My mother liked to talk late into the night, her voice loud in the stillness of night; a broken promise of tomorrow night lingering in the dark long after she had left my drafty room.
As a child I had held the thin and gaunt woman high above me-on a pedestal, if you will-her yellowing teeth gleaming brightly to my young eyes and her shining eyes, so like my own, I would spend days staring into our one broken mirror.
The first broken promise I was 8 and even at that young age I had begun to recognize the signs my mother was different than others, but even that young I was stubborn.
The second broken promise was my 10th birthday, I had asked for a cupcake. I had stopped expecting anything but mommy had told me anything under 10 she would pay for.
She liked to call it her medicine.
I called it her poison.
We went to the hospital, I watched as they pumped her stomach.
That night, while she was strapped to the bed, I told her the first story she had ever told me.
After that she stopped, for a little while.
Wasted money on ballet lessons that I learned from and she wilted from. Wasted money on junk food that I insisted she didn't eat and that often went bad. Wasted away on the couch.
I graduated from the faux ballet school and got a pair of fake pointe shoes.
Mother paid for many lessons after that; wilted further.
My eleventh birthday and I got a cupcake and flashing red…blue…white…red…blue lights.
They always say they are sorry.
It's December. I tell the girls in the orphanage a story about changelings, fae who are taken into the human world and when they turn sixteen they are taken back to the fae where they are accepted and a great party is held for four days and four nights.
They fall asleep with smiles on their faces and hope in their hearts.
I go to the studio, practice till my toes are numb and I can hardly breath for fear of screaming. Muscles aching I return to the orphanage and no one was the wiser.
By day I go to school, dance in the gym at lunch time. At night I go to the studio and dance until I bleed. On the weekends I dance on the street for money, use the money to buy dance things and a room.
Its New Years. I gave all the girls gifts, even the annoying ones. No studio for four weeks. I break into the gym and practice for hours before I realize I am not alone.
The cats watch me and when I am done I bow to them.
March. The Fosters fostered me. A funny play on words.
They only accepted me when I told them the story of Ares and Aphrodite. They laughed when I finished and told me that I was the perfect child for them.
Her name was Cypris and his name was Ares (that was how we got to that topic).
They were nice, most of the time. They had two other kids. Eros-cruel and a little dull in the head. And Deimos-the absolute terror.
They were funny and after a while they decided that I wasn't as perfect as they thought.
The studio was welcoming and I trained longer and harder than I had during that stint where I broke into the gym. My muscles had become lazy and my breathing was off.
The street was more profitable than I had ever remembered.
Dancing took over, summer break was here.
Summer was ending, birthday came as well as a letter.
The woman who came to me explained it as a place to fit in.
She also said that my birthday was off, I am only eleven.
I feel eighty.