THIRTY-SEVEN
Gigi
“The Circle is a cutthroat industry. We only allow the best candidates entry on the understanding that they abide by my most important rule … You think I’m willing to put our livelihood at risk by taking you at your word?”
“What’s your most important rule?”
“That my recruits understand this is a life worth dying for. It’s kill or be killed after all.”
Exhaling a deep yet short-winded breath, I reminisce the words and clutch onto them, digging my fingers in deep and refusing to let go of the sliver of hope. My lifeline.
If the Boss wasn’t trying to tell me something by reiterating the importance of “a life worth dying for”, right now would be a good time for the universe to tell me otherwise. Sure, this isn’t my most fleshed-out plan.
Best-case scenario: they let me in.
And the worst: I die.
The nighttime breeze cuts my cheeks, and my lower lip quivers as I look at the drop that’s no short of one hundred metres.
A life worth dying for , he’d said.
There’s only one place, one last chance, one final act – an impossible fight – that holds such significance that Richard will have no option other than to accept me into the Circle once I complete it.
“Jack put it there. He took one of the tiaras from Pixies and hung it on the rope, claimed he almost lost his life doing it. No one dares step up there to prove otherwise.”
Another guest of wind brings me back to the present. I stand on the very ledge that originally drew my attention that day, my toes curling around the end of the platform as I stare at the dainty tiara swinging in the breeze with abrupt clarity.
One. Last. Chance.
It’s only a matter of time before people catch onto what I’m doing. Whether the crowd will spur me on or shout for me to retreat, I can’t afford the distraction.
There’s no time to think about the likelihood of my survival.
I need to hurry.
A breath parts my lips, and I extend my arms slowly on either side of me.
I’m ready.
I take my first step onto the rope. Then my second. My toes bend around the woven threads, the soles of my feet moulding to it, and I flail my arms to catch my balance.
God, this so much harder than I thought.
Concentrate, Gigi.
Fucking concentrate.
It’s all about counterbalance and the perception of control. That’s it.
Slowly pulling myself back to level footing, my pulse staggers to miles above abnormal. I silently thank my mum for all the ballet lessons she forced me to attend when I was young. That much I’m grateful for.
Upon taking my next step I manifest seeing myself across the other side, and I manage to create a steady rhythm … until I hear a commotion behind me.
“Gigi!” someone shouts .
Fuck. I thought I’d have at least a few minutes.
Braving a look over my shoulder, I hold out my arms for balance as I watch Harry racing up the ladder, skipping the last step and swinging his body onto the roof as if climbing the steps alone didn’t petrify me. His face is red as he storms over to the ledge. In my peripheral I see other people racing up the ladder too, but they’re several steps below him.
We have less than a minute until they catch up.
“Get back inside right now!” he roars, pointing a finger at me.
“Leave me alone, Harry.” I whip my head back around, focusing on putting my next foot forwards. “I have to do this.”
“I’m not fucking around.” His voice is near hysterical as he shouts, “Now!”
I toss over my shoulder, “There’s no other way.”
He curses, and I can feel him pacing behind me. I imagine he’s running his hand through his hair, trying to conjure all the reasons to talk me off the ledge. Literally.
But no one is changing my mind. Not today.
“I’m not going to watch you die!”
“Then leave!”
The minute is upon us, and a small crowd has started to form on the platform, muttering a mixture of different reactions. I hear “Who’s that?”, “What’s she doing?”, and the odd “Badass!”
“Gigi!” Harry shouts, distracting me as I take another step.
For a brief moment I squeeze my eyes shut to focus – until I remember that’s an utterly stupid idea. I ping them back open again and shout, “You’re making this harder than it already is!”
I can hear his sigh, feel it in my bones, as it tries to pull me back and eradicate my decision, even over the whistling wind attacking my hair.
“Please.” His voice drops to a plea. “Don’t do this.”
It almost breaks me .
Almost does its job of dragging me backwards.
