His Ballerina

Besides, he knows where I live. What’s the point of fighting when he can just find me later? I don’t have anywhere else to go, no friends to stay with, no family. Sure, pretty much all of my possessions could be packed into a backpack, but the idea of living on the street doesn’t exactly thrill me.

Here I am, walking home, and my only options are to keep living in an apartment a cold-blooded killer could point out on a map or live on the streets. This has to be some kind of nightmare.

No, it’s not a nightmare. When his grip tightens before we step off the sidewalk like he’s making double sure I’m not going to make a run for it, it only solidifies the reality I’ve found myself in.

“You are going to hurt me, at least be honest.” What’s the point of playing word games, pretending this is all going to turn out happily? If I’m going to die, I think I deserve a little honesty.

“What makes you say that?”

“Come on. I’m not a child. I know how things go. And I know you could’ve killed me out there in the alley, but you didn’t, so I’m guessing you want to hurt me before you kill me?”

I glance his way, looking up since he’s so much taller than me, and I see his jaw tighten. A firm jaw, sharp, covered in just a little bit of dark scruff like he didn’t shave this morning. “I don’t have to force myself on women to get laid if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

He sounds so matter-of-fact about it, but then again, so do I. This is no time to get all emotional or start shaking again. “Then why are you walking me home?”

“This isn’t a question and answer session, Madison.”

“Then what is it?” I pause for a second, then ask, “What’s your name, at least?”

“Why do you need to know my name?”

“I guess I have a habit of wanting to know the name of the man who’s going to kill me.”

He snorts, giving me the first glimpse of a sense of humor. Murderers can have a sense of humor, I guess. “Remember what we talked about. There’s no reason you have to die, so long as you play by the rules. When you think about it that way, this is really all up to you.”

I have to stop short of thanking him for giving me the power to control whether I live or die. Something tells me this guy isn’t a big fan of sarcasm.

Besides, he’s lying. He has to be. This is all a ploy to get me to a second location, where he can do whatever he wants to me before ending my life.

I might be young, but I’ve watched a lot of TV over the years. Sometimes, it was all I had to distract me from the misery I lived in.

“I would still like to know your name. Just your first name. I mean, we’re talking, and you know my name, and it doesn’t seem fair.” Sure, I’m babbling, but it’s better than walking in silence. The silence is so heavy, thick, threatening to choke me. At least talking feels semi-normal.

He makes me wait a while, until I’m sure he’s decided there won’t be any more talking. “Archer.” He didn’t want to tell me, it’s obvious, and the word comes out slowly. Like he already regrets saying it.

“That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks,” he snorts. “Unlike this neighborhood.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the best I was able to do.” He doesn’t correct my using past tense, which only confirms my suspicions. I’m dying tonight. I almost wish he would get it over with, that he would end this little game he’s playing with me. Is he getting off on it? Is this exciting for him, holding my life in his hands, knowing he’ll be the one to decide when I draw my final breath? Some people are like that—killers who toy with their victims for the thrill of control.

“I’m only walking you home, Madison.”

It’s beyond surreal how protective he sounds. Like a father, almost. Granted, I’ve never had a father who cared about me, but it’s how I would always imagine a loving father would speak. Like he knows better than me, like he only wants what’s best for me even if I don’t understand his motives.

Incredible, the thoughts that will go through a person’s brain in their final minutes.

There was so much more I wanted to do. So much more I wanted to see. I was going to save up and take a trip to watch real, live ballet. I was going to buy a brand-new pair of pointe shoes. I was going to find a decent job, maybe something that would let me move to a better neighborhood, a job that would pay enough so I could stop bouncing from the grocery store to the diner where I waitressed to the gym almost every day. I would have more hours free to do what I wanted to do, which, of course, meant dancing.