They don’t.
Additional frustration spikes in my face, locking a target on my tent just a few feet ahead, willing it to travel to me so that I don’t feel like a sheep around wolves.
I don’t love that comparison now that I’m saying it. Wolves do what it takes to survive. Men just do what they want.
Becoming more uncomfortable with their loud laughs and cocky skips, my blood drains cold and the soles of my sneakers scuff to a stop on the pavement, watching the tallest in the middle point to my tent.
“Yo, isn’t that the acrobat with the mask?” he asks, his voice haughty and thick.
Acrobat with the…
That’s all I am. That’s all I’ll ever be to this place. Some piece of meat strung up for entertainment.
The laughs he gets in return churn my stomach, standing in the middle of the sea that seems to never stop moving.
“Think she does kinky shit in there?” the farthest on the left asks, directing his thumb tomysense of safety.
“She’s definitely a fucking whore. Come on, the bunny mask? She’s probably pullin’ dudes to the back every night.”
“Nah, I think she’s a prude,” the one on the right rubs his chin, pretending to have a functioning thought process.
“Let’s go ask.” The asshole in the middle smiles, slapping his palms to the other guys’ backs and shoving them toward my curtains. “Ohh, whatever your name isss,” he sings, cutting me deeper with a sick laugh.
My breaths slow, moving toward them pushing my A-Frame out of the way and sneaking inside. It’s stupid. I know. I cannot explain the compulsion draining me of angst. It’s leaving me calculated but withdrawn, like the rage burying itself deep in my chest is derived from a primal second nature.
I think I’m hunting them. And I can’t stop.
Watching them disappear into my tent, their taunting laughs and hums to“get me to come out”push my feet around to the side. The urgency knotting my bones squats me down in the grass, lifting a stake from the dry soil, not willing to break the tunnel I’m seeing through to scan my surroundings.
I hold on to the hot metal, lifting the loose canvas and lunging from a crouch into my dressing room, silently letting the piece of my tent fall back into place.
Their obnoxious laughs are louder. Closer. Just right on the other side of the red velvet curtains separating us.
Are they… Are they touching my silks?
My hand tightens on the stake, and I kick my shoes off, fading into a high-pitched drill resounding in my head. I should be livid. I’m sure I am. I just don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything besides what’s pumping my limbs with extra blood flow.
Adrenaline.
Instead of it giving me the boost to run, it’s encouraging methodical steps, pumping harder and faster the longer it takes me to stalk up on the curtains.
Brushing the velvet with my knuckle, my stomach dips. It’s a replica of the shuddering excitement Razor instills. And the more I tease the pleated fabric out of my way, the harder it blooms into a mind-numbing thrum.
This is wrong.
But it feels really good.
Submitting to the rush, I nimbly slip through the curtains, setting three targets on the heads basking in the light on my stage. They’re ruthlessly pulling on my silks and taking turns swinging. And that’s when I feel it.
How pissed I am.
Heat climbs my neck, using the socks on my feet to silence my deliberate steps up the stairs. My heart ticks faster. And faster. And faster. Sneaking up behind the chauvinist that didn’t want to credit me for my work. Instead, he wanted to turn my pained passion into something he fetishized for the sake of making his friends laugh.
He’s still staggering back from his turn abusing my silks. But it works for me. I’m able to use his bulky body to hide myself from the other eyes.
Stopping right behind him, close enough for my breath to skim his shirt, I don’t fight the impulse. I couldn’t if I tried. My right arm is swinging into a hook, spearing the sharp edge of the stake into the side of his neck.
The squelch and pressure areinvigorating.