There’s not much worse of a feeling than knowing someone you care for is on the cusp of desperation. Pressing my lips tight together, I shake my head and take another step. My toes burn from how tightly they’re curled, and I breathe slowly as if it will help me to focus.
“I can’t watch this.”
A brief look over my shoulder shows Harry pushing his way through the crowd and trudging the other way. Another person who thinks I’m a failure. Just like my mother.
Voices escalate with speculation, a series of yells and whistles sounding out. I focus on my target, blocking out the shouting. All it takes is balance and focus.
“You can do this. You can do fucking this,” I whisper, spurring myself on.
Counteracting my balance with the wind, I resume my mission. One foot in front of the other. I focus on my target, which is significantly closer to me now.
The tiara is almost within arm’s reach.
You can do this.
Just a little bit further.
For a fleeting moment I genuinely believe it’s possible. And so does my audience, who erupt in cheers of anticipation.
Then the elation comes crashing down.
As my foot slips.
A gust of wind blows so hard against my back that it screws my whole balance. My arms flail as I try to pull myself back to the centre, but it’s too much, the breeze too strong. Before there’s even a second of hesitation, my knees crash against the rope.
With only a second to brace myself before my body starts free-falling, I reach up and clasp my hand around the rope. I cry out as it burns my palms, weathering the skin raw .
I grip on with everything I have left in me. With each strain of my body I feel my muscles tearing at my sides, and I mentally picture the stitches of my bullet wound ripping apart at the seams, everything slipping through my fingers.
A scream tears free from my throat as I reach for the rope with my other hand.
But then my hand starts to slip.
Am I dead …?
Life after death feels strangely … normal. Your past self feels like some strange mechanical dream as you reminisce every life decision under a microscope, considering what led you up to this point.
You think, Did I really do that?
But this isn’t a dream. This is real.
I survived crossing the platform.
My hands curl so tightly around the tiara that the plastic gems start to prick at my skin. The pain brings comfort to my body, bringing me back to the present – a harsh reminder I’m really alive.
I’m alive.
I crossed the platform. I did it. I fucking did it.
I’m. Alive.
I retrieved Jack’s tiara, and I wore it like a fucking crown.
I stand in front of the closed door of the Boss’s office, my hand reaching for the doorknob. Every moment has been leading up to this. This cheap little tiara carries the equivalent value of the most priceless gold.
Not giving myself another second to back out of my decision, I exhale a breath, straighten my spine, and tip my chin before throwing open the door and storming inside without so much as knocking to announce my presence.
The Boss sits in his chair at a wooden desk. Several men sit in plush armchairs across from him, engaged in a heated conversation, which gets broken as I waltz closer. Richard shoots to his feet immediately at the intrusion.
I take the crown from my head, slamming it down onto the desk before he can speak. It lands with a thud, and the impact makes the plastic shake beneath my fingertips.
“What are you—?” he starts. His grip tightens around the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white from the pressure. They loosen when he sees what lies underneath my hands. His expression turns candid, confused. “What … what is that?”
I lift my chin, trying desperately to hide my smug smile. “That’s my entrance. I’m in.”
Our eyes clash, and finally my lips break free, forming around my true expression.
“A life worth dying for.”
He says nothing.
Instead he carefully takes the plastic, touching it with the same caution he’d use on an ancient artefact as he turns it thrice in his hands. Utter shock spreads over his aging features.
Then he does something I don’t expect him to do …
He laughs.
He laughs in disbelief. He laughs until it turns into a cackle. He laughs until he’s clutching at his chest to stop himself.
Placing the plastic back down on the table, he keeps his head down, but I can sense his smile growing at the corners. With his head still tilted, he lifts his eyes, watching me through dark eyelashes. There’s a menacing undertone behind them, but the emotion is as clear as day. It’s just what I’ve been aching for this whole time.
Acceptance.
The Boss holds his hand out to me.
I extend my palm. The moment he takes my hand and shakes it in his tight grasp I feel a flood of relief filtering through my body.
“Welcome to the Circle, Miss Thomas. It’s a pleasure to have you.”
Finally.