I don’t think he’s mocking me, and theyaresore, but I decide that I shouldn’t opt to stay home just in case. It could be a test, and I don’t want to fail.
“No, I’m fine,” I say bravely. “I can walk. It wasn’t that hard to clean. My feet are doing much better.”
Alexandre peers at me as if he’s trying to decide if I’m lying, but finally shrugs and motions for me to step into the fresh pair of underwear he’s holding, this time a pair of light blue cotton panties with small white flowers on them. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he has so much women’s underwear in his apartment, but something tells me that I either wouldn’t like the answer, or he won’t want to say—or maybe both.
The dress that he puts me in for our errands is breathtakingly lovely—a wrap dress made of raw silk in a light blue that brings out my eyes. It hangs on me a little, the v-neck coming down low enough that my cleavage would be all too visible if I had any, but I’ve always been remarkably small-breasted, and as thin as I am, I’m mostly sternum and ribs. Something about the way the dress hangs looks elegant, though, flowing over my pale skin like I’m a marble statue, instead of hanging off of me like a clothes hanger. Alexandre runs his fingers through my hair so that it spreads out over my shoulders in a thick blonde waterfall and makes a pleased noise deep in his throat.
Something about that sound of pleasure ripples through me, making my bare nipples spring up hard under the silk, pressing against the fabric in a pleasant way that sends shivers over my skin. I have the sudden urge to turn towards him, rise up on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, but I force back the impulse. It makes no sense—why would I want to do something like that? Alexandre isn’t agoodman, no matter how nicely he touches me.He isn’t a good man just because he hasn’t beaten me or violated me,I tell myself, repeating it over and over as Alexandre crosses the room to a small jewelry box sitting on the vanity. But as I watch him, moving through the room with that same graceful elegance that makes my heart ache with nostalgia, I can feel the words becoming harder and harder to cling to. They feel slippery as the silk of my dress beneath my hands, and I clench my fingers in my skirt as he flips up the lid of the jewelry box.
A few faint notes of a familiar song trail out from the box, a plastic ballerina turning on one foot, and the room suddenly tilts.
Every girl has had one of those jewelry boxes, hasn’t she? The one with pink silk glued to the inside and the ballerina with her tiny stiff tutu twirling slowly, the one that you could wind up over and over until it stopped working?
The one that Alexei thought it would be fun to make a mockery of, rigging me up in the same pose for his guests at the party.
The party where Alexandre bought me.
I feel the room spinning, my stomach clenching until I think I’m going to be sick, my breath coming sharp and fast until I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate. I don’t realize I’m falling until my knees hit the floor hard enough to bruise, and I catch myself with the heels of my hands, gasping as I try to get my bearings.
“Anastasia?” Alexandre’s voice comes through the fog of panic that seems to have risen up all around me, thick and choking, and I try to focus on it, but I can’t. I know how ridiculous it seems that I would focus on his voice of all things, this man who is at least partially responsible for my situation, for why I’m not home in my own bed, in my own apartment, far away from all of this.
Except I never was far away from it. It’s always been right here, ever since Franco, waiting for me in the worst moments. Waking or sleeping, it’s always there.
I can feel my toes curling in the shoes, my feet trying to bend away from the phantom pains that shoot through them, the cutting and burning that I keep reliving, and now there’s Alexei’s torment on top of it, the marks from the belt and the pain from the rigging, and that goddamned song—
It keeps playing, the ballerina keeps turning, and I hear myself starting to scream, gasping, shrieking sobs as I clap my hands over my ears and rock back and forth.
Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stopppppp---
“Anastasia! Anastasia!” Alexandre shouts my name, and I feel his long-fingered hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly as he shakes me. “What the fuck is wrong with you,petit? Snap out of it! What the fuck—Anastasia!”
I’m crying now, thick gasping sobs that leave my eyes and nose streaming onto the expensive rug underneath me. Alexandre stands up, shaking his head with an expression of what could be disgust as he steps back, looking down at me.
“MonsieurEgorov mentioned this,” he murmurs, watching me shake and sob on the rug. “These…panic attacks.” He waves his hand as if he’s unsure if that’s what he should call it. “Thesefits.”
The music is slowing, and I can hear his words more clearly now. As the music stops, I struggle to breathe, shaking all over as I slowly drop my hands from my ears to the rug, bracing myself as I try to stop crying.He’s getting angry,I think fearfully, looking up at him through tear-blurred eyes. And then, immediately after—
Why does he have one of those jewelry boxes?
It seems like a strange thing to have. I blink slowly, licking my dry, salty lips as I look up at Alexandre, whose expression is now a mixture of confusion and concern. He squats down slowly, reaching for me with his hands tight on my upper arms as he pulls me, wobbling, to my feet.
“Anastasia,” he says slowly. “What is wrong?”
I squeeze my eyes tight, swallowing hard as I try to get my bearings. “The jewelry box,” I manage past the lump in my throat, my voice shaking. “The jewelry box—”
Alexandre’s brow furrows, and he looks even more concerned and slightly irritated. “What about it?” he asks, his voice edging on impatient.
“It—” I blink, looking towards the box on the vanity. “It—”
I’d seen it. IknowI had. The small cheap jewelry box I’d had as a child, that so many girls had back then, lined with pink satin with a small, spinning ballerina that danced to tinny music as you opened it. The ballerina that Alexei had made me play the role of at his party.
But that’s not what’s on the dresser. There is a jewelry box, but it’s a deep cherry wood with black velvet lining and a mirror on the back of the lid. Antique and elegant, like everything else in Alexandre’s house.
Everything except me, apparently.
Because what I’d seen hadn’t been there at all.