3. Behind The Curtain
Behind The Curtain
~ELIZABETH~
P ain is our favorite part of this hobby of mine, isn’t it?
The locker room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows as I sit on the wooden bench, fingers trembling slightly as I unwrap the bandages from my feet.
Each layer reveals another story of dedication — or stupidity, depending on who you ask. Preparing to see the level of damage I’ve evoked upon myself feels really stupid now after that performance.
One that should have brought me tears of joy versus how hollow I feel right now.
"Shit," I mutter, wincing as the final layer peels away. The damage is worse than usual. My toes are a masterpiece of purple and red, with blisters that have formed on top of barely-healed blisters.
A couple of nails are definitely going to fall off this time.
Was it worth it?
I laugh, the sound echoing hollowly in the empty room.
"Why the hell did I go so hard?" My voice cracks slightly. "Like technical perfection was ever going to matter." Shaking my head, I can only feel more dread now that the high of adrenaline is slipping away.
Leaving my body aching with agony and exhaustion.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t mentally exhausted with all this fighting.
Fighting to exist in a world that wishes I’d dwindle away into dust.
A tear escapes despite my best efforts, trailing down my cheek and landing on my abused feet. I watch it splash, creating a tiny constellation on my skin that’s flushed from the intensity of that number.
"It's fine," I whisper, more to myself than the empty room. "This is why dreams are worth chasing, right? Because they're hard. Because there are obstacles. It will be worth it in the end…"
Will it? Or am I just lying to myself again…
My fingers trace the edge of my dance shorts, sliding up to where my most treasured tattoo lives on my upper left thigh. The skull stares back at me, its Día de los Muertos design a riot of intricate swirls and patterns. Even in this harsh lighting, I can see hints of the UV-reactive ink woven through the design — Jessica's final gift to me, in a way.
Jessie.
The memory hits hard today, probably because I used one of her signature moves in the performance. She was always the colorful one, showing up to practice in neon leotards and rainbow leg warmers while I stuck to basic black.
How it should have been her on that stage, recreating that signature move she fanatized in achieving across the masses. I bet you she’d be exactly what these judges were looking for — fitting their viewpoint of perfection in a humbled Omega who executed such effortless grace with her dancing style.
"Life's too short for mourning colors, Lizzy!"
I remembered how she'd say stupid shit like that, twirling in her hot pink tutu. The moment she’d entered a space, the world lit up just by her energy. The vibe could be of death and misery and then she’d walk in and light up the whole room with happiness and hope.
" We're Omegas! We should shine while we can!"
While we can.
She didn't get much chance to shine…
Three months after her first heat, they found her body in an alley. Raped, bruised, cuts all over her flesh. They never released how much cum was pooling inside her. Didn’t attempt to track how many Alphas used, abused, and went on their way like they hadn’t contributed to her demise.
To them, she was but a doll, born to submit to their needs and left as someone else’s responsibility. Only, no one wanted to take the role of being her Alpha, especially when she stopped breathing.
The police called it a "tragic incident."
The papers barely mentioned it.
Just another Omega who trusted the wrong person.
Leaving behind those who did care about her existence. Those who yearn to hear her bubbly laughter and feel the warmth of her loving hugs. The few who still remember her name wish she would have come home that night.
Not just be another insignificant number of Omegas killed because her life no longer mattered in our sinister world.
I got the tattoo two days after her funeral.
Sat for fourteen hours straight while the artist worked, letting the physical pain drown out everything else. It was the first illegal tattoo I allowed to be engraved into my flesh. The starter of many that soon followed. The pain was mediocre compared to what Jessie must have experienced.
Nothing compared to the onslaught of agony she had to endure from strangers who couldn’t care less about being gentle and loving to someone as innocent and pure as my best friend.
When he finished, I threw out every colorful piece of clothing I owned. I couldn’t dare see myself wearing a colorful piece when my best friend was six feet under despite being the kindest loving individual on this planet.
If this is what happens to Omegas with tender hearts, might as well embrace being the villain they already think I am.
My phone's ringtone cuts through the heavy silence, making me jump. The screen lights up with "DAD," and I can already tell from the time of day what kind of call this will be.
I hit the speaker, not bothering to move from my position.
"You're drinking again."
"M'fine," he slurs, confirming my suspicion. I’m trying not to laugh because whenever my dad is drunk, his thick Russian accent returns. He always tries to act Italian when he’s sober because he likes to give off the impression he’s from my mother’s country. People are “less frightened” by Italians than Russians, so it makes their lives easier.
Until someone barks up the wrong tree and my dad gets angry.
"Just... just wanted to check on my baby girl. How'd the evaluation go?"
"About as well as expected," I say, trying to keep my voice light. He surely knows from the magnitude of attempts how it went, but he always asks. Like any good father would. "You know how these things are."
