One night in late October of 1995, a young woman who called herself Nomi Malone sat on the edge of bridge, a shallow lake forty feet below. Her bare feet dangled, inching closer to the chilly water, teasing death. A big scoot forward would send her plummeting, and the fact held no shock value. Suicide had played in her mind here and there, depending on the day, and how badly it was unfolding. Sometimes, after a long day spent selling her body to various strange men for cash or food, she'd make plans to swipe a razor across her wrists or jump off a building, but she'd yet to follow through, thanks to one giant aspiration tugging at her heart.
"If I died," she whispered, nobody else around, "I wouldn't be able to dance."
Nomi recalled being a four-year-old named Polly-Ann Costello, prancing about the living room in her mom's Chicago apartment. Ballet flats decorated her feet as she used her imagination, the floor her stage, the dollies and teddies her audience. Mom was washing dishes in the kitchen when the doorknob was hammered apart, the front door flying open by a man who was ordered by the court to not be in the same building as the girls occupying the residence. Polly-Ann fled to her mother, who'd already raced from the sink, a frying pan in her soapy grip.
Nomi shivered not when a cool gust of wind smacked her face but at the eidetic memory of her father raising a pistol and shooting her mother between the eyes, the blaring bang of the released bullet giving the toddler's ears a keen ring, the sight ahead whipping her into shock. She stood immobile as blood pooled under Mom's head and gushed down her temples. Polly-Ann's vision had begun to blur by the time her father rotated the gun so it faced his forehead and clicked, his lifeless body falling backwards.
A neighbor carried her out of the scene, some old lady whose name was long forgotten. Her parents were stuffed in large black bags and rolled away on gurneys, never to be seen or heard from again. Foster care was the next step, and that lasted twelve years. The hand-me-down clothing they had to offer smelled funny and were often worn-out and moth-eaten, and she'd had to share a bathroom with fifty other girls, some of whom had diseases or were generally unhygienic. The food always tasted bland or was overworked, and worst of all, no love reached the depressed, lost heart of this girl. Her grandparents and extended relatives God knew where, she was isolated, welcome to befriend the girls she resided with whom were in her situation, but the mere opportunity wasn't meaningful, only a major waste of time on her part.
In all her years cooped up with limited freedoms, her last straw was drawn, and one random night, she'd packed up her belongings and hit the streets, losing her virginity to a middle-aged gas station manager for fifty dollars. From there, she went under the alias of 'Nomi Malone', a name which she thought suited her, for no in-depth reason whatsoever, except for the fact that she felt quite alone. She was independent by nature and street-wise by plentiful experience, but was occasionally arrested for soliciting and possessing sprinkles of coke which she'd carried on her whenever her spirits were just that down.
Her flaws didn't hinder her wishes, the ones which were dangerously big and implausible in achieving. Deep in her long-suffering heart she knew she'd make it huge one day. Everyone would have her face memorized, her alias would be mentioned in thousands of different conversations everyday; her stardom would be monumental, off the charts. Her income would flood in from her success, not having to be earned by unethical deeds in motel rooms, cars and alleyways.
Injected with a flow of positive ambition, Nomi swirled around and slid off the concrete edge of the bridge, planting her feet on the cool ground, stepping into her flats. She sprinted half a mile to her apartment and jogged the other half, packing in a frenzy just what she'd need for the road. Half a grand was saved to be used frugally; she'd jump into hell before desecrating herself with scumbags who had to pay to get women to touch them.
As she had no car to her name, hitchhiking was the key to reaching her destination, which was the Dancing Capital of America in her opinion. One and a half days and two lifts from strangers later, Nomi was walking up Colorado roads, thumb high in the air, mountains coated in snow out in the distance, brushing clouds.