Page 81 of Lost Lyrebird

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.

Mymashed-upversion 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.