Work Text
The train car sways in the tunnel beneath the water; a perfect contrast to the fire I’m running from. Guilt sits still in my stomach, slowly seeping into my bones and I know I won’t be able to stand out of this stiff subway seat. My heart is racing but my mind is numb. I find it hard to believe no one on this train car gives any mind to the tall person in the corner wearing goddess-like wraps with an out of place jacket, bare feet pressed to the floor. I try not to let my jacket slip off my left shoulder and try to block out any of the yellowish flames burning through my mind. Exhausted from the sleep I didn’t get and the insistent nagging of my mind, I let the train sway me to sleep, fabric wraps seeping down my leg and brushing against the tops of my feet. I wake when the train stops on the tracks, but there is no stop in sight and the lights flicker dark. It is too dark. Too dark. I try to look around to see if anyone around me feels the same rising panic in my chest, though no one seems to be having a parallel experience. I know trains stop commonly, maybe another train is behind schedule or there is a slight bump in the road. Something in my throat tells me otherwise. An announcement begins, though my ears are ringing too much to hear. Between the gaps in my deafness I hear “complications… external dangers… evacuation.” That is when the sitting weight of guilt bursts. The man in front of me is on his phone, the screen bright against the dark in a reflection on the window behind him. That’s where I see the word “fire.” I wanted to scream, my throat wanted to collapse and I wanted to run. But I am trapped in a still, dark train with the fire hot on my trail. I can’t stop thinking about who I’ve left and who I’ve hurt and not who I am but who I’m not. Now I am failed and I am an ex-goddess trapped in a dark, dark, world of my own creation and mistakes. I clench my hand over my mouth in hopes not to bother any others on this track but I am aware of the sounds that leave my mouth and burst through the shield of my palm. I can catch the glares through the blurriness in my eyes, and the lights flicker to a dimness and the train shakes alive again. My tears glint against the floor as they pop and I hold my head in my hands, finding my breath again.
When I step off the train onto the platform two hours later, only two passerbyers step out alongside me, and no one else files into the train. Now leaving the station, I see the early morning dawn and no pale moon in the sky. Cold concrete nips the bottom of my feet. I walk aimlessly, passing by TVs in windows and shops and avoid the screens mentioning the city crumbling under a fire with an unknown cause. I try not to think about it. I keep on hoping I will see Sol around the next corner I take, hoping to take him into my arms and wish all of this away. The more I wander the later it gets, passing through the yellowing sky to blue washed through clouds. The further I stumble into the city the more stares I get and TVs I see. Reluctantly glancing at the screen I see the temple. Broken and white now chapped in grim, black ash. I decide to walk away. Some time later, I slump against a wall beneath a sign saying “Lu Cirkue cu Untrense” in grand, swirling letters. The doors are glass framed in gold, a black velvet curtain behind it. The sign claiming “Orjar” is unilluminated. Even though my feet burn from walking for hours on unkind concrete and the stone behind my head is a sad pillow, I drift into small breaths of sleep. The shrill sound of a bell rings me awake. When I look towards the door, it is open, with a cirkue performer in half of a white performance face and puckered red lips. Her blue lashes blink down at me.
“Would you like to come in, dear?”
I almost don’t say anything, shocked into confusion and still half asleep. She reaches her hand down to help me up before I say yes. When I step between the black curtains I see the space. There are velvet carpets in a deep shade of magenta in an expansive lobby, when I look to each side I see it wraps around the adjoining room. There are dark stained wooden walls edged in gold framing, archway openings appear through it every couple of meters. The performer with blue lashes leads me through the center arch, the room expanding upwards into a dome shape, decorated with more gold swirls against creme paint. Circular dining tables and plush looking chairs are throughout the floor leaving room for walkways wider than expected. A proscenium stage with a single microphone stand and velvet curtains is on the far side of the room, clearly one of the main attractions with so many light fixtures facing its direction. Pairs of platforms suspended from the ceiling hang far above my head, a swinging bar between each. As I walk I look further into the vast space above me, seeing hanging hoops and cubes and other shapes I can’t place, beautiful long fabric pieces flow in the air and I can’t figure out what they are used for. As I let my gaze pass lower, I see railings and more seats divided by walls. I begin to piece together where I am. I’ve heard of these “red shows” before. Where the performers are so frowned upon both because of their exclusivity in openness, and because those who are judgemental are always, as the name suggests, entranced. I look closer at the woman’s costume. There are pink ruffle sleeves extending from her black high-cut leotard, pairing white ruffles at its edges. I wonder how each of these colors turn red when the shows start, or if it is simply a hint at its nature.
