Text copyright © Kaddy Dee™ 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. This story is published subject to the condition that it shall not be reproduced or retransmitted in whole or in part, in any manner, without the written consent of the copyright holder and any infringement of this is a violation of copyright law.
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"Break this promise, Romano, and I swear to Santa Claus I will break your fucking fingers."
Rani gulped. "All five?"
"No," I smiled, teeth sharp as piranhas. "All ten."
* * * * *
[THE CLICK CLACK OF APPROACHING HEELS. MICROPHONE FEEDBACK. STAGE LIGHTS BLIND THE AUDIENCE.]
Enter Holly Bishop, the Magician. Sly as a fox, she'll smile at you with blood-red lips (always triple glossed, of course). Skirt short, blouse pressed, school tie hanging like a noose, she'll burn through the audience like July and leave you parched like your uncle's ash tray. One volunteer is all she needs tonight. Your heart will crumble like a fragile scroll full of forgotten secrets when she stabs her finger at your front row seat. It's you she wants. One out of a crowd of thousand.
And so, you'll rise—every damned time—like a sleepwalker born again.
Look left before you agree to be part of this disappearing act or Miss Bishop may assume that you're simply that: one of the crowd. She's a trickster, you see. Not a detective, not a mind reader. She doesn't know who you are yet so make sure you look closely. No, not that way. The other way. And when you look left, look again.
[CUE THE SMOKE MACHINE.]
In comes a feverish tornado that rattles like Givenchy stilettos. Rani Romano—the country's youngest supermodel—has entered the stage clad in a dashing bow-tie. You'll forget Miss Bishop's doe-eyes for a sunset gold. Yesterday Miss Romano played the pauper; tonight she'll play the Magician's Assistant. When she struts past you with legs longer than Dubai's skyscrapers you'll look away from the elongated mirror that they've walled around the stage, but they don't know who you are yet. Wait for it . . . Wait for it.
Now!
[CROWD GASPS.]
Miss Romano won't look left when she takes your chin. Her lips are forever poised, a bullet shaped like a pout. She'll purr the magic word. You'll nod even before she asks for another. She doesn't need to say please when you've already said thank you. Her manicure can cut glass, but you won't see the papercuts because you're not looking left anymore. Her gaze is dead centred on your doomed soul.
[CURTAINS DROP IN A WATERFALL OF VELVET RED.]
A round of applause shakes the ground in a thunder of hooves. Miss Bishop and Miss Romano join hands, tip their hats and bow deeply. You take centre stage and clap wilder than a wide-eyed child, pretending to be a part of the audience when you, too, were once the Magician's Assistant. You've seen this trick before.
"Bravo," the audience roar. "Bravo!"
You look left. Ha! I told you to look closely, didn't I? It's too late now. You're a paper shredded heart made from old pinky promises. The show is over, Jack, and you were the main attraction of the night. You were always meant to be the main attraction. Volunteers at magic shows are never picked at random. Remember that the next time you visit The Riviera Circus.
Remember to look left. Remember to look again.
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A/N: Welcome to my lair, bitches. *slow smile*
And before you get any ideas: there will be no god-awful Wattpad bad boys, no cliches, no werewolves, bats or sparkly vampires. No skin-changing demons, or religious cults. Oh, oh, oh *chuckles like a Santa* there is only you and me in the fight club for this story. Pow! *upper-cut* Slam! *ducks*
OK. . . So there won't be bad boys, but! There'll definitely bad girls. Betchya weren't expecting that, eh? Except that the bad girl, here, is you. And I'm just the psychiatrist trying to over-analyse why the hell teenage girls have minds far more destructive than nuclear bombs. . . So buckle up, sis! We're going on a thrill ride of classic horror, dark humour and (of course!) brilliant teenage drama. (and life. i always deal with life in my stories *party balloon sags and blows out a pathetic fart*... sorry, guys.)
But enjoy losing your shit over a cast of characters who will never agree to act out two psychotic teenage girls who are more catty than Rihanna's fabulous claws.
And the next time you pass a mirror I think that you should look around first. Then look left, and look back again.
[I'm so hilarious sometimes. And narcissistic all the other times. No, wait! I'm joking. For real, though. Do enjoy this story and have a drink on me. (WATER FOR EVERYBODY UNDER *cough* EIGHTEEN.]
Once again: bottoms up, girls and boys and everybody in between. This is going to be one hell of an emotional ride.
- Kaddy, the biggest Taylor Swift/Twix enthusiast in the world.