“Foolish blind fuckers,” he concludes, making me smirk.
“As you know it,” I hum, closing my eyes for a moment as I just envision him sitting in his big leather chair at his office. I miss the luxury black walls and their gold accents.
To be honest, I miss home.
"When're you coming home for Thanksgiving?" He hiccups, and I hear ice cubes clinking against glass. "Your mother's already planning the menu."
A laugh escapes me, more bitter than I intend.
"Dad, you know I can't. Omegas without a pack aren't allowed to leave campus during holidays. It’s our punishment for not being mated up and making little babies."
"Bullshit!" The sudden volume makes me wince, though I know he’s upset. He hates me missing anything family-related. "You're an Abercrombie. Those...those rules shouldn't apply to you. I'll make some calls?—"
"Dad, stop." My voice cracks instead of being all growly as I’d originally intended. I watch another tear fall. "Please. Just... stop drinking so much, okay? You're going to hurt yourself."
There's a long pause, filled only with the sound of his breathing and what I suspect is him pouring another drink.
"I miss you, Sweetie," he finally says, voice smaller now. There’s that low loving voice he dares to share with only me and Mother. No one gets to listen to my father’s vulnerable voice. He’s normally barking out orders or insults. "We both do. The house is too quiet without you. Miss having you practicing at all hours of the day, causing a ruckus, and spending all my money on those odd shoes."
“Ballet shoes,” I laugh remembering how he’d nag me with how often I’d have to buy a new pair. I guess one every week was far too much, but no matter how many times my father complained, he never cut me off in using his card. “You miss those transactions now, don’t you.”
Now I’ve been using the same set of shoes for a year.
Torn up and ruined and yet I can’t push myself to get a new pair.
Get those new ones that they make in pure black with their silky exterior and unique ribbon binds that wrap up your angles and legs.
“M’hmn,” he agrees, which makes me smirk further as I briefly open my eyes, only to silently sigh. Letting my head fall back against the lockers, I close my eyes once more.
My parents aren't perfect — far from it.
Mom with her crushing expectations and social climbing, Dad with his growing dependence on alcohol and stress of making things continue to roll in his various businesses and other commitments.
They'd screwed up plenty, especially with hiding my Omega status for so long, but it was never out of shame. It was to protect me from all those who wished to belittle my existence.
They'd never rejected me.
Never looked at me like I was less than human.
When I came home from Harvard in disgrace, completely broken after I got my Heat in the middle of campus and experienced one of the most traumatic moments in my life, they didn’t push me away. Didn’t shun me despite my ripped clothed appearance and all the wounds I carried on my flesh from survival mode.
They'd hugged me and gave me as much time as I needed to embrace what I was and even helped me get into Hard Knot Academy, despite my apparent “unqualified” status. Kind of funny how I originally thought this school would give me a second chance in life.
I didn’t know the truth revolving around its existence.
When I started getting tattoos, Mom had pursed her lips but said nothing. She knew I was healing from trauma, and sometimes, when she visited my room when I faked being asleep, she’d silently cry, mourning over the agony I had to face without her being there to protect me.
When I chose dance over business, Dad had just asked to see my performances, and no matter if they were flawless or not, he was the loudest one in that auditorium, cheering on his Omega daughter like my status didn’t bring him an ounce of disgrace.
To him, I could have been the lowest of the lows, and he’d lift me up, presenting me as though I was a diamond in a field of coal. If I couldn’t face a financial bind alone, he’d always step up to be there for me, even when I would be too stubborn to accept his money.
He’d just find some sort of way to get the funds to me, one way or another.
They carry their own burdens, their own regrets. But they've never made me carry mine alone.
That was one thing I could never forget about them. It was why I kept going, despite how hard it’s been as of late.
"I miss you too, Dad," I whisper, hating how my voice wavers. "Tell Mom I'll call her tomorrow, okay? After you've sobered up, though. She hates seeing you drunk."
“So…no thanksgiving?” I hate how thick that emotion of longing is in his rough voice.
My poor papa misses me so much.
"Dad," I say softly, "remember last Thanksgiving? They wouldn't even let me through the front door of La Maison."
The memory still stings — standing there in my designer dress while the ma?tre d' explained in his perfectly polished accent that unbound Omegas weren't permitted in the establishment.
As if I might spontaneously go into heat and cause a scene between the soup and salad course.
God, how that made me laugh back then and is still pretty funny now.
None of them know I’ve been taking heat suppressants since I got my heat at eighteen on campus. I vowed after that fiasco that I’d take those bad boys until I died and always be on birth control as an added safety measure.
I may know how to fight hard, but in the off chance I can’t win a fight against a group of Alphas, at least I won’t be forced to carry an innocent baby into this world.
Born out of forced love and not out of consented admiration for creating life.
