Four hours he had made her practice! Four goddamn hours! Until she defiantly screamed out: “Papa! I don’t want to be a ballerina! I will never be one! Do you hear? Never!” Stomping her foot, she crossed her arms tightly across her chest and purposely took on a belligerent stance.
The room flooded with anger so palpable it almost smothered her with its intensity. Attempting to flee ahead of him, she lost as he caught her in mid-flight and began to shake and hit her.
Too absorbed in protecting her head and getting free, Angelina barely heard him.
Her father stayed with her and kept repeating his truth; a dogma that snapped at the air like the gnashing teeth of a vicious, rabid dog.
“I promised her! You have no choice!” he yelled over and over again as he struck her.
Words—those repetitive words—that carried their own sp...