She leads me through the tables to the side stage, opening a heavy, black door hidden by more curtains. I follow her down a curving hallway with doors on each side. She has a slow pace, which allows me to peak into some of the open doors. They are each different. Some are heavily decorated: with lights and fabrics of many colors and trinkets on overflowing desks, though there is no person to pair with the room. In another, more pink than red, a person stands on canes with their hands, slowly pushing their weight onto one hand and bending in ways I’d never thought possible. I never realized I stopped walking to watch until pink ruffles brushed my arm. The woman with blue lashes says to me, “Tana is quite a sight, aren’t they?”. When I look at her, she is smiling. I have not seen one of those for hours. It makes me smile too. I look back and the balancer, Tana, wears a grin and waves back, knees by their head and feet tucked to their chest.
“My room is this way if you’d like to rest there,” The pink ruffle lady suggests. “Yes please,” I responded in a more timid voice than expected. I follow her through the hallway once more, reaching a door which she opens that expands into a purple room with sage green and creme adornments all around. There is a plush bed not a foot above the floor, upheld by a wooden platform connected to chains on the ceiling. A hammock of the silk from earlier is suspended in a perfect sage green color in the middle of the room. I stand lingering near the doorway, hesitant to go any further. She is over by her bed, shuffling the pillows and blankets in a way that is adjacent to a nest. With her back turned to me she asks, “What’s your name, dear?”
“It’s E…” I trail off before I can finish my sentence. She turns around from her pillow-fluffing. “You can pick a new one,” she says, “mine is Ivo. I picked it too.”
“I don’t know,” is all I can say in response. “You don’t have to. Come, rest here.”
I sit on the edge of her bed, adjusting to its sway of the chains. “I’m getting back to the dressing room now. Please rest well for as long as you need. If you wake before the shows start I will be a little ways down the hall to your right. If anyone asks you any questions, just say you’re with Ivo, yes?”
“Thank you; truly, I cannot thank you enough,” I say, finally as loud as I need to. “You sleep well now,” she says as she turns to exit through the door. She passes me a smile as she closes the door and I place myself beneath the off-white bedding.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve fallen asleep. The room is dimmer, but there are no windows to indicate whether it is still bright or if it is now dark outside. I look towards the door, now seeing an illuminated sign above it, reading “En Aire”. I sit myself up, now aware of the bed’s swinging and lower my feet to the floor. I look to the left of my feet, seeing a stack of clothes with a note saying “For you, Dear” in swirling letters and a kiss mark the shape of Ivo’s lipstick. There is a rosy colored t-shirt, black shorts, and matching black socks. I can’t stop thinking about her generosity as I change out of my retired goddess wraps. I let my bottom arm hang down by my side beneath the shirt and the empty left sleeve flow. I quietly open Ivo’s door to exit, sticking my head in the gap and looking in both directions, hiding from something I can’t quite figure out. I follow her directions out of the door, even though there are shows happening. I go further down the curving hallway, my hand hovering over the wall. I hear music from behind me and some chatter and cutlery sounds and wonder where the kitchen must be.
I find the dressing room, no door to be found, instead replaced by beaded curtains in every color imaginable except for red. Out of sheer anxiety of parting the veil, I inspect it closer. Each bead is different, some are glass and have varying textures or paints. It is beautiful. Far too beautiful to be so passed by for a dressing room. There must be a metaphor somewhere in that. I finally duck my head between the strings with a clatter. Ivo is nowhere to be seen. Neither is anyone else. The floor is a nicer carpet and a variety of chairs, presumably for each different person, decorate the floor in front of the long, marble counter. The counter is hardly able to be seen, cluttered in show makeups and paints, blow dryers and curlers, abandoned costumes and decorated jewelries.
When I see myself in the mirror which is equally as long as the countertop, I notice how I look. Unsurprising for a mirror, but all I can see is how… recognizable I am. The Vessel of Elara. Lu Vesuel cu Elara. El Buque de Elara. Le Vaisseau d’Elara. The more I look the more I realize that it needs to be changed. I avert my gaze to the counter, which falls upon a razor. Clouded in too many thoughts to count, I bring the razor to my head and click it into movement. I let it glide across my head, locs falling over my shoulders and down to the floor. The buzzing is too loud in my ears to hear the beads falling together behind me. A figure stands behind me in the mirror, wearing an adorned waistcoat and so many ruffles can’t pinpoint where they start and end. His face is cleanly shaved besides the curly mustache, which is when I piece together that the razor I’m using must be his. As with everything else here, he says in Askandri, “Oh, hello! Where did you come from?”
“I’m here with Ivo,” I reply, oddly grateful for my hours of foreign language growing up.
“Oh, yes, Ivo! She pulls this stunt quite a lot.” He pauses before continuing, “Before I ask what you are doing with my razor, may I ask your name?”
I hesitate before I answer, “I’m not quite sure of it, right now.”
“I see, that happens quite often. What are you buzzing your head for?”
“Well,” I say as I swipe another row of locs off my head, “I… I needed a new start.”
