A/N: Hello my beautiful Lurkers and Readers! Instead of updating Crown of Thorns, I've chosen to update this, as it has a much needed update! There are 3 parts to this story, and this chapter marks the beginning of part 2. Also, you may want to go back and re-read chapter 12, and if not, I will do a short synopsis for you…

Remember the prostitute Erik went to after the fight with his father at the Gala? Gianna, who claimed that there was some sort of relationship between her and Erik? I said you hadn't seen the last of her…so here she comes, ready to make an entrance. In this chapter, she is dealing with the aftermath of Erik's last visit to her, as well as his absence that is long than usual (hm, I wonder why)…

Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!

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PART 2

The Shadow of a Ballerina

"There you are, my dear. I know that look in your eyes. Has Erik deserted you again?"

An older woman walked up behind Gianna, watching tenderly as the light of the vanity glistened against tears that fell from her wide, green eyes.

She'd been sitting there silently for a couple of hours, staring at her miserable reflection in the mirror, unable to join the other girls in their celebratory night off. She had been begged by her fellow dancer and close friend, Lucy – wine glass in hand – but Gianna could not pretend that everything was all right, and she despised the idea of masking herself, just to numb the voices around her. Instead, she'd drink alone, and feel every part of bitterness and melancholy that was spilling over the sides of her soul.

She nodded, her eyes clinging to her mother's reflection in the mirror.

This had been the last time; she was sure of it.

He'd strung her along so easily, laying with her on the loveseat with his arms around her, merely talking instead of fucking her.

Fuck. Why did it sting; was unrequited love a golden serpent that was smooth to the touch, yet struck her heel when she placed it upon the ground, willing it to be free?

The older woman placed two gentle hands upon her shoulders. The wound, regardless of how unreasonable it was, still festered and wept; and why couldn't anyone see? Her fellow dancers, her brothel mother…couldn't they see that he had been her dream, that he had treated her kindly, told her that he cared for her? Had she been so ignorant and blind that she couldn't see the lies for what they were…?

Or had he placed his affections somewhere else? Had he finally found someone suitable that he could take out in public, a woman dressed fashionably; a virgin, clutching his arm and laughing at the sarcasm that dripped from his scarred-up lips?

She could never be that woman.

But Gianna had hoped that he might at least tell her his reason for straying. That he would sit beside her and hold her hand, that he might explain the reason his heart needed something different; a woman that could live beside him, and not below him…

And as her brothel mother had suspected – and Lucy as well – Erik had completely disappeared. It was like catching smoke in the air; beautiful, curling around every finger, a caress of something that would dissipate in seconds, right before she could hold it in the palm of her hand.

Gianna had been sitting backstage at her vanity for hours, nursing a bottle of gin as she stared into her own pathetic eyes, wishing she could turn back time and have him in her arms once more. Even though he had shown up covered in blood, with bruised fists and battered ribs, she still had a new mask waiting for him, just in case he'd torn up the one that he was wearing.

Something that was becoming quite common with him as of late.

She knew the sick pleasure he found in lacing fear into the hearts of men, and used his face as a gruesome tool to show the world how badly he had been abused. The scars were etchings of a different kind, describing the brutality of innocence lost, and a man who had lived too long with a rope tied around his neck.

"Here," her mother offered her a cigarette, and she took it ruefully, stabbing it through the middle of her lips. A lighter brought the end of the cigarette to life, and she took a long drag, the grey smoke unfurling before the mirror, smearing her reflection.

A painted woman without a face.

"My sweet Gianna. These kinds of things usually end badly. And I say this because I've seen too many of my girls be hurt by patrons before. Erik was probably no different." She reached over Gianna's shoulder, setting a small glass near the bottle of gin. "At least use a glass, my dear, if you're going to drink yourself blind."

"What's the point of a glass, mother?" She sighed, wiping away a fresh bout of tears. "I have no need for it, just as he has no need for me. He never did. It was all a façade," she took a swig from the bottle, knocking the glass aside with her hand. "It was never love. I don't even know if he's capable of loving. And even if he was…it seems as though he cannot, or will not love me."

"You've continued to practice ballet, as I've asked you to, have you not?" Her mother asked softly, pulling up a wooden chair to sit beside the vanity. Gianna nodded, her face and lips numb from the gin, allowing the cigarette smoke to escape from her lips. She watched blankly as the smoke swirled higher and higher, disappearing into the faded lights twinkling from above.

"Then you must leave here at once."

"What?" Gianna cried, whirling to grasp her mother by the arms. "You're…you're kicking me out?"

"No, dear child. I'm telling you to leave this all behind. You've been saving for a couple years now, and you're good enough for the conservatory – well, at least good enough for a tryout."

"And if I fail? If they see that I don't have the endurance or the grace? Can I come back here?" Her mother slowly shook her head, lighting a cigarette of her own.

"No," she responded sadly. "I won't let you come back here. Don't you want to leave this place? It really is the deepest circle of hell. A place where you don't belong, anymore."

