The Pretty Poison

.PART 3 - Chapter 2

.PART 3 - Chapter 2

Our new cast member is positioned on the couch inside Westley’s trailer. Her pale face hides beneath dirt stains and strands of loose, red hair. Masque wipes the wisps away which reveal large scars imprinted on the length of her arm, snaking around her elbow and ending at the most vulnerable part of her wrist. I wet a wash cloth to wipe the grime from the road that presses into all the cuts on her grayish skin. Most of the bruises however look like they were created before the trailer crashed into her. Wherever she came from, she was not well looked after.

Her eyes flutter at the sound Masque’s guilt ridden voice and the rag cooling her skin. Over and over, she apologizes. Tears streak mascara and blacken her already dark features. I feel sorrow fill my own eyes, even if I had no part in the accident. Paulette rests her hand on Masque’s shoulder before leaving to check on the trailer and to talk to Mr. Huntsdale. She has a lot to discuss with him.

It was decided as soon as the woman ran onto the road that she would remain with our convoy. The choice wasn’t quite clear to me but Westley would not let anything go. He reasoned the general public would frown on us if we were to admit a woman dressed with wounds like these to the hospital. There were already rumors of abuse and violent behavior thanks to the numerous shows before us. Even with no animals in our caravan, our performances would surely end for good. I sigh frustratingly at the entire situation but when Paulette returns, she confirms the strange woman is staying. I bite my nails with unreasoned regret.

Westley paces the room, clearly deep in thought. Sweat tickles his brow and I know he’s not ready for another person on board. I rush to his side and gently place my hand on his moving waist, hoping to stop and calm him. He refuses my comforting but makes sure I am not let out of his sight. Knowing there will be no pleasing him in any way, I sit on the floor and play with the couch’s pillow, its loose threads twirling between my nervous fingers. Our contortionist leaves, saying we have five minutes before we need to start moving again. The door slams behind her as Paulette returns to drive the RV in front of us.

“Ma’am,” Masque asks, gently tapping the bruised face. It takes a couple tries but the woman starts to stir as Masque lifts her legs onto her lap as she sits by her feet. “Are you alright ma’am?”

She mumbles beneath the red stains on her already ginger hair. I couldn’t imagine being her, running onto the road in frightened escape only to be caught by the next horror. She tenderly reaches her hand to her face and moves the wisps from her open eyes. I see her hazel orbs search faintly at their surroundings.

“She’s accepted,” Masque breathes out. Her sigh sounds as if she was holding her breath since we first pulled over. Her hands squeeze over her dark-skinned freckles in relief. I don’t have time to wonder at what she means for the stranger takes my attention.

“Where am I?” The woman’s voice seems foreign, as if English was not her first language. She pulls herself up feebly to take in the scene of the three in front of her. I can tell she is still not all awake, but she is up. Her eyes connect with mine and linger before slipping to stare at the ground. An involuntary move of Westley’s hand carefully stroking her cheek sends my thoughts into a fluster. I keep those feelings to myself as Masque perks up with her state of consciousness.

“The Huntsdale Circus,” Westley says, bowing in what others would consider a charming manner. I on the other hand find it to be incredibly humiliating. He flirts blatantly with this woman —who, yes might be more his age— in front of me, his love of three years. My head bows at his nonexistent loyalty and my eyes stare wide to keep from overflowing. “Welcome to our humble troupe, Miss…?”

“I—” The woman pauses. Behind her eyes, there’s a true confusion trying to find what remains of her past. She looks to the floor and her hair covers her face again. My emotions dance between sympathy and anger but my heart is too hurt by Westley to care for her troubles. “I, I um…”