“I hope your endeavor goes well, lost one,” I ignore the jab, though I’m not sure if that’s what it was intended to be. He walks to one of the glamored chairs, one with a high back and a seat low to the floor. It’s covered in stripes that are similar to the boning in his costume. I wonder what his role in the show is. I don’t bother to ask and look back to the mirror to get the remaining locs, ignoring the clattering of hair pins and hairspray as he puts a wig atop his head and pulls fishnet tights up to his thighs. I stare into the mirror now, heavy hands supporting me on the countertop. I feel the crushing weight of expectations lift as I abandon them. Standing here in this cirkue dressing room, unveiling myself of something I never was. When I look closer into the reflection, unblinking and frozen, I find it almost morbid, like I’m killing a part of myself I should have never clung onto. The man with the ruffles and mustache appears next to me and looks into my eyes as I look down to meet his. “I think your hair suits you,” he says with a smile, tucking a blonde strand of wig hair back into place. “Do you know your name yet?”
In the spur of the moment I replied,
“Scythe.”
He looked at me for a moment. “Scythe,” he repeated, “fitting choice.” Unsure of what he meant but still grateful, I opened my mouth to say a brief “Thank you,” but found he was already parting through the beaded curtain and headed back towards the stage. With a last glance in the mirror, I turned and gently broke through the beads.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Overwhelmed with curiosity after seeing a few of the performers' rooms, I wanted to see what more I could find. The curved hallway led on more to the right, breaking off into two ways further down. I cautiously walked down the hallway, picking the split to the left. Peering to my right as I walk, I see an open door. The smell of incense is light in the air, and the room is dim but illuminated by lamps and moonlight through an open window. I let myself peer deeper into the room. It was the same deep magenta and dark wood as the lobby. The bed in the far corner of the room seemed grander than the others, but I can only chalk it up to personal choice. It had four posts and sheer draped fabric creating a canopy that caught the light. Burning candles sat atop a long, wooden dresser along with a fancy gold framed mirror. Betraying my manners, I stepped into the room, guiding my eyes from the circular macrame carpet with worn fringe up to the foot of the bed, in which a woman sitting on a chest met my eyes. I suddenly realized my violations and turned to exit the room without a word, but not before seeing an amused grin sneak onto her face. With a short laugh she asked me, “Are you with Ivo?”
Stopped in the doorway and too embarrassed to say many words, I replied with a quick “Yes.”
“Come here,” she beckoned me towards her again. It was hard not to listen. I sat on the wooden chest at the foot of her bed beside her. She was a mature woman, one who clearly knew worth and carried herself accordingly. She had this wavy platinum hair, loosely but perfectly tied together with a few locs framing her face. Her eyes were nearly golden and she wore a costume similar to the others, less extravagant but I think she, herself made the costume whole. She’s the only person with a red costume. In fact, I think she’s the only red thing I’ve seen here. She didn’t say a word, neither did I; she just looked at me with an amused-but-pleased look on her face. When she finally spoke again, she spoke softly, unblinking, “You’re lost, aren’t you?” I stayed quiet. She looked over my arms, noticing a peeking hand under the hem of my shirt and a loose, empty sleeve.
“Can I touch you?” she’d asked. I just nodded. Her hand picked up the hem of my shirt, pulling it up to my ribs and exposing my arm, loosely hanging beneath the fabric. I started to feel bashful, trying to hide my face in my neck. I watched her hand reach up to my sleeve and set it over my shoulder. She bent over to see the long scar on my shoulder from its removal. I pulled down the sleeve. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. It felt like I was facing everything I did in that dressing room all over again. I felt like I needed to kill another part of myself but how do you kill something that’s been taken from you? She lightly placed her hand on my cheek, guiding me to look back into her eyes. I leaned into the touch out of some sort of instinct I didn’t know I had.
“I can help you.” I blinked. Music seemed to burst through the walls and loud applause jumbled over it. She looked away momentarily, but bringing her eyes back to mine saying, “It sounds like the show is over,” her hand fell from my cheek to my fingers. “There’s a performers afterparty if you’d like to join me.” I hummed in response. The hallway was soon filled with cheering, sweaty, performers full of ruffles and lace. The afterparty took place in what seemed to be a smaller rehearsal arena with a smaller stage that had splintering wood and skeletons of auditorium chairs previously removed. Many people swirled around me and I never realized how individualistic people could be in spaces that always seemed like they needed a lot of rules. Maybe that’s just what I’m used to. The woman in the red led me to the edge of the stage where we stood beside it, watching the others bring in tables and chairs and various alcoholic drinks. As I stood next to her I realized I have a knack for never asking anyone of their name.
“Excuse me,” I’d said to her, looking down now as I see over the heads of nearly everyone here.
“Oh, you speak? Nice surprise, what is it, dear?”
My face feeling a little hot, I responded, “What is your name?”