"Just invite Marissa instead,” I suggest. “The family doesn't need another embarrassing holiday with the rebellious eldest."
"No." The word comes out sharp, cutting through his drunken haze. "That girl's not a real Abercrombie. Never will be. You're my Abbie girl. The only heir that matters. Always have been."
My throat tightens suddenly, making my attempted laugh sound more like a sob.
"Sweetie?" Dad's voice sharpens with concern. "What's wrong? Do I need to come down there? I still have connections, you know? Could have that whole damn place lit up like the Fourth of July?—"
A wet laugh escapes me as I swipe at my tears.
"No, Dad. God, no. It's just..." I glance at the small bottle of suppressants in my gym bag. "Just the heat suppressants messing with my hormones. I'm fine."
He doesn't need to think I’m struggling. Even if I am, it’s not his fight to endure. I can get through this. Always have…always will.
"You sure? Because I know some guys who owe me favors?—"
"I'm fine ," I insist, though my voice betrays me by cracking. "I just need to hit the showers before all the jealous bitches show up. You know how it is. Can't even wash my hair in peace without them running their mouths."
There's a long pause on the other end, filled only with the clink of ice against glass.
"You know," he says finally, his voice gentler than I've heard it in years, "you can always come home, baby girl. Your room's still exactly how you left it. All those dance trophies collecting dust..."
Something in my chest contracts painfully.
They still haven’t gotten rid of those things.
"Dad..."
"I mean it, Abbie. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Certainly not to those stuck-up?—"
"I'll stay here for all eternity if I have to," I whisper, cutting him off. The words come out raw, and honest in a way I usually try to avoid. "I'd rather be the Forgotten Omega forever than let some pack of entitled Alphas turn me into their perfect little doll."
The silence that follows feels heavy, loaded with all the things we never say out loud. All the fears, hopes, and regrets that live in the spaces between our words.
"You're so much like your mother," he finally says, and I hear the pride mixing with pain in his voice. "Too stubborn for your own good."
"Pretty sure I got that from both sides," I manage, trying to smile even though he can't see it. "Look, I should go. Call me when you're sober?"
"Love you, Abbie girl."
"Love you too, Dad."
The call ends, leaving me alone with the harsh fluorescent lights and the echoes of everything we left unsaid. I stare at the skull on my thigh, tracing its delicate patterns with a fingertip.
What would you say about all this, Jessie? Would you still tell me to shine?
Would have been nice to have her company through all this shit. To hear her voice and listen to her sweet voice. I can only recall how they never opened the casket at her funeral. Didn’t see the need to show her bruised body to the world, as if they even cared.
Maybe they were doing her a favor.
Giving her a pinch of respect to hide what those sick fuckers did to her. I just wish she was here to give me that push she always did when I felt like this.
Down…lost…hopeless…
But the reality is…Jessie's not here to answer me.
No one’s here to save me from this constant cycle.
It’s just me, my broken toes, illegal tattoos, and my stubborn refusal to become what they want.
The Forgotten Omega.
Maybe it's not such a bad title after all.
Better forgotten than fake.
Better alone than trapped.
Better this endless limbo than having my wings clipped.
I stare at my battered feet, sighing heavily as I weigh my options.
The shower calls to me — I can feel dried sweat making my dance clothes stick uncomfortably to my skin.
But the thought of standing on these abused toes for another fifteen minutes...
"This is so fucking annoying," I mutter, reaching for my bag to grab some antiseptic cream.
At least I can treat the worst of the damage before…
That's when it hits me again.
The scent I've been trying to ignore since I first caught it in the auditorium.
Holy hell.
Since the very beginning of my audition, this scent has been antagonizing me. I’m not annoyed by the aroma because it stinks. This is quite the opposite.
The scent is fucking delicious. So divine to my nostrils, I could smell it forever.
It's stronger now, more concentrated in the enclosed space. Like walking into a high-end bakery on a cold morning — the kind that specializes in those fancy French pastries that cost more than my weekly food allowance at Hard Knot.
Warm vanilla and butter, but not sickeningly sweet. There's something darker underneath, a scent that reminds me of aged whiskey and expensive cigars. And threading through it all, a hint of cinnamon that makes my mouth water.
The combination is intoxicating.
Masculine but not aggressively so.
Refined yet with an edge of danger that makes my pulse quicken.
"What the actual hell," I breathe, trying to clear my head. It’s honestly dizzy inducing, which isn’t good for me because with how exhausted my body is, I’d certainly pass out, and there’s no way I’m waking up to a bunch of bitchy Omegas who will ensure I never live it down for losing consciousness in their territory. "Who combines perfume like that?"
"Could be cologne," a deep voice answers, the sound rolling through the room like distant thunder.
It’s only now that I realize, I’m no longer alone.