Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
I used to think someone among us must have some solid information about who I am and where I came from, but I gave it up long ago. The most I know, from something I overheard years ago, is that I was born in Roscommon County, which is where we are now.
Doesn’t much matter, it’s probably not the truth and even if it is, I don’t know my birth parents’ names or a birthdate, and how would I get to anyone or anyplace to find out more? I don’t drive, I’m watched all the time, and everyone is so afraid of the consequences of leaving, no one is willing to even talk about it.
I wiggle my toes in the dirt under my feet. My off-white skirt is permanently darkened around the hem from years of dancing around on the ground, the delicate floral embroidery just another of the skills I’ve been taught since I was young enough to understand the poke of a needle.
My mother’s voice cuts through the summer breeze as she comes out from her tent, her dark eyes already on us. She’s always been able to intimidate with few words or a hard back hand, but under the outer crust is a layer of loyalty and duty to her family that makes it hard to hate her.
Besides, the women in our group, older and younger alike, are not at the top of the food chain and they are as likely to take the brunt of a stick or a back hand as any of the children.
“Get her ready. We’re on in fifteen minutes,” she grumbles, eyeing me up and down. “I want her shirt off her shoulders. Tighten the corset and push her tits up.” She snaps her tongue over the front of her teeth, leaving it for a moment in the space where one of the incisors is missing before grunting and walking toward some of our other group members who are getting their musical instruments tuned and ready for the first performance of the day.
The layers of my skirts make my hips look full. One of my male father figures, the one who is nominally in charge of me and Genevieve, always said I’d make more money if my tits matched my hips, like it was some sort of fault of my genetics that made his life harder somehow.
Which is ironic, because one of the things he always says hypnotizes men, is my eyes, which are a genetic anomaly. Something called heterochromia or something like that. My right iris is nearly three-quarters this odd, reddish brown while the other small part is a shocking blue which matches the entirety of my left eye. People stare, point and it makes me feel like some sort of alien but for my so-called father, it’s been a boon.
His name is Thadius, but even when I was traded to this family when I thought I might be around twelve, I knew the rules. And from that first day, I referred to him as Papa, as I did the other elder men lest I take twelve lashes for disrespect.
All I’ve ever wanted to do is dance. Even in my most distant memories with my other ‘adoptive’ families, I was twirling and pointing my toes.
Little did I know that what felt joyful and natural to me, would be viewed simply as a skill used for filling the pockets of the group and nothing more.
Still, when I lie on my blankets covering the ground at night, my head on a rolled-up pile of clothes that second as my pillow, I dream of pointed ballet slippers and white tulle. I know I’m far too old to ever pursue the dream of being a real ballet dancer, but I would settle for simply allowing it to be something I do for my own pleasure instead of the pursuit of misdemeanor petty theft.
Or felony theft, depending on how much is in a wallet or the value of a watch.
Despite the hollow feeling that takes me over just before the performance begins, the day is a wonder. One of those days that’s hard to describe. The air is the perfect temperature to keep you warm while the breeze cools you at the same time.
The white fluff of the clouds drift around on a sky that seems an impossible blue, making you feel like maybe dreams really do come true.
Genevieve adjusts the string that tightens or loosens the neckline of my blouse, the trim the same color as the sky. She moves the fabric off my shoulders and tightens it into place.
“Being the pretty one is fun isn’t it?” she teases, both of us knowing in our life, whatever you have to offer will be exploited for the greater good.
“Every day is a Mardi Gras,” I answer as I inhale, pulling in my stomach as her fingers move down the lacing of my corset, driving the flesh of my bosom overflowing out of the now lower neckline of my gauzy top.