Split

Chapter 1 - Until the Fireworks

Now take the same night air from the last picture and dim it a bit. You can smell the popcorn and hear an elephant among the mobs of chattering people. Welcome to the Cirque de Amateurs.

"You know, Jason," says Will, "You could at least be ready for when you're supposed to go on"

William Clark is 23 and has an uncharacteristic name. William Clark also has an uncharacteristic look. He's 6'2" and broad-shouldered, and he's more muscle than the Hulk. An exaggeration, but not much of one at that. In reality, Will wears glasses, but since it doesn't go well with his whole hunk image, he wears contacts. And his eyes aren't naturally green. They're brown.

"I'm aware of the fact, yes Clark," I say.

"Then?" he asks.

"You know, Will, you are remarkably dim-witted for someone your age, I do not wish to affect my intelligence by listening to your nonsensical bullshit, though I'm sure my brother would love to hear them. Perhaps you can whisper all your idiocies in his ear when you sleep with him tonight, hm? Do me a favor and save all this for him. He's not ready for his part either you know." I reply cooly, pulling down on the cable and winding it around my waist.

He sighs. "What do you have against me dating Ashton anyhow?"

I avoid his gaze. "You're older."

"Only by 2 years."

"2 and a half." I correct briskly, proceeding to wind the cable into a loop around my feet.

Will chuckles. "You really are some piece of work, aren't you?"

I give a noncommittal grunt.

"Fine, what do you think of--"

The opening music cuts him off, loud and dramatic and demanding, silencing the crowd the way it always does. 

"Shut up," I say to Will, focusing on my breath.

"I did," he says back.

"I said shut up I'm trying to breathe!" I wheeze.

He mutters something about how it obviously isn't working and ruffles my hair. "Good luck, kid. Remember to keep that cable wire wound around your feet, 16 is too young to die."

"Shut up!" I hiss

"I'll shut up when you shut up."

I whirl around and nearly lose my grip on the cable. "I'm the one performing, alright? Don't tell me what to do."

"You get like this before every one of your performances," he smirks.

"Only because you're always whispering little comments into my ear from behind!" I retaliate.

The magician, a 37-year-old man with a mustache loaded with enough mustache wax to slick back a heard of sheep, steps back from the little slit in the curtains and looks at us from over his shoulder. "Both of you be quiet!" he demands in his prominent Egyptian accent. "And you, boy," He meets my gaze, "Get ready, your on in a minute."

I nod and grab the beginning of the cable. Then, holding on as tight as I can, I take tiny steps to the edge of the backstage area and onto the stand that's held up by only a slim pole, hidden from view, on the side of the stage. There's an identical one on the other end. Slim, honey-haired Amber Louis stands upon it, shaking her hair out of her ponytail and winking at me teasingly. I roll my eyes. 

I nearly fall off the platform I stand on, which is approximately 50 feet above the ground, when a ring bursts into flame in the center of the stage. It's the astonishing Alexandre Bisset's famous entrance, seeming to conjure himself out of a firey circle and rise from the ashes with tendrils of smoke curling around the arms of his tasseled velvet suit. He does the same thing almost every single time, and yet it always startles me and never fails to impress the crowds.

I huff a sigh and reset my footing. Needless to say, Amber hasn't moved a muscle in any wrong direction and is smiling that satisfied little apprehensive smile of hers. The bitch is excited, of course, she's excited. We're all excited.

All of us-- except Robin Bond, the magician's 14-year-old daughter, who just started her career in making cards fly out of the audience members' asses (though she had been repeatedly told against it by Mr. Bisset)-- have spent nearly our entire lifetime performing. I'm even half convinced that Kimberly Rozalious, the lion tamer, was born at the circus. But I've never quite gotten the hang of it. Every single time I step off the platform and into the open air, I'm sure I'm going to swing off too far and knock myself out, or worse, fall. I shudder and shake off the morbid thoughts, riping my attention from the ground, so far down, and securing it on Mr. Bisset.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announces to the audience, "I am Alexandre Bisset,"

I wait.

Welcome to the Cirque de Amateurs.

I wait.

The Cirque de Amateurs. The Circus of Amateurs. Or so it started at one. Now it does shows all over North America, and the occasional performance in the UK. And then its name was known too well to be changed.

"And this," Alexandre continues, volume escalating, 

I breathe out.

"Is the CIRQUE DE AMATEURS!" 

A multitude of sickly feelings come crashing through my brain, all at once, and in a flash of them I've stepped off the platform and let myself kick off the pole that holds it up just as Amber does the same, and we cross over each other in unison. 

The wind whistles through my hair and I laugh at the sensation, my smile making everything feel wonderful like I could stay here, suspended in the air by just a rope of cable along with the training I'd received in the art of trapeze. Oh, and Amber. Amber's here alongside me too.

I forbid myself from thinking as I quickly release the cable from my hands and I grip it with my toes, flipping back and upside down. Amber takes one hand off her end of the cable and grasps mine, twirling around it in midair before coming to stand on the soles of my feet, without any supports. My legs shake, and I take a deep breath in. Don't think, I remind myself. Thoughts lead to doubt, and doubt leads to insecurity, and insecurity leads to death, and a long way down at that.

Amber's eyes lock on mine. She blinks once. I take a deep breath and blink back.

I grab the end of her abandoned cable and twist it around thrice in my hands so that it'll spring back. Then we both flip five times in a row, only I stop at 4 because I haven't got enough momentum in the beginning, but it looks deliberate enough so that when Amber touches base perfectly on my heels, bringing deafening cheers from the crowd. We each grasp the other's end of the cable, hang from it, and twirl in midair. 

I pull her over from under her arms and she pulls back under from my arm, taking hold of the cable and swinging over it. I keep my eyes on her hand as we both push back and launch off the ends of the cables, cathing the opposites at just the right moment and are brought back together, foreheads heald against one another's as our cables slowly wind around one another's, my hand around her waist. I hold my breath, clutching the cable so hard my hands hurt, but I don't let go. Not until I know I'm allowed to swing back to the platform and cut the entire act. Not until the fireworks. 

And so I wait, smiling at the audience's cheers and keeping my gaze off Alexandre like I've been instructed to onstage.

"I give you the very first barless trapeze act of the century!" Alexandre declares, gesturing to us and then up to the sky, where a whine sounds as a spark streaks through the sky and explodes with a loud boom. I watch the sparks fly as my cable is reeled back to the platform and I'm able to numbly step back onto the square of wood, not quite used to feeling something solid beneath my feet yet. 

I breathe in the crisp air and release it in a sigh, a part of my yearning to go back on stage, fearless and laughing with the fireworks, and yet another part of me just wants my bed. Another day, another night. Another round of fireworks.

The sky is alive with color.