CHAPTER 22 #2
Not feeling up to my original routine, I change it up.
I give Alexi my new music and slip into a costume I’ve been saving for a special night.
It’s a black-and-white ensemble: black slacks, a sleek silk matching shirt, a white tie, and suspenders.
The outfit feels like armor—polished on the outside, but heavy with the weight of everything I’m about to shed.
I darken my makeup, each brushstroke feeling like another layer of control.
Large black smoky rings line my eyes, overly large lashes make them more prominent, and I add bright red lipstick to my overdrawn lips.
My hands tremble as I pin my hair into a tight bun.
I secure the top hat, letting the extended long brim cast shadows over my eyes, hiding the turmoil beneath.
Before stepping out, I grab two things—a sleek black cane with a silver handle and my split mask—half angelic, pure white and flawlessly beautiful on one side, ugly, ruined, dark, and demonic on the other.
There’s a jagged line separating the two sides, and the color is the exact shade of my heels and lipstick.
Grabbing one out of the vase of flowers I received from a client, I pin a white rose to my lapel, a symbol of purity and beauty.
Alex, our emcee, greets me before I take the stage. “Wow, okay. We’re doing this. Just like we practiced?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Benny said no problem on the lights, we’ve got you covered.”
“Thanks, Alex. You’re a gem.”
He rubs his hands together, and a wide smile spreads across his face. “I can’t wait to see this for real. Break a leg, yeah?”
“Will do. And crank it, will ya?”
He smirks. “Anything you want, babe. We got you.”
The club is pitch black a moment before the music starts. The neon has been turned off. The sea of patrons is nothing more than a murmur of voices filling the pitch black club. But the energy they exude is palpable, and their cheers when I’m announced are a bit overwhelming.
I zone them out and center myself.
The first note plays as a red spotlight flares above me, isolating me on the stage. I sit, back rigid, shoulders squared, in a black, high-back, antique chair.
My throne for the night.
I hold the cane between my knees, the silver-tipped end planted into the floor between my stilettos. My head bowed, so my face remains hidden.
My mashed-up version of “Policy of Truth” by Depeche Mode and “Angels” by Within Temptation begins with a haunting, hypnotic tone that echoes for ten counts. I use those ten counts to my advantage, swiveling my neck creepily, tilting my head up slightly so the crowd can see one side of the mask.
As I do this, the red spotlight spreads outward across the stage.
A low, lulling synth builds, creating an air of tension.
I wait until the eerie, melodic layer hits to swivel my neck and reveal the other side of the mask to the audience.
My shoulders begin to dip and rise in opposition to each other, a stilted and minute figure eight; the motion becomes slightly bigger each time.
Then comes a pulsing, electronic beat. It’s heady, a steady countdown. My frame rises from the chair, coming to life like a marionette doll. My heart pounds in time with the thumping beat as I begin to dance, my movements becoming increasingly dramatic.
As I circle the throne, I caress it, worshiping the hard surface of the antique wood. My past love’s throne. The pedestal I’ve put him on.
Leaving the throne, I start my floor routine and work my way down the stage.
My heels, the metal on the bottom, clack against the stage with each step I take. The bottom of the cane hitting the floor at the down beat does the same.
I spin and bend, and work my hips as I go, sweeping and spinning the cane and even catching it after giving it a small throw in the air while completing a split.
I move in powerful bursts, followed by slow sweeping arcs, my hands brushing against my suit as if I can feel the truth clawing beneath the fabric, needing to break free.
The beat hits hard, relentless, and I know it’s coming—the unraveling.
The spotlight begins to pulse on and off, making each pose I take under the lights look like a still-life.
Each one is deliberate, different, and synchronized with the beat.
The red light flickers in perfect time, and another blinks on to mimic it.
The placement of the second spotlight helps me cast long, distorted shadows on the black backdrop behind me.
When the chorus begins, I tug at the collar of my shirt, ripping it open and cutting away the pristine, polished facade.
The black fabric feels suffocating, each piece a reminder of the lies I’ve built to polish up the ugly truth.
The white lies and pretty excuses I’ve told myself to create the version of the story that was never real.
The black layers underneath represent the dark deeds I’ve talked myself into committing in the name of “saving myself.”
As I work the floor, I rip the layers away.
With a sharp tug, I loosen the white tie around my neck, slipping it free and letting it fall to the ground.
After plucking the fake white rose off my lapel, I twirl it between my fingers for a moment before dropping it. I crush it beneath my heel with relish.
For emphasis, I spear the end of the cane on the rose and send both across the stage.
Before taking hold of the pole, I yank the suspenders down and peel off my shirt, baring skin that glistens under the harsh spotlight. The satin black slacks follow, slipping down my hips and puddling at my feet, cast off on the stage like the false promises I once believed in.
My movements grow sharper, more violent. I twist and turn and pose. Each shred of fabric reflects another deception I’ve wrapped myself in to survive. What’s left is barely there strips of black fabric—one band across my chest, just wide enough to hide my nipples, and a slender thong.