"If I don't belong here, I won't belong anywhere! I've been a prostitute since I was sixteen," Gianna cried, burying her face in shaking, white hands. "I can't do it! I can't compete with girls who have been ballerinas for a decade! I belong here, in Tartaros. I belong on that shitty, makeshift stage; I'll die here, because I'm not strong enough to live anywhere else. Not strong enough to be anyone else."

"Oh, my child. Heartbreak is a disease, and you've got to fight against it. Don't let him destroy your chance to become somebody. And you are an excellent dancer; you're agile, calculating, and a very quick learner. You will blend right in, of course, with some bandaging of your chest, and your hair in a nice and tight bun. I can do it for you myself, if you'd like," her mother responded kindly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Gianna's tear-streaked face.

"I've always believed you would leave here, at some point. And I believe now is the time. Well, perhaps tomorrow…once you've sobered up. At least give it a try, my dear. And if it helps, you might very well see your Erik again. Perhaps you might want to know why he left?"

Gianna stared at her in the mirror, dumbfounded. "But you said he was no different…you said these kind of things always end badly, for us…"

"And I meant it. But sometimes facing our problems head on, confronting them, can give us a bit of closure. Most of the girls here will never leave; they won't have the opportunity to live a different life. Therefore, even finding their long-lost patrons is an impossibility. But you…you could try out for Swan Lake. You have the recklessness of the darker twin, the black swan. Her role must be precise, confident, and wild; it must be passionate and devious. You can transform, you can become her, if you wish. You need only to show up tomorrow at the crack of dawn to meet with the Ballet Master. If we present you pretty and put together, he just might watch you dance. And if he sees you dance…"

"He might choose me," Gianna murmured. The girl in the mirror didn't look so frightened, anymore.

"And I've heard from my little birds that they've hired a new conductor. A man in a mask…"

Gianna swallowed nervously. "Why are you helping me find him? Although he did always have a love for music. He would…he would sometimes sing for me…and his voice was so…surreal. I'd close my eyes and…and I'd float away from this lecherous place. Carried only by the sound of his sadness, his grief…" she shook her head. "I think he was happy, perhaps once…but that was very long ago."

Her mother smiled at her through the cigarette smoke. "Confront him if you can. Do the undoable, create a miracle from misery: leave prostitution behind, and things might change between you two. You're the only girl I've had talented enough to pull something like this off. And I suppose there's never any need to completely lose hope…If you truly love him."

"What if he won't even speak to me? Look me in my eyes?" Gianna bit the inside of her cheek; remembering their last encounter…he'd turned up with the front of his tuxedo smothered in blood, unmasked, his dark curly hair tousled, ready to fuck her in one of their usual positions…but he had made sure, for some reason, that she knew her place.

The place of an unloved woman.

A woman working every night in pure darkness, with only a violating floodlight brandishing her features like a mannequin in a window. Trapped behind the glass. Wanting to be touched, dying to be kissed, yet rebuking any form of touch, kisses or embraces, for it was frightening to mix feelings with being anybody's whore.

But he had always been different. He was the one she'd made an exception for. He always asked for the private room, so they could be together, at least for a couple of hours…

Was it senseless to still believe in dreams? For in the boarding house above the strip club, she kept a small metal safe with all of her money inside, and a few baubles she'd collected from patrons, drunk on pleasure and wine, accidentally leaving their jewelry behind. The only thing she'd purchased with her own money was a simple black leotard with dark tights, and a shiny, light pink pair of pointe shoes, which were now quite busted up, with all the dancing she'd been doing after hours. The owner would allow her to practice onstage every time the strip club closed, under the watchful eye of her mother, who claimed she was once a prima ballerina somewhere down south. And Gianna had made several great improvements over the past couple of months…

Her brothel mother smoothed her wrinkled hands down Gianna's shoulders. "Gianna, my dear. If you want to succeed in ballet, this is the time to do it. I know you claim to love him, but you must become something other than this, even if he shuns you, or turns from you again. I want nothing more than to see you smile, for you to be happy. Do you understand? If he refuses your heart again, don't even think twice; just keep dancing. Even if you want to cry. Even if you feel like life isn't worth living, anymore…"

Gianna turned away from the mirror, her green eyes bright and sharp against the bloodshot whites of her eyes. Her heart pleaded with God in that moment; if she could capture the role, then Erik might notice her, again…and she could pull back from him as much as she wanted, perhaps make him beg her for forgiveness…if she could leave this depressing place behind; a building and profession that had taken so much from her, leaving her with a spirit whose river ran dry.

He would be forced to watch her grace, beauty, and majesty.

As the black swan.

"Maybe I could do as you said, show up there early, tomorrow morning…catch the Ballet Master or director before they go in? I don't want to be humiliated in front of the company…" Gianna looked back into the mirror, studying herself. Could she do this? Could a prostitute pretend to be a woman with an apartment on the upper east side, with multiple pairs of heels and dresses? Whose hair was always slicked and parted, whose confidence radiated from the poise of her silhouette?

