Chapter 1

Cana person love and hate something at the same time? How can something be the very misery of your life, but the thought of not having it is just as unbearable?

I slip down the stairs of my parents' home, with one location in mind. But like always I pause when I look over at the refrigerator. The padlock is firmly in place.

My mother's perfect kitchen looks odd, with big locks nailed into the wood cabinets and the looped chain that holds the refrigerator door closed. It's sealed so no one can get in. No one but her. I don't even know why she bothers. It's not like she keeps much in there anyway. Anything worth wanting.

Still, the pang in my stomach reminds me that I'm hungry. It makes me feel like taking anything I can get my hands on. Grabbing the lock, I give it a little pull, but nothing happens. I feel the lump in my throat and I push it away. This isn't new. I should be used to this. I release the cold lock from my hand, and the metal hits the stainless steel of the refrigerator. I cringe, praying it didn't wake my mother.

I wait a second, holding my breath, but hear nothing. Letting out a sigh of relief, I head toward the back door, slipping out into the cool night air. The dampness of the grass makes my feet a little wet.

I stop and look at the little building that at one time felt like everything to me, the place my mother had built because she finally loved me. She saw something in me that was worth loving for the first time. I'd made her proud. For a time, at least.

Sometimes I can't get out of that place fast enough. And other times I sneak in to be alone.

I open the glass doors and walk in, sitting down on the cold hardwood floors of the dance studio. I stretch, trying to make my muscles not feel so tight. They ache from being overworked, and what I really need is sleep. But my mind won't let me have it. The pain in my muscles and the hunger that lingers from missing dinner bite at me.

I know the only thing that will give me peace is if I dance. It's the only thing that makes everything else melt away. To dance for myself. To not think about the performance I have tomorrow. It's when I feel most free. No one here to yell at me and tell me I'm doing it wrong. That my feet aren't right or that I'm not trying hard enough.

When I dance for myself I don't care about any of that. I feel the music and let it take me. I fall into a world where there are no pressures to be something I don't want to be, to live up to impossible expectations, no matter how hard I try or how hard I work. It's never enough for her. But in these small stolen moments, it's enough for me.

And that's all that matters. Until she wakes up.