The Pretty Poison

PART 18 - Chapter 11

PART 18 – Chapter 11

I wipe the damp hair from my face. My eyes still sting from hours of shedding tears and my face feels like it’s burning. But in everything, I whisper to myself that it was only a nightmare. Just a stupid, worthless dream.

I hold myself pathetically as I did in the dream. My muscles shiver at my icy touch but it feels right. I need this chill. I rub my arms to calm myself when I feel the warmth I’m trying to find. But this warmth is wrong. It’s wet. I look around my elbow and see red stains smeared over my skin.

My arm is bleeding profusely where the shards of nightmare glass stabbed me. My hands wipe at my yoga pants but the red never stops. My hands are bleeding as well. I search frantically for any explanation and sigh when I see the broken picture frame lying on the bed next to me. I must have rolled over in my sleep and cut myself. Right?

I get up and walk to Westley’s sink. I’m looking at the slices and I see the blood and bits of glass. I feel nothing. I watch as red mixes with clear water and circles down the drain but I feel no sting, no burn. Shouldn’t I feel the pain of the cut?

I dry my arm with a paper towel and hold it there. I don’t want to think more of it my mind doesn’t let it go. Just a dream, right? But where on the frame would it cut? It’s broken but not sticking out. But Rachael isn’t real and neither is Lucy. It’s just everything that’s happened today. Then who calls out to Rachael? Drop it!

I’m arguing with myself. Great.

I know this isn’t happening. This isn’t… it can’t be. Ghosts or demons or whatever the hell they are, they’re not real. They’re figments of one’s imagination caused by fear and other bullshit.

But in the back of my brain there’s an inkling of thought that tells me this is really happening. The splinter girl wants me. But for what I don’t know.

My hands reach for my head. No matter how much I try and breathe, there is no saving my calm. In times like these I run to Masque. She’d know what to do. She’d tell me it will be alright and that she’ll always be there for me. Always.

My breath races and I make my way to the corner to sit out what I now know to be a panic attack. I grab for the tissues as I fight back my overflowing eyes, cowering from the pathetic existence of my life.

Westley hasn’t come back to his trailer yet. It’s verging on 2 o’clock and this is usually the time where I know him to be hiding in here, planning new routines or thinking up new props and equipment. I should have been done with our practice and relaxing in my trailer. Really I should have eaten too but all seems lost in the day. I feel the numbness again.

It’s not like I always feel this way. I was happy in life, save the few brushes with Westley’s bad side. I performed, I laughed, I loved. Everything went perfectly and life couldn’t have been more normal.

I sit forward with the realization of it all. It’s so stupid and simple and staring me right in the face. When did this all start? When did Westley start losing interest and Masque become distant? When did the first bit of my life start crumbling down?

It all began with Lightning Feather.

The performance tent flap is pulled back and I enter, ducking under the striped fabric. I’m not the only one who thought to work off pain. Grunts of effort are just beyond the curtains in the Rings and the soft movement of rope sways to and fro. I place my LED poi on the prop table and cross the waiting area. A peak through shows none other than Rick swinging way above the ground.