bag trying to regain control of myself. When the letters have become a source of anguish, I have sent them to the director of the ballet who had contacted the police. Unfortunately, at the moment the inspectors have no leads and, according to them, there is nothing to worry about. It seems that most anonymous stalkers never take action. What about the others? I was not given any answers. I think I am paranoid. Okay, I am a little bit. Let's say I have a natural tendency to extrapolate everything. But it is time for those letters to stop.
─ Caitlyn! You've been fabulous. The feedback comments from the spectators are very good.
─ Thank you sir, but I'm not calling you for that.
I hear him sighing on the phone. He does not like me either. He supports me because I am useful to him. I make a lot of money for him and he feels compelled to make an effort with me.
─ What can I do for you?
─ I have received a new letter.
─ We’ve talked about it before. You have to get over it and throw them away without opening them. This man will never act.
─ In fact, I received one at home and one was slipped into my dressing room.
The silence that follows reassures me. Maybe I will finally be taken seriously.
─ Leave them with Security when you leave the theatre. I am going to send them to the police.
─ Thank you, sir.
─ You are welcome Caitlyn. Enjoy your evening. You deserve it. We'll see you tomorrow to talk about the investigation.
─ All right. Good-bye.
I am relieved by this call. I just hope these new letters will make a difference. I am already afraid enough of the world around me without adding the fear of a psychopath.
I get ready in a minute. Not that I am in any hurry to see my parents, but I cannot wait to get rid of those damn letters which I cannot stand to see on my hairdresser. I leave the theater after a last glance in the mirror, entrusting the letters to Security.
Chapter 3Caitlyn
My parents have not changed an inch. My father as always has his unruly graying hair, and his piercing blue eyes same as mine, and my mother is dressed up in her tight pantsuit and her chignon without a single strand of hair sticking out. The way they stare at me is no way different from how they looked at me when I was little. As if I were an alien impossible to decipher.
— Thank you for honoring us with your presence Caitlyn. You took your time to join us! You know your mom cannot stay up for long.
In fact, my mother does have some knee problems due to failing joints, but it is only painful in cold and rainy weather and tonight the sky is incredibly clear.
— Hi, Dad. It's incredibly mild for the season, don't you think? We can even see the stars.
— Don't be rude Caitlyn.
Well, yes. My parents have always stood together, especially against me. My grandmother comes in before dinner is cut short. More than short, since we are not even at the restaurant yet.
— Let's go eat. I'm starving.
Grandma passes her arm under mine and we walk on the sidewalk in silence, at the head of our little procession. I have the unpleasant impression of being observed. It is like a look burning my back, making cold sweats grow along my spine. I might think this is due to the presence of my parents; however, they have never caused me such an epidermal reaction. I shudder when I look around, but the faint glow of the moon and the few scattered lampposts do not allow me to distinguish the surroundings well, creating at most disturbing shadows in the darkness.
— Are you cold, darling?
— No, Granny. I am OK. I just can't wait to get home. I am tired.
I did not tell my grandmother about the letters. I did not want her to worry about me. She leads a peaceful life and there is no question of that changing.
— When are you going to visit me in Virginia? Clean air and large spaces would do you the greatest good.
— I have no doubt, Granny, but the season is just beginning and the Sleeping Beauty shows will continue for several weeks.
— And then there will be the selection of a new ballet, which of course you will win hands down. Then the rehearsals for the new show and again the performances. It never stops, Cat.