Fractured Desire

I f*****g hate mornings. I hate the loud ear rattling alarm that yanks me out of dreams I can’t remember, the way the sunlight burns through my blue curtains, and the nagging certainty that everything my body, my brain, my life is out of control. My dad is passed out on the old couch again, empty bottles scattered across the floor like landmines. The air smells like stale whiskey and regret. I step over him, silent, careful not to wake him, and grab my bag. Ice skating doesn’t wait for feelings. Ballet doesn’t wait for feelings. I’ve learned that pain only makes you slower. My sister, Lila, is already in the kitchen, humming to some stupid Taylor swift song and cutting fruit with unnerving precision. She’s both infuriating and comforting my annoying little anchor in a world that feels like it’s constantly spinning too fast. She looks up, eyes sharp, catching the dark circles under mine. “You look like s**t Bobby,” she says, blunt but not unkind. “Don’t you have practice?” “Yeah,” I mutter, shoving my bag over my shoulder. I don’t have time for niceties. She frowns, then smirks. “Don’t forget to eat.do you want to collapse on the ice and make a new art installation called ‘Ballet Girl in Pain’?” I roll my eyes, but there’s a small smile lurking behind my cynicism. Lila is the only person who can say that and not make me want to throttle her. The drive to school bored me my Old Ford focus rattled with each bump in the road as I pulled up to the parking lot. The rink smells like melted rubber and frozen metal when I arrive. I tie my skates, the laces tight enough to hurt my feet but not enough to break me. My reflection in the rink’s edge is cruel, merciless: dark circles, pale skin, arms that feel too thick, stomach that jiggles when I move. I push it down. I’ve been doing that my whole life. And then he appears. Hunter. Hockey team. King of assholes. He leans against the bleachers, bag slung over one muscular shoulder, grin cocky and unapologetic. I can feel it before I even see his face he’s like heat in a freezer, a storm I can’t escape. “Nice warm up,” he calls, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or are you just trying to melt the ice with that gut of yours?” I freeze, heart hammering. My fingers clutch my skates so hard my knuckles ache. “f**k you, Hunter that doesn't even make sense,” I snap, voice sharper than I intend. He laughs, low and dangerous, and it makes me want to punch him. Or kiss him. f*****g God, I hate that part of me that wants him. He steps closer, grin widening, eyes flicking over me like he owns the world and everyone in it. “Come on, Swan Lake,” he says, and Christ, the way he says it makes my stomach twist. “You’re too tense. Relax a little. Or do you want me to… loosen you up?” I glare. “Try it and see what happens, asshole.” He smirks, obviously loving the fire in my eyes. “Careful. You might hurt yourself Swan Lake.” I shove past him, skating to the center of the rink, but I can feel him following, always there, a shadow in my peripheral vision. Every word, every glance, every laugh is designed to cut, and it does. But I can’t look away. By the time practice starts, I’m shaking not from exertion but from rage and fear and something else I refuse to name. My jumps feel heavier. My spins feel jagged. My body, my mind, my entire f*****g self feels like it’s betraying me. And at the edge of the rink, he watches, smirk never fading. “You know,” he says during a break, leaning against the boards like he owns the place, “you could be a lot prettier if you smiled. Or, you know, ate a salad once in a while.” I stop, breath sharp. “Eat a salad? You literally eat like s**t and still think you can comment on me lay off the burgers that muscular frame won't stay forever will it?” He shrugs, casually indifferent. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. But hey, maybe you like being miserable. Fits your whole icy-ballet- fatty girl vibe.” I want to throw my water bottle at him. I want to punch him. I want to… something. Anything. “You’re full of yourself,” I snap, and it’s weak. My words tremble because the truth is, he’s terrifying. Not just because he’s bigger or stronger, but because he makes me feel raw, exposed, and desperate all at once. He tilts his head, eyes darkening. “And you like it. Don’t lie.” I spin, skating away fast enough to make my legs burn. My chest tightens. f**k, f**k, f**k. He knows. Somehow, he knows. Later, when I’m alone in the locker room, I light a cigarette stolen from Lila, hidden in my bag. The smoke curls around me, sharp and sweet, and I draw it in deep, letting it fill the hollow ache in my chest. Bipolar brain buzzing, heart hammering, dad snoring somewhere in the background like the world doesn’t give a s**t—I let the tears come. No one sees me cry. No one can. But him? Hunter doesn’t get it. And somehow, that’s worse. I scrub my face, tossing the cigarette in the sink, grinding it under my heel. I hate him. I hate that I think about him. I hate that I hate myself for thinking about him. I hate everything. And still, tomorrow, I’ll be back on the ice. I’ll lace up my skates. I’ll feel my body ache, feel my heart race, and I’ll know he’ll be there. Waiting. Smirking. Pushing me. Breaking me. And I’ll come back anyway. Because maybe that’s the kind of person I am. Or maybe I’m just too broken to run.