Now, Drew stretched out on the wooden spring floor in her favorite studio at the Y. She knew she was lucky that there were no other dance or fitness classes being taught at this time in this studio. Save for her Wednesday night and Saturday morning classes, the older studio was rarely used and was tucked further back into the building than the other, newer studios. She preferred this one, with the chipped wooden floors, the rickety barres that she constantly had to remind maintenance to come tighten, the exposed wires in the ceiling. She loved it for the simple fact that it was quiet and set apart from everything else in the large, busy building, and it had several panels of windows lining one side that allowed her a fantastic view of this part of Pittsburgh. She especially loved it at night, when she could see all the city lights. It was in these moments that she missed New York, dreadfully.
She crawled toward the window to continue her floor stretches, her legs splaying wide as she leaned forward, her flexibility allowing her to rest her stomach flat on the floor. She leaned her elbows on the bottom of the window, peering out. Many large, east-coast cities reminded her of New York at night. She hadn't been back since the day her family had packed up and left for Pittsburgh. She wondered if she'd ever be able to one day return and appreciate her home city again, without allowing the horrific event that had befallen her to define her interpretation of what home really was. She hated feeling like a victim; hated her anxiety, her depression. Hated that it made her harm herself and feel like she couldn't deal with life at all. Hated that it made her withdraw into a shell of her former, vibrant self. Hated that she didn't know how to move past it fully. What was an appropriate length of time to get over being brutally raped and almost murdered? How long was it supposed to take until she could get over the deep, horrible ache of knowing she'd never be able to have children of her own? How long until some semblance of faith, trust and belief in humanity could be restored? These were the questions that kept her up at night, and no matter how long she mulled over them or how many times she spun them over and over and over in her mind, she simply didn't know the answers.
Idly she reached over and drew her fingers over her ankle, over the tightly tied ribbons of her pointe shoes. It was the ankle that she sometimes used to take her inner abuse out on, the one that Heath had seen. There were other places, like the soft flesh of her belly below her navel, her hip, high inside her thigh, over her ribcage, directly over the top of her breast. As of late, her ankle had been her go-to spot simply for ease of access, but the other locations showed scars, some pink, some white, depending on their age. Since that night, she'd made good on her promise and not harmed herself anywhere. Granted, it wasn't that she'd ever harmed herself on a daily basis before; it had been once, maybe twice a week. When he'd seen them, the cuts had been three or four days old. It had been over a week since she'd last harmed herself, and as her fingers smoothed over the satiny ribbon, she realized with mild surprise that it had been that long simply because she hadn't felt the urge to need to do it.
Heath seeing some of her cuts and scars had been a blessing in disguise. Previously it had been her secret shame, her dirty little secret, one that she carried with her all day, every day. She knew her parents would be heartbroken if they knew; her sisters would be hurt and pissed. Even Bunz, who was notoriously calm and collected no matter what the situation was, had been moved almost to tears when Drew had shown her. But now that at least two people knew her secret, it gave her a sense of accountability. She didn't care much if she hurt herself, but between Heath and Bunz, she didn't care to hurt either one of them. And while she knew that she wouldn't be subjected to strip searches—although, Drew knew better than to put anything past Bunz—she also knew that if she were to harm herself again after it had been brought to light would make her feel horrible and guilty, and disappointed in herself, whether anyone knew about it or not. She knew that even if she recovered emotionally, a part of her would always want to hurt herself when her emotions went "dark side". But she knew she had to begin to develop the strength to move past that, because disappointing people she never wanted to disappoint would be far, far worse than any emotional trauma she could suffer.
Drew pushed off the floor and drew her legs in, stretching her arms gracefully overhead as she leaned to either side. She got to her feet and gripped one of the barres that spanned the entire studio, still looking out the window as she began some strengthening and toning exercises to warm her legs and ankles. She did plies, tendus, rond de jambes, and just started some vigorous grands battements when she heard her cell phone tinkle from across the studio.