The Search For Shattered Pieces *Complete*

Chapter Twenty: Break My Fall

Chapter Twenty: Break my Fall

Lyra:

   "You will count with me , golubka..." Maksim orders me, imperiously.  He stands straight, stiff, with his arms folded across his chest, and stares at me with a chilling intensity.

   "Da, trener." I do my best to mask my small grimace, suck in a deep breath, and lunge forward.  With my front leg at a ninety degree angle, and my back leg extended back, toes pointed neat and precisely, I freeze, maintaining my pose.   "Pyat," I lift gracefully, smoothly, quickly back to standing, pause and repeat,  "Desyat, pyatnadtsat', dvadtsat', dvadtsat' pyat', tridtsat', tridtsat' pyat', sorok, sorok pyat', pyat'desyat, pyat'desyat pyat', shest'desyat, shest'desyat pyat', sem'desyat, sem'desyat pyat', vosem'desyat, vosem'desyat pyat', devyanosto, devyanosto pyat', sto." (Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five, eighty, eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five, one hundred).  I continue the exercise with exacting precision, my joints scream...protest the movement, my knees are absolutely killing me, and my back aches...but I'll die before I speak up, say even one, little, word.

It's not as if this is fully unexpected, either—the painful, grueling nature of practice—just, amped up a bit...okay—and I bite my lip to keep from groaning—a lot...amped up a lot.  Heck, though, Maksim had all but told me, that he was going to put me through hell...actually, no, he'd absolutely told me he was going to put me through hell, and then some.  I think his exact words were; "YA slomayu tebya." (I will break you)

I take a deep breath, wait a beat, and release.  Jesus.  At this punishing speed, rate, however, he's totally out to prove the validity of his statement to me.

I jerk, as a shrill peel of an alarm rips through the air, and quickly realize the sound is coming from coach's cell phone.  While Maksim is distracted, checking his phone, I quickly take the elastic band I'd wrapped around my wrist earlier, and use it to pull my heavy hair into a ponytail to get it off of my face.

Stupid, so stupid.  I should have put my hair up before practice. 

   "Kto trogal tebya, moya malen'kaya kukla?" (Who has been touching you, my little doll?) I'm startled, and let out a squeak of surprise, and pain—when suddenly, Maksim is all but pressed up against me (that's how close he is), the long length of my ponytail wrapped firmly, tightly, and yes, painfully, around his large hand.  He yanks my hair, hard, pulling my head back sharply.  I wince, and my breath, which suddenly seems to be caught in my throat—hitches and shudders.

   "I...I...I don't understand, coach...Maksim..." I stutter, and I really don't.  What exactly is he asking? Why is he asking it? I mean, there's no way...no way he knows, or could know about the guys and...and...me, right? 

   "I do not like or appreciate liars, little one...and I hate, do not take kindly to being lied to, either." He pulls my hair even harder...his hold on me is punishing—his eyes are narrowed and flinty.  "You, you are mine, little one." He brings his free hand up—in exact opposition, and  strangely at odds with the brutal grip the other hand has on me—begins to sweep it gently down the side of my face.  "Your body, this body...every piece of it, is mine..." He must see something—the shock, the denial, on my face—because, he adds then—his tight, cold, tone of voice, softening ever so slightly, "...As your coach...while I teach you...while you are under my care, my tutelage...and under my hand—you are, in essence, mine, Lyra...my sweet, sweet, little, bird...milaya ptichka.  Do you understand me, little doll? Do you, golubka?" (Darling bird).

I swallow, my throat tight, my pulse jumping rapidly, and manage—with some difficulty, due entirely to the brutal grip he has on my hair—to nod a fraction of an inch.  I hate it. God almighty, I really hate it.  And everything in me protests, screams, willful, silent screams, to deny his statement...but I don't...I can't...I can't, because it's true.  Hard, and horrible, as it is to hear, it's true.  Yes, as my coach, I do, in a way, "belong" to him, and therefore, my body does as well.  He's like the conductor to my single person orchestra—his job—to lead, guide, teach, and push me...even to my possible breaking point...so that I perform...perform, perfectly—and yes, bleed rivulets to rivers, of pure, undiluted gold.  As long as I'm under his instruction, his coaching hand...in the barest of ways, I do belong to him.