The routine is not for the faint of heart.
It’s a dangerous one, with death-defying holds and risky positions with rapid releases and jarring catches.
The Iron X demands every ounce of my strength — I grip the pole with my hands, lock my core, and hold my body straight out sideways, hovering midair like a human cross defying gravity.
The Spatchcock tests my flexibility, splitting me open in an impossible arch, my hips screaming against the stretch.
Before I come back down to earth, I steady my breath and lock into an Extended Butterfly — arms reaching back, legs split wide, my body trembling as I hold the position and give the impression of a winged bird suspended in flight.
My last trick is a Phoenix: no hands, just momentum and muscle, until I let it all go and dismount.
Cool air hits my skin, but I don’t feel relief. Only anger. I’m raging at Finn, at myself, at everything I didn’t see and everything I built up in my head that has caused me pain and heartache for so long.
A battle I’ve waged inside my own mind for too many years, when the ugly truth was right there for me to discover. I hid from it, and wallowed in this misery, for what? To discover it was all a lie this whole time?
I pour everything inside me into the dance.
Near the end, I walk off the stage, through the customers, and to the bar.
The pulsing red light follows and spreads outward to envelope the crowd in stages, a victim count growing, a bleeding wound.
My body feels like lead, weighed down by what I’ve learned and what I suspect.
My thoughts are riotous and chaotic, as I pull myself on top of the bar.
For a few counts, I let the rhythm guide my movements as I stand and dance on top of it.
Then I drop to my knees and slowly rock as the song winds down.
I unpin the fedora and my bun. I toss the hat and let my long hair spill out around me. It’s a relief and freeing.
The audience is going nuts, but I barely hear them.
Finn calls my name. No, Goose, because I don’t know this man, and he definitely isn’t who I thought he was. I tell myself this is the very last time I’ll refer to him as the man I once thought I knew.
What a gullible fucking girl I was.
I wonder if that’s what he told his buddies when he told them about me. Or did he even care enough to mention me at all? Is that why no one ever got word to me about his condition? Had he even mentioned me to them, or was I just some sad girl he saved? A dirty secret he kept buried?
Makes sense since no one had known who the fuck I was when I went around asking about him. I remember how pathetic I felt. How pathetic I looked. They treated me like some poor little girl who just got played, and was too stupid to realize it.
The recruiter’s expression that day got burned into my memory, and still, when I think about it, it has my chest pinching with pain.
Without hesitation, I tear the mask from my face and drop it at his feet. It’s always been hard to see clearly through the masks, through the lies, but here’s his chance.
Then I reach behind the bar and snatch a three-quarters full bottle of whiskey. Bending backwards, I recline my body on the bar and tilt my head back, enough to meet his enraged stare. The chorus hits one last time, and each ending word feels profound.
Y ou lying fucking bastard and your policy of truth.
Goose’s dark eyes are nearly black. He growls and motions for me to “Get off the goddamn bar” and come to him. His hand is up, reaching for me. I wiggle the bottle as I raise it above me.
I feel broken, vulnerable, but at least it’s real. I’m not hiding anymore. My true self has come out to play and show him who he’s dealing with.
As I begin tipping the liquor bottle, he shouts my name.
But I pay it no mind as I upend the bottle and bathe in liquid as it spills down my frame.
The music comes to an abrupt end. For a long moment, I stay there, head tilted toward the ceiling, sucking in oxygen, filling my lungs. They expand and constrict, and it feels like for the first fucking time in my life, I can truly breathe without a weight hindering me.
When I eventually sit up, I spin and extend the bottle to Goose. Before his hand can close around it, I drop it. He doesn’t catch it in time, and it shatters at his feet.
While he gapes at the mess, I take a client’s offered hand and dismount gracefully from the bar.
I completely ignore the man shouting after me as I walk the fuck away, and I make a point to smear my eyeliner and lipstick down my face as I stride back toward the stage. Because I don’t fucking care anymore. And I don’t need to hide my truths from myself anymore.
I grab my cane on my way back, and in one final gesture, I collapse into the throne with legs crossed. The crowd is going insane, so I place my hand over my lips in a shushing gesture.
When they grant me the silence this moment deserves, I drop the cane on the floor and let it clatter with finality. And I swear to God, you can hear it echoing off the walls until the audience erupts.
For a long moment, I just breathe, in for three, hold for three, out for three.
In. Hold. Out. And I let it all go. Let go of him and this idea of him that I planted in my head and have held on to.
I let go of the childhood fantasy story I had of us that I’ve been subconsciously clinging to for way too long, and tell myself that version of us never truly existed.
From here forward, I’ll view Goose with open eyes and from every angle before letting him ever take another small piece of my heart. He’s a flawed man who’s not my savior, and never was.
I walk off the stage, my back straight, head held high, my heart pounding, but finally free.