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I understand now why The Collector acquired them, why they’re so attractive. It isn’t just their looks, it’s their ability to lift your soul, to make your skin cover in goosebumps, to take you to another place with their voice, their talent. The way they sing, it isn’t just about a series of sounds that’s pleasant to the ear.
Six and Seven make youcravepleasure. They make you want the darkness. Revel in it.
After the first verse, a spotlight appears before me. This is my cue to begin. This is my time.
With one final shuddering breath, I grasp the scissors tightly in my hands then step into the spotlight and dance.
I let go.
My body becomes a vessel for the lyrics and the music. I’ve practised this dance over and over again these past few days, but those practised steps become perfect now as I move across the stage, the length of string pulled taught from above.
I’ve become their puppet.
Ignoring the dull ache from the blisters on my feet and refusing to acknowledge the sharp pain as my stitches pull free once again, I dance with every fibre of my being, fully aware that this could well be the last time.
It’s not safe here. I’m not safe here.
But like the song suggests, I dance in the face of danger. I dance as though I’m already dead. As though I’m a ghost. There's freedom in that. A lightness. A purity.
The skin on my back tingles. It’s a portent, an omen, warning me that I’m close to the truth.
But it doesn’t deter me. It gives me the strength to really let go, to free myself from the chains these men have inflicted on my soul. If death is close, then I shall live in this moment.
It won’t stop me from running. I’m not scared to flee.
But I will give them something to remember me by.
I will dance as though death is merely a gateway to somewhere better, somewhere far away from here, where I’m free in all the ways that count. Free to dance, free to love the people I want to love, free to live, free to be who I am, scars and all.
So that’s what I do.
Lifting onto my pointes, I dance like I’ve never danced before. Teasing the floor with my silk pointes, I open my arms wide, twisting and turning, then unravelling the ropes that hold my arms aloft. My hair flows out behind me, around me as I move. My dress is a ripple of material that does nothing to hide my flaws, but highlights them.
The audience takes a collective breath as I lose myself to the incredible music. I pitch low, dragging my fingers over the dusty floorboards, then lift up high, leaping into the air in an entrechat, my feet crossing several times before landing in the fifth position. Kicking out, I spin in a pirouette, moving across the stage with a deftness, a lightness that I haven’t felt, well…ever.
It’s a contradiction in itself because surrounding me are people with darkness in their hearts. It sits heavily around us, like an eclipse that devours the sunlight,anylight.
It’s oppressive, frightening. It’s the heavy beat of danger just waiting to pounce.
There are three men in this room who’ve claimed me. Who wish me harm. Fate has given me over to them, and in a small way so have I. I’ve given up pieces of myself in order to save my life, my sanity whilst imprisoned here.
I’ve felt empathy for them. Hated them. Lusted after them.
I’ve been twisted up, abused, used, tortured.
I’ve been beaten and I’ve fought back.
But the one thing I will not do is love them.
As the music comes to an end, and the last notes spill from Six and Seven’s lips, all I’m left with is the final instrumental verse. Right now, I’m supposed to dance my way over to One. Instead, I walk en-pointe to the centre of the stage, lift my hands to my mask, and remove it, revealing my face. Dropping the mask to the floor, I take the scissors and snip the string, releasing me.
It’s my final fuck you to The Masks.
They want to keep me hidden. They want to claim me as theirs. They want to keep me as their toy, theirpuppet.
Screw that. Only I have the power to give myself up to them and I won’t. Not ever.
The audience erupts, clapping and cheering as I curtsey, dipping low.
