Fragments by M. R. Field Page B

can’t believe you’re going to hang out with another girl! I wouldn’t do that to you!” She crossed her arms, her voice getting louder. I shushed her and tried to touch her face again, but she turned away.
    “Stace, babe, it’s nothing. She’s just a friend. I promise you. I’m seeing you Saturday night, remember?” In an instant, her eyes changed from irate to calm. She nodded and then leant up to kiss me. 
    “I’ll see you later. I have to go before I miss my bus.”
                  When I got home, the ease I felt from training began to curl into a ball of tension. Walking up to the front door, I heard the telltale signs of another greyhound-gone-wrong night, with the sounds of my mother screaming, and ferocious shouts from my father. I am just so tired of this shit.
    As I entered the house, my father let go of my mother and pushed her back.  His nostrils flared as he stomped towards me. Growing up with this, I have learnt the signs. Tonight, his consumption had been heavier, so I knew his balance was off. I stood still and braced myself for an attack, and he didn’t disappoint.
    “What’s wrong with spending time with your mother and me? What about your study? Who’s keeping you away and spending time with your ugly, worthless arse?” The countdown until he would go to the local had begun, so of course he had started on the booze early.
    “Oh, maybe …” He put his hand on his chin. “… it’s that little slut neighbour you hang out with. The one who prances around?”
    Up until this point, the alcohol normally didn’t make me care too much as he spun bullshit. But the foul way he referred again to Bea? No fucking way. I grabbed his shirt and drew him close to my face.
    “Look, you piece of old, drunken shit, say what the fuck you like about me, I don’t care. But, if you ever, ever talk about Bea like that, I will end you. I will bury you. And not in a nice place like Pop. I will bury you in the depths of hell, where you deserve to rot.” I threw him back and headed to my room, shouting over the top of my shoulder, “Piss off to the dogs. No doubt you’ll be forgiven by Mum by the time you get home.”
    I walked into my bedroom and slammed the door.
     
     
     
                 

Chapter Six
    “My soul is in suspense much more with fear
    Of the torments which are in the circle below,
    For even now the load there weighs upon me”
    Purgatorio XIII ; lines 136–139
    Trice
    One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Over and over, the movements to my solo performance ran through my head. I felt like a marionette puppet, being pulled and pushed in every direction to the beat of the song. It was only a couple of days out and I couldn’t wait.
    I was robotic around my friends as the stress I felt twirled around me. If I wasn’t at the dance hall bugging my mentor after school, then I was pushing all our storage boxes to the side of the gym equipment in the garage and dancing in there. At recess and lunch, our school dance teacher let me use the theatre so I could practice. And practice I did.
    This was the one time I wouldn’t allow my family to watch my dance. I didn’t want to see their eyes as I tore through this song. I was doing something different this time around.
                  The gala was to take place over several hours on both Saturday and Sunday. I was lucky to be part of the first few performances on Saturday—it meant the scout would be watching with fresh eyes. The only downside was that we performed to an audience of friends and family as well.  I had decided to tell my parents that I had a simple performance while using the excuse that it was just a practice run for the real thing. I hated lying to them, but I didn’t want the added pressure.
    By Friday, I was twitchy and irritable. I had put on concealer to hide the black marks under my weary eyes. I knew that once I was on stage that