A woman that had never given herself away to any man?

Her mother nodded, smiling over at her. "It will be a rather frigid morning, so make sure to wear your coat. Winter is just around the corner…a perfect time to slide right into a show, my dear. And Swan Lake, nonetheless…

This will change the course of your life."

Gianna continued to stare into the mirror, forcing herself to look into her own eyes, trying not to see the terrified little child that she felt she had become…or perhaps had always been.

"I don't think I will sleep tonight," she whispered, her eyes falling down to inspect her hands. They were spindly and white, so pallid that her blue veins could be seen running underneath. "I need to prepare for tomorrow. And if they turn me away, I'll…I'll leave this place for good. But Erik…oh, I don't even want to believe that he'd love me back. All the lovely things he'd said in the past seemed to be taken back, the last night he came to see me. As if they were just words, and had no meaning. Perhaps he's in love with someone else," she said sadly, biting her lip so hard that it began to bleed. "Even as a ballerina, I…"

"Oh, that's utter nonsense. Men just like to be in control, my dear. That's all it was. Just a power play, I'm sure. But if you become what you've always dreamed of, he may come around…knowing that you will give yourself to no other man. No one but him."

Gianna drew in a deep breath. "And if it wasn't? If he truly meant it?"

Her mother smoothed the shoulders of the oversized, moth-eaten sweater that she wore; the club became quite chilly within the afterhours, where there was much less body heat to steam up the front windows. "If he truly meant it, then release him from your heart; let him go. You want to be happy, now, don't you?"

"More than anything."

"Then focus on your dancing. Be a poised young lady tomorrow, and make sure to bandage your breasts so that you seem less…endowed. Besides, we don't want anything getting in the way. And I believe I have something for you; just a little gift, my dear, to help you feel more comfortable…let me grab them, I'll be right back." As her mother swiftly left the dressing room, she made herself hold eye contact with the woman in the mirror…

She blinked. Had her eyes always been this bloodshot? Could she imagine ebony feathers sprouting up from her flesh, standing perfectly en pointe, lit entirely by a thousand shards of crystal; the very jewels that made up the Opera house chandelier?

Could he love her?

He left you. He left and he isn't coming back…

And why – if any part of it had been real – did he not hurt as she did? Why was he not back at the club, begging to see her, to apologize for the way he had treated her, even when she had produced another mask for him to cover his shameful scarring; something about him that she had always found strangely attractive. What other woman would look at him the way she did? Love him and laugh with him, fuck him as many times as he wanted, in any position he asked for?

"Little unloved Gianna," she whispered, rising to touch her hand to the mirror. She wanted to down the rest of the bottle of gin that was inches from her fingertips, but a tiny sliver of hope in her heart stopped her, for she must be completely sober tomorrow…

The shadow of a ballerina.

"Is this a gift, or a curse? Loving someone…" she asked herself, pulling back her hand and setting palm down on the vanity counter. She was surrounded by powder and blood red lipstick casings, but none of it could shield her heart from the world, from the man she'd believed was falling in love with her. Despair and anxiety began to twist inside of her mind; would the Ballet Master laugh at her, or cry with outrage that he had not discovered her earlier? Her mind was a whirlwind as she realized she'd be leaving the only home she ever had, and was quite thankful when her mother returned to the dressing room, carrying something dark in her hands. Gianna watched as her mother set the gift on the counter of the vanity, pushing her spent cigarette into the ashtray; a glass rose with its petals opened skyward.

"Leg warmers, my dear. Most dancers will be wearing them, especially since it's autumn. They used to be mine, so they're a bit worn, but I think you'll find use for them. Especially on your first day."

Gianna took them into her hands, turning the soft fabric around in her fingers. She noticed there were tiny bits of sparkling thread woven through the black wool, and she smiled for the first time in a handful of days, imagining them glimmering upon her calves as she danced.

Imagining him watching her, unable to tear his eyes away.

"They're perfect," she whispered, staring up at her mother with adoration. "And they match my leotard, except for the bits of shimmer woven in…"

"Yes, my dear. They were always very special to me. And when you dance, they will shine just as brightly as you. Oh, I cannot wait to see what you become…You're going to be untouchable. Unstoppable. Use the darkness inside of you that none of those other girls have, or will understand. Use that, and you secure the role. Use that, and…"

"He might notice me, again," Gianna breathed, leaning her head back against the chair. Her mother smiled sadly, knowing that one broken heart had been merely substituted with the other: Gianna's chance at a real life, and the soon to be loss of a daughter.

"Come now, my sweet child. Off to bed with you. For tomorrow you start your descent.

Tomorrow you will begin to grow feathers; the formation of your all-consuming, darkened wings."

…

A/N: I said you hadn't seen the last of her! What will happen when she gets to perform alongside Christine…and is trying out for the exact same part?

As per usual, I LOVE hearing thoughts and feelings from you guys. So what are we feeling?

Love, L.