No One Ever Loved

Prologue

"Mom," I whined. "I have to go to the bathroom!"

She gripped my hand tighter as we crossed the street. "Not right now, Ella. We have to get to Gemma's recital."

I huffed. "Why didn't we just take the car?"

"Daddy needs the car for work."

"Isn't he coming to the recital, too?" I inquired.

She tugged me down the next crosswalk. "He'll be there as soon as he gets out of work. It isn't that far, Ella. We're almost there."

I groaned but let her lead me around corners, across streets, and between crowds of people. She never let go of my hand.

"My hand is getting sweaty," I complained.

"We're almost there," she repeated.

Benita's Dance Studio was a small brick building with pastel flowers painted on the windows and a bell that chimed when you walked through the door. Inside was a tiny theatre, with a small stage, benches and foldable chairs, two speakers mounted on the walls, and a receptionist desk at the back. Behind the theatre was the studio, with foldable chairs for parents, a dance floor, single ballet bar, and a wall as a mirror, where children aged four to sixteen could learn different forms of dance and perform in monthly recitals. One of those children was my six-year-old sister, Gemma.

I used to be one of those children. I decided when I was four that I wanted to learn ballet. Benita's Dance Studio was only a few blocks away from our house and it was only fifteen dollars for an hour long class. Benita was my teacher. She was an old woman with white, wispy hair, a kind smile, and gentle hands. She coached me through my first major performance at The Children's Theatre in front of a crowd of four-hundred; Swan Lake. When I was nine-years-old, Benita passed away in her sleep. My mom didn't let me go to her funeral. She said that I was too young to experience something so heartbreaking. I quit ballet two weeks after her death.

The studio was closed for a year before Benita's daughter, Melanie, reopened it and started teaching classes on her own. The next generation of dancers poured through the door with the new golden bells that didn't ring quite the same, and the building with repainted flowers on the windows quickly began to thrive.

Gemma took an immediate interest in dance, saying, "Ella got to be a swan. I want to, too!"

The bells chimed pathetically as my mom pushed the door open. As I walked inside, I was immediately bombarded with the smell of hairspray and an abundance of small children with glitter on their faces.

Melanie poked her head out from behind the studio door. "Girls! Let's go!"

I dodged three first-grade girls on my way to the benches in front of the stage. We sat in the third row. There were only ten minutes until the show was set to start and the theatre was filling up rapidly. My dad had yet to arrive, and I could see that it was making my mom anxious. She continuously checked the time on her phone. She bit her lip nervously when Melanie came over the loudspeaker and announced that the show would be starting momentarily.

My bladder was still proving to be a nuisance. Rather than bother my mom, who was already anxious that my dad wouldn't be there on time, I slipped away on my own.

To get to the bathroom, you had to go behind the receptionist desk and down three steps. There was a single light bulb on in the small hallway leading to the bathroom. I shuddered. I tried not to be afraid. I had been down there several times, after all.

The bathroom door was at the end of the short hall. I used the bathroom as fast as possible, throwing open the door when I was finished and catching it mere seconds before it was doomed to put a hole in the drywall. I breathed a sigh of relief and took a blind step toward the theatre. I didn't make it far.