She had wanted to wear her long sleeved leotard that day, but it had been in the wash. This one just had thick straps keeping it on her slight frame as she danced, the tips of her toes bleeding ten little red dots onto her tights.

The bruise was bluish-purple, blooming across her shoulder and upper back. It was almost a pretty color, she had mused, looking in the mirror. There was some pink in it that sort of matched her pointe shoes.

The night before, she had put that chair out with the trash. It was just a kitchen chair, just like the other ones, but she didn’t want to look at it any more. It had betrayed her. After all, he wouldn’t have hit here if that damn chair hadn’t been there for him to use. Really, it wasn’t his fault.

She would wear her warm up t-shirt all class, she decided. Then no one would see.

She didn’t know when it had happened. When “that time” had become “those times” had become “it happens all the time.” And she didn’t know how to make it stop.

After all, he loved her. Right?