Page 6 of The Opening Act is Death (The Carnival of The Damned)
Eight
Visha — Rotting Roses and Bone Dust
They say The Carnival spares no one, not the guilty, the innocent, not even me. Yet, I am its blade; its judge, rhythm, the whispered breath before the scream. I do not sleep, I do not dream, I watch. This is the pact I made, the price I pay for building this cathedral of damnation.
I am an elegant executioner. I carve justice with a dancer’s grace, ending suffering with a sharpened heel and pointed toe. I do not falter. I do not feel.
Until him.
Corvan.
The Escapist.
He performs as if bleeding glitter into the air could save him, but I see the seams; the fractures beneath his illusions, the desperation painting targets across his skin.
I do not strike.
I watch.
Tonight, his sky bleeds too freely. The roses scream too soon.
The mirrors twist him into not a performer, but their prey.
Still, he bows. Still, he dares to hope.
Foolish. Beautiful. Dangerous. Each time he steps onto my stage, he confesses.
I follow him through halls unseen; past broken calliopes and prayer-torn posters, past the place where I first died.
He seeks answers about me, The Carnival, the tightening chains.
He reads the journal pages I left behind, wrapped in sin and poetry.
He thinks the words are for him. They aren’t though.
They’re reminders of the girl I buried beneath the velvet.
The Ringmaster stops me as I pass.
“He bleeds for you,” he says, amused.
“He bleeds for guilt.” I don’t slow, as I reply.
“Same thing.”
I turn, blades flashing at my ankles.
“You mistake curiosity for weakness.”
The Ringmaster smiles wide with knowing.
“No, darling. I mistake your curiosity for something more.”
Later that night, after the crowd has fled, I step onto the stage once more.
The boards remember my weight. The curtains shiver, knowing what comes next.
A man waits in shadow, his crimes small but cruel.
The Carnival gave him time and he wasted it.
I dance for him not with silk, but blades.
Each movement a sentence, each spin a strike.
He begs, yet I do not answer. My silence is sacred.
When I leave him in a circle of crimson and broken teeth, The Carnival sighs as if it’s hungry no more.
I wipe blood from my ankle blades and return to the mirrors. I see him again. Corvan .
Watching, just waiting. Not with fear though or judgment, but with… understanding. I realize that he is not trying to escape The Carnival; he is trying to survive me.
Before I slip back into the shadows, I decide to leave something in his tent.
A petal, still warm and slick with blood. One of the roses, from his shattered illusion. I want him to wonder how I got it, I want him to ask what it means. The Carnival sees everything, and so do I. I want him to tremble, hope and burn.