Dancing with the Varsity Bad Boy

Chapter 7

Violet's POV

***

The nerve of them all. I'm seething with rage at their assumption that just because I'm technically disabled I must be physically incapable of a physically demanding career, like dance.

I leave the kitchen in chaos and slowly head upstairs. I know I should call my dance professor and inform them of last night's episode but I don't want to miss any classes just because of the chronic pain.

I fought too hard during the early years of the illness just to attend my after school classes.

With a heavy sigh I allow myself just a few minutes to feel the soul deep exhaustion that has become a constant companion since this all started. It's a battle not to collapse underneath it all, to not choke on the stangle hold it has on me.

It's a horrible thing, to be trapped in a body that will never allow you to be wholly yourself, to dance and laugh and go about your day without that nagging thought in the back of your mind, wondering how bad the flare up will be later. That fear that one day it'll be too much for me to handle.

Every hour of every day I have to check myself, keeping tabs on how much pain I'm in. Tabs on if I can continue what I'm doing or if I should stop to avoid worsening the brewing storm. I have to ration how long I dance. Ration how much I enjoy life so I don't set off another intense pain flare that'll take me weeks or months to recover from.

People seem surprised when you tell them that a person can manage to live everyday, all day, in constant pain. That they can smile and laugh and seem completely normal on the outside while their body is being devoured by fire and brimstone on the inside. I guess I would have been surprised too once upon a time, to learn that a person can survive in that state, that they can even find a sliver of joy in living.

The thing people don't tell you is how chronic pain strips you bare of everything. How it sucks the light out of a person's eyes, how it can destroy a persons will to keep living, to keep fighting. Conditions that bring chronic pain into a persons life, rhumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, among countless others, destroy a person, stripping them of everything that makes them whole, dismantling them piece by piece until they are forced to rebuild who they are. It leaves them to rebuild a fragile framework of who they become. A framework so delicate, so fragile that one bad day can leave them with nothing but the angonising task of rebuilding their soul all over again.

I'd know, I went through it at the tender age of nine. My family had to watch as chronic pain tore who I was apart, leaving nothing of the little girl they knew.

In a way, the Violet they'd known died a very slow and agonising death. They then had to watch as I rebuilt who I am now. That in itself was a slow, soul destroying, rebirth, They watched, and supported me as I clawed back some scrap of a "normal" life.

There have been many a dark time when I thought about ending it all and times where I tried to end it. When the pain was too much to handle, when I couldn't dance, or find that sliver of hope that I'd been clinging to. Thanks to my family, and the few friends that stuck by me through those years I'm alive, and I'm able to work towards my dreams. Many in my shoes don't get that once in a life time chance.

It all started the summer I was nine. The pain, the sleepless nights, the disability. Dad nearly retired early from the NFL and my brothers willingly gave up their limited amount of freedom to take care of me.

I was asked if I wanted to keep dancing. I had been torn to shreds on the inside by that point, because I love dance, it sets my soul on fire and I feel like I'm free when I'm dancing, but it's also my tormentor, causing the pain to flare to unbareble levels. Especially back then. My family told me, no matter what I decided, they'd support me. Even if it meant sleepless nights, even if it meant losing friends, even if it meant losing the last precious years of childhood.

It was thanks to their love and support that choosing to fight for my dreams was even an option. I'm so grateful for that, because they gave me permission to suffer. They allowed me to put my body, and by extention them, through the nine circles of hell. They never blamed me for the pain, they never told me "well it's your own fault your in this much pain,". No, my dad would waltz around my bedroom with me curled up in his arms, crying, as he sang to me, getting me to sing with him. My brothers ran baths, and would make ice baths, they'd spend their summers indoors, or laid out in our garden, reading stories and playing music, taking me to doctor appointments, wheeling me around in a wheelchair, making wheelchair races and finding silly way to make me laugh.

But they never asked I give up dancing.

I'll always remember when my Dad said he'd never been more proud of me on the day of my first dance competition. I could have given up, I'd had no sleep the night before and over the counter pain killers didn't touch the pain. Instead of giving in to the pain, I turned up, and danced my little heart out even though I was in agony, even though I knew I'd be bed bound for months after, and I won first place. Dad, Zeke, Axel and the whole of dad's football team, their wives and children turned up to support me that day, and dad cried when I was given my trophy. He still has it, in pride of place on his office desk.

I've never allowed the pain to dictate what I can or can't do and I'm not about to start either.

Reaching Mathews room I shake off the memories, and exhaustion before grabbing my phone and my duffle bag before heading into the bathroom for a quick shower and to take what morning medication I have, double checking my current amount and sending a text to my dad to let him know what I need and informing him I'm ok. After that I email my professors, to inform them I might need to step out of class if needed.

The shower does little to ease the pain, or to push back the exhaustion. Something else no one tells you about chronic pain is exhaution becomes your new best friend, because god it takes a lot of energy to be in so much pain all the time. I get dressed in a pair of loose cotton trousers, a sports bra and a loose tank top. I don't bother doing more then towel drying my hair, leaving it damp and brushing it into a high ponytail I can style later before dance class.

When I step out of the bathroom I groan at the sight of Mathews sitting on his bed, his face set into a determined frown. But my gaze zeros in the impressive tattoo on his chest and shoulder, the detail stunning. A tattoo I remember designing with Gypsy. The yin-yang created with the sun and moon, a white wolf looking up at a black dragon. Gypsy had designed the wolf half, while I'd designed the dragon half. I swallow thickly taking in the details I'd missed last night in my pain hazed exhaustion. The flecks of gold in his honeyed amber eyes, or the faint scar above his eyebrow.

"We have Ethics class together?" He asks, and I blink in surprise.

"Yeah, we've had the same class for the pass two years," I shrug and begin checking I have what I need for class. Double checking I have clean tights and leotard for my dance classes.

"I'll take you to Ethics, and then I'm picking you up to bring you back here. Eric will go over to yours to pick up your books or whatever else you might need for tomorrow's classes. No one is close enough to take you to your arts and dance classes, but I can pick you up at least" He says and grabs clothes for himself before heading into the bathroom, leaving the door open while he gets into the shower.

"Thanks," I force the word out, bitterness leaving a nasty aftertaste on my tongue.

I'm more then capable of driving myself about, and it annoys me that they think I'm suddenly unable to drive after witnessing the pain flare last night. Just because I live with chronic pain doesn't mean I'm completely incapable.

Why do people suddenly behave differently with me when the mask is ripped away and they see the agony I normally hide too well? It's bothersome to have to manage another person's desire to protect and care for you after witnessing what the guys did last night.

Fu'ck, they're going to become impossible aren't they? I really hope not, it's stressful for others to see me as fragile when I'm strong enough to manage. It was a battle my brothers realised they had to fight, to treat me as a normal person instead of a fragile disabled person.

"I'll wait for you downstairs," I call through the bathroom door, shoulder my bags and leave the bedroom wondering how I was going to manage staying here.