"This does not mean you have the rule of the roost, Ms. Heron." I nod my head feverishly, knowing that my plans haven't changed. I will be walking out of this building as a new woman. "You need to take it easy for the next eight weeks and then you'll come in for a progress check–"
"Appreciate it, Doc. You're a miracle worker, really!" The white paper crinkles underneath me as I push myself off the exam table. Unfortunately, my foot is more for decoration right now, because its dead weight pulls me straight to the exam room floor. "Shit!" Well, maybe I won't exactly be walking out of here. "You okay?" Doc kneels next to me, helping me balance on my feet before sitting me in a wheelchair. She waits until my eyes find hers to speak. "You lost some muscle while your cast was on, although I'm sure you noticed. You'll be on crutches until I see you next and then we can see how it's healing up."
"What? No, I don't need those things for two more months. I'll be just fine on my feet, thanks." She doesn't wait for my second escape attempt to taunt me, "I think we know how trying to run will end, don't we?" I'm fuming. I don't know why, maybe it's misdirected anger from the bad news she had to deliver, but I don't care. This sucks. I need to get back on my feet as soon as possible and I hadn't considered the possibility that I wouldn't be healed right when my cast sluffed off.
"Your bones aren't finished with the healing process, you need to stay off of it until I say otherwise if you don't want to cause further damage." She's taking a tone with me that reminds me of my mother when she's trying to teach me a lesson. I don't know why I should care how my foot heals because it will never return to how it was before the break and that's the only way I'd be able to dance again. So, like I mentioned, this sucks. If Billy were here, he'd say that it fucking sucks, because he thinks cursing is therapeutic for some reason.
I've thought of him every day since I ran away three weeks ago and flew home to stay with my mom. I know she can tell something is off about me, but I haven't figured out a way to open up to her about him yet. I also know that it's only a matter of time before he finds me here and, frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't already. I told him that I came here after my accident when he said that I disappeared, so this should be the first place he checks. It makes me feel like he's playing some kind of long game with me, drawing this out to punish me for running. Of course he'll come for me, won't he?
"Ms. Herron, did you hear me?" My eyes snap to hers and I crash back to reality from my wandering thoughts. "Yes, I'll use my crutches until you tell me I can throw them over the nearest bridge." She chuckles and helps me to my single good foot before handing me my crutches, "I don't encourage littering, but if you do it as an act of self-care I suppose I can't stop you." We share a few final words before I shove the papers that she printed for me into my bag and hobble past her as she holds the door open. I cannot wait to come back here in eight weeks– said no one ever.
After leaving the doctor's office, my mom wanted to stop at the grocery store for the celery she forgot when she came here earlier today, which is how I ended up click-clacking my way through the frozen aisle. Right now she's in the middle of a diet where she can't cook anything she eats, which sounds like a hellscape to me, so cue the frozen pizzas. She's constantly jumping from one fad diet to another, claiming that she's just 'from that generation', whatever that means. I don't know whether she means it as a backhanded compliment but it definitely lands that way anytime it comes up, so I avoid the topic altogether. We've eaten separate meals since I was old enough to use the stove on my own because it's the only way I could actually eat.
"Dorothy?" A familiar voice sends shocks through my body, straight to my racing heart. I feel the hair on my arms stand up like I'm a threatened cat. This feeling is similar to the ones Billy evokes in me, the nervousness gnawing at me. The big difference lies in my gut; the butterflies that swarm my stomach with Billy are replaced by a coiled snake, ready to strike at the first sign of a threat.
Against my better judgment, I turn myself around on my armpit stilts to face him, "Mark, how's it going?" I keep my voice casual and light, although I feel anything but. It's just my luck to be here at the same time that he is, shopping in the same damn aisle. "I heard you were back in town but didn't want to believe it until I saw you myself. Are you back for good?" His eyes give me a once over and he doesn't seem thrown off by the fact that I'm on crutches.
"No," I answer too quickly, but I don't have any fucks to give and even if I did I wouldn't waste any of them on him. Those days are long behind us and I'll be happy to remind him. "Oh, that's too bad. Do you know how long you're staying?" I'm shaking my head before he can finish his sentence. Of course, I know how long I'm staying, at least eight more weeks, but this asshat doesn't need to know that or anything else about me.
He's looking at me like he knows I'm lying and I just can't bring myself to turn around and walk away. Thankfully, he's not pressing it any further, "Well, maybe we can get together before you leave, go out to eat or something?" I feel the blood drain from my face, I cannot let him get anywhere near my life here or otherwise.
"Dorothy! Oh, there you are." Saved by the mom.
She notices Mark immediately, her spine straightening the slightest bit before she makes it to us, pushing her cart until it's uncomfortably close to him. "Hello, Mark. Funny running into you here," She's the least subtle person I know and she hates Mark even more than I do, which makes this a rare bonding experience for the two of us. "I saw your mom here earlier today with two carts full of groceries for your birthday party this weekend," She looks at him expectantly, like he owes her an explanation. His face turns pink before he says his goodbyes and walks away, down the next aisle. Somehow, we make it through checkout and the first set of sliding doors before we bust into laughter the entire walk to the car.
I miss times like this when we were carefree and understanding of one another. Things are different now, but that doesn't mean they can't be good. My therapist, Susan, taught me that in our last session; I started seeing her again two weeks ago to relieve some of the turmoil in my mind. It helps me to talk about him and I've told her almost everything about my experience being with those men. She listens to me and asks clarifying questions, it's refreshing not to feel judged by my attraction to my captor. Sadly, she won't tell me whether she thinks I have Stockholm Syndrome or not, no matter how much I poke and prod her about it. We'll get there, that's all she can seem to say in moments like those. It drives me crazy but it's nice to have someone who doesn't back down from a challenge.
The drive home is in comfortable silence, mom drives while I gaze out the window. My hometown is sleepy with a population of less than ten thousand. There are four restaurants and three gas stations, making it very likely that you'll see someone that you know everywhere you go. The house I grew up in is at the end of a shady lane with willows on both sides of the paved road, unmarked by painted lines. The leaves fall later in the season here, some of them are even still green. The seasons here remind me of a time before this place put a pit in my stomach before I had to leave it behind.
And now that I'm back, I'm terrified everything will come rushing back, too.
YOU ARE READING
Stalking the Dancer || 18+
RomanceONGOING /// She's an injured dancer trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered career. He's a broken man with an addictive personality. Like oil and water, they don't mix well. When watching isn't enough, he gets much more than he bargained for...