She seemed almost surprised, but replied anyway, “It’s Colette,” she looked around at everyone and with a shrug continued, “but no one calls me that.”
“What do they call you?”
“Director”
My eyes widened and I suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment. What do you mean I snooped in the room of the actual director of the entire circus? And she just didn’t give two shits, laughed, and then inspected me like I was some sort of specimen and was the second person to just know I was lost? Her body doubled over in laughter, she put a hand on my arm, “Oh, dear, please don’t worry about anything this evening, I promise I don’t bite.”
Performers clinked their glasses, threw jackets and blankets over their bare shoulders, some laughed loudly and others talked quietly. They all seemed to follow some rhythm to music I couldn’t hear, moving in such a way it still felt like a show. It all felt like choreography, the way some sat and swayed to another’s intentionally bad singing, the way glasses were passed from tray to hand and bubbles quickly sipped away. Others danced and dipped and some were alone with books in the last remaining chairs. They all felt like one. It was beautiful. And I realized it was all I ever wanted.
Colette’s voice interrupted my thoughts, “Let me see your arm again; take off your shirt.”
My face began to blush and I responded bashfully, “What! I’m not stripping in front of everyone…”
“What kind of production do you think we’re running here?” She replied with a laugh of sarcasm, laced with implications of answers to questions I still have. After a moment’s stutter, she pushed my sleeve over my shoulder, to which I rolled my eyes but didn’t refuse. As a performer with diamond patterning, huge sleeves, tight corset, and a patchy jacket was passing, Colette waved them over. “Come here deary, we have a question for you”
“We do?” I asked, facing her way.
“We do.”
“Yes ma’am?” the performer asked with a drunken leap in their voice. They held themselves with loose shoulders driving down and away from their face, dragging themselves over and perched their tall weight on one leg. Of which, was a completely articulated metal limb. It was beautiful. It had intricate engravings of swirling patterns and small flowers, which vaguely reminded me of Ivo’s handwriting. It was fragmented not only where it needed to move, but seemed to be cosmetically placed with plates that created non-existent lines and held a holographic sheen in the same way a lightcatcher would behave. They held a champagne glass between loose, slender fingers adorned with callouses. Their eyes were a captivating green, slightly covered by the curly brown hair that fell over their view, which shaded lovely tanned skin.
They looked at me quizzically, though non-threateningly through the lens of intoxicating bubbles, noticing how out of place I was. As I gave them a soft smile, Colette began, “Look at this, Vis,” and turned me to the side so the scar of my lost arm was visible to the performer. The room continued with the indifferent hearty clamor of a family, but my ears found ringing and cold eyes were suddenly glued to my body. Air was wrong in my chest, and I only regarded the conversation once more when Colette put her arm around my waist to turn me forward again. I still faced the other way as I felt the warmth leave my ears when the ringing alleviated. I came to realize I’d never been put on display in such a way. Sure, I was engraved in statues and in fragments of stained glass, but those are now broken and chapped in ash, and now I know no way of being an exhibit. I felt overly exposed and odd-fitting, even though now I’m in a place where being out of place is perfectly in balance with others alike.
I noticed a gap in the conversation I guessed I was meant to fill, but instead of words I just looked to Colette, my eyes resembling a small, sad creature who’s lost their home. She furrowed her brows and prompted another iteration of what I should have heard before, “Viscente, tell her how your leg got fixed”
With tired but enthusiastic eyes they nodded, “Well… There was this.. Girl named.. ahh what.. what is? Luv? Lara?”
“Lux”
“Lux! Ahh yes she… she built this whole thing..!” They raised their leg into the air, quickly losing balance and slamming it back down to the floor, spilling champagne onto the carpet. Colette just furrowed her brows in a more disappointed way. Vis regained their composure, starting again. It almost seemed like the near fall sobered them up quickly.
“I really hurt my leg when I was training one year… like really mangled the thing,” they looked to the replacement like it would suddenly become what they described. “It was truly beyond repair, and I really needed something so I could continue my work, I mean this is… this is my life, this is my family. Of course no one would bar me away, but I.. still wanted to be here… and.. and do things.”
Their head hung low at the words, and I could have swore I saw the glint of a falling tear. However, they perked up as they continued, “It may have been a little.. uh… shady I will admit, I’ve been perfectly fine ever since… she really gave me my life back..” they began to smile.
“How does it work?” I asked in wonder, it worked perfectly and so smoothly I could have guessed it was intricate props and body paint.
“Ah!” They turned around, lifting their hair up and pointing to a small horizontal scar on the back of their neck, “A chip placed where the brain… uh.. sends signals or something..” It seemed the alcohol was coming back. I gave them thanks anyway and Colette dismissed them with a wave of her hand, where they stumbled back a group to continue wherever they had left off. She looked up to me and asked, “Could that help you?”
Without any thought, I nodded yes.