Act 2. Part 5. "... I'm not mad."

Act 2. Part 5.

“… I’m not mad.”

 

I was twenty-two when I broke the law.

 

I made an error in judgment.  You’re not surprised… are you? 

 

It was a tiny law, but I guess it doesn’t matter.  No law should be broken on purpose.  Unless… you have good reason.

 

At twenty-two I danced professionally and with a relativey good club.  It was a sick gig, a private club that catered to people with unique tastes in dance professionals.  They liked props, lots of props.

 

The club inspired a modern dance feeling.  I like modern dance, it reminds me of jazz.

 

When it’s socially tempered, then it’s jazz.  When it’s revolutionary, impulsive, or rebellious then it’s called modern dance. They influence each other.  They learn and grow from each other, constantly testing boundaries. Pushing and pulling, advancing each other in the process.

 

I like jazz. It has a definite feel.  It's like an instruction manual.  Something you have to see the entire dance to appreciate.  Sometimes you wait and wait while trying to understand it.  And then magically, there’s one movement that gives you a thrill, like watching a flashing red light. One step. Something unexpected and surprising, like a well performed side split or a tumble.  Then you get it.  You understand why you were drawn to it in the first place.  It can be exhilarating for an audience to watch.

 

The more interesting forms of jazz and modern dance tend to incorporate props, like stepping over a chair, a fuzzy animal costume, or cracking a nylon whip. The costumes and the props make the dance much more interesting. 

 

It challenges definition.  There’s more than one way to enjoy a moment.  Modern dance can force us to redefine pleasure.  It’s the joy of exhibition.  It’s an indulgence to watch two people perform a modern dance number to music that makes you breath and feel. 

 

My favorite type of music? It’s a sound that can bind me to someone else. 

 

In the club, my favorite modern dance was performed by a girl that I’ll call Dream. I call all my best friends Dream. And she reminded me of my best friend.  Someone I intimately trusted and secretly desired. 

 

Dream performed a modern dance number to an old Prince song.  They say he’s a genius. He understands time.  His songs are forever modern, especially now. 

 

For the five minutes she danced, I questioned my sexuality. I considered redefining it.  The Dame would be proud of Dream.  She projected the power to redefine my world.  She caused me to wonder if I could ever enjoy the advancement of a woman. She left me curious.

  

Watching Dream dance was an invitation to fall in love. When she finished her dance I questioned.  I debated my allegiance, my commitment, and my identity. 

 

She broke my heart when she stopped dancing.  She left me longing for more.  She inspired an insatiable curiosity for… more.  She made me curious about the fetish of love.

 

A fetish is when you find the mundane fascinating, falling in love with the ordinary. The people Dream and I danced for had a peculiar fetish. But, it was their dime and it paid my bills.

 

Hey, the world isn’t a pretty place. I already told you that.  Just because you have the heart of a dancer doesn’t always mean you can choreograph your own number.  Sometimes you have to do things to stay alive. You have to perform someone else’s dance step. Survival isn’t pretty. But… I’m not mad.

 

 I understand.

 

One night there was a bit of drama at the club. An over-zealous customer took the whole fetish thing a bit too far. He broke free from the crowds and attacked me.  His hands explored and violated me.  He stole my privacy.  It made me nervous. It intimately scared me.

 

It brought out a rage in me, an anger I didn’t know I had.  I kicked.  I bit. I scratched. I did everything I could to fight off the attacker.  All to protect my identity.

 

Someone dashed in to protect me. A firm hand pulled the attacker off me. He was a guarding body of sorts. He bounced the wayward client to the streets.  Then he tried to settle me and my anger.

 

I vented at him and he listened.  He let me talk, unprotected. I screamed and yelled at him.  I released years of screams, yelling, and… I am ashamed to admit it, tears. He took it like a man.

 

I was an uncontrollable wreck. I cried like a baby and he coddled me, letting me fall to pieces.

 

“I’ll protect you Velvet.”

 

I heard sincerity in his voice. Yeah, sincerity.  The small town kid needed to hear something meaningful, something sincere.  The attack in the club broke my trust.  I couldn’t trust someone to be a casual observer.  All of it made me nervous.

 

I became afraid of dancing.  I feared it.  Me, Velvet, I was terrified of dancing in front of a crowd.  It was wickedly disturbing. The audience could come alive. Creating anxiety.

 

There’s a certain degree of trust between a dancer and the audience.  The audience has a boundary. When someone crosses the boundary, they step over an imaginary line of trust.  Sometimes the boundary is nothing more than a very frail line.

 

Which is why I struggle with trusting another man.  I trip.  I stumble. I fall.

 

My bodyguard defeated my fear. He stepped in to fit the bill quite nicely. He guarded my precious body. He stood watch over me every night and during every performance.  He didn’t tire or take a break.  He kept his promise.  He remained alert, someone to watch over me.

 

It comforted me to know he was in the audience, guarding me with his masculine look and true blue attitude.  He was the reason I could start dancing again.  I trusted him.  I trusted his protection.  It was my only salvation. The trust was enough to motivate me to get back on the stage and dance. 

 

For many performances I danced for him. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he cares?

 

I conquered my fear all because of him.

 

Sometimes when someone watches you, it can provide purpose.  It’s a delusion, but it feels like purpose. Protection can feel like purpose, s omething easily confused.  However, protection is only an illusion. It’s an image of mistrust.  Nobody can protect you forever.  The person you trust the most can always... hurt you... the most.

 

I did more than dance. I purposely flirted during my performances.  I wonder if he even noticed. Probably not.  He’s not that way.  He didn’t see the small clues.  People rarely pay attention to the subtle details despite how they look at you.  They blatantly ignore the finger begging you to come closer, the quick flash of skin, or when the hips rock gently back and forth.  He ignored by wayward advances… to guard me. He didn’t notice me at all in order to protect me.

 

He was my white knight, but a distant soldier. And I, well, I just wanted to get close.  Close enough to rest my hands on his silver, shiny armor.  But it wasn’t permitted. 

 

It wasn't allowed.

 

I was mad.  I was outraged by his presence.  Why didn’t he notice me?  I was all in and he ignored me.  It was enough to create scorn.  God has no greater wrath than scorn. 

 

I threw frequent temper tantrums for all the wrong reasons.  I wasn’t going to be unnoticed. I wouldn’t simply vanish.  I was there.  Damn-it, I was there!

 

When my fits of temper didn’t awaken his world, I had to confront him. I did this despite the law. I had to break the law.  I worked up the nerve to confront him.  All because I simply couldn’t take the anger anymore.

 

I approached him one night after work.  I had to know if he was protecting me for a reason and what that reason was.  Why did he guard me so closely?  Was it because he wanted me? Yeah, deep down… I think he did want me.

 

He told me, “I promised my girlfriend I would look out after you, Velvet.”

 

That noise.  That noise you just heard was my life exploding. It cripples me every time I hear him tell me that. I was just another case, a number.  I was nothing special. I was merely a promise to someone else.  His girlfriend was the special one. 

 

Did I forget to tell you that his girlfriend was Dream, the woman who tempted me in the club?  Well, I must have forgotten.  My bad.

 

Anyway, Dream, my friend, has a very cool boyfriend, because he protected her... too.

 

However, Dream deserved a better friend.  I hope she’s not mad.

 

There's comfort knowing there are good people in the world, people who know how to honor a commitment.  People who make certain others know how to honor a commitment too.  It’s comforting to know people who break laws are not rewarded. 

 

There are still people who have faith, even when I don’t.

 

I should never have betrayed Dream.  I should have kept my wayward desire to myself, where it belonged. I broke the law of love.  Never interfere with love.  It only creates anger. 

 

But I’m not mad… anymore.

 

I’m not mad at you Detective.  It was the right thing to do.  You upheld the law.  I kind of respect you for that.  You did a good thing. 

 

Sorry, Dream. But your boyfriend did a good thing, even when I couldn’t. Don’t be mad.  Ok? It was my fault.  Not his.        

 

 

Reviews

[D1218]

Lol will you be upset if sometimes my reviews just start off saying:
AHA - I KNEW IT xD
great story - each character could be in their own story because they're each intriguing in their own way
Keep writing :)

[Sean M. Addams]

you do keep us guessing ... like this alot ...

[ScarlettTheDreamer]

For a moment i thought she'd found her guy! Anyways, can't wait for the next chapter!