Maddi Douglas Written age 13 Bullseye As I was fixing the false moustache to his stubbornly bare lip, I smelt it again. That waft of perfume, now so familiar to me. No matter, everything would work out soon enough. Everything would be fine, if I could finally bring myself to do that which I had been planning for months, so many months. All these years of ridiculous costumes, of conjuring and magic, finally they would end. My tight shoes crushed my toes painfully, for the last time. The feathers in my hair would make me squirm in embarrassment only once more. And I would only have to suffer the sight of that awful, awful man, the bane of my existence, just for tonight. The usual dramatic music, the raucous applause from the crowd, and the curtain was jerked back. I gazed across the grimy theatre, where for so long my husband and I had performed cheap parlour tricks. Cheap tricks for cheap people. The seats were coated in years of dirt, but the people flocked. There was so little leg room, but everybody was cheerful. It was blatantly obvious what was behind this 'magic', yet everybody loved our act. I would never come to understand why our show was so popular, or why, despite our popularity, we barely had enough money to live on. Our act never got old, however many times these simple people saw it; they were always amazed how the rabbit was pulled from the hat, how I was sawn in half and put back together, how the chain could be linked then mysteriously separated again. It would all be over soon. The spectators gasped, they applauded, they cheered. Really, they were quite sweet. I smiled at them the whole time, waving occasionally. We performed all of the usual acts, and frankly, I was getting bored. 'How nice,' I mused to myself, 'it would be, just to be done, to sleep in my bed and rest.' After so many acts, the exhaustion was setting in, sleep was beckoning me, but if I could complete this last performance my life would change forever. Whether for better or worse, I had no idea, but any change would be welcome. The stagehand tied my husband to the board by his stringy wrists and ankles, while I sharpened the blades, my eyes unfocused as I concentrated on the next few moments. It was nearly time. An electric spark coursed through me, eliminating any sense of tiredness. All my planning, so much time, everything I had been working towards since I found the letter concealed in the dresser drawer, would be worth something. I snapped back to reality when the music started, creepy and haunting, and the board started to spin, like some grotesque carnival ride. The harsh stage lights danced on my husband's bald head, reflecting the emptiness that filled it. I splayed the daggers out casually in my hand, a move I'd practised countless times and which always had impressed the audience, who obediently gasped. The knives glinted gently with a welcoming light, begging to be thrown. I ran my finger thoughtfully over the blades and selected one, holding it tightly in my hand. Taking careful aim, I threw it, and it landed straight above his head. I took another shot, and another, and another, until the daggers were dotted around him in the same pattern we had practised so many times. It only took a moment to banish any last thoughts of what was about to happen. Anything I did was perfectly justified by those years of humiliation. I picked up the final blade, and turned to the audience, the practised smile drawing a gasp of anticipation from their gullible mass. I turned slowly back to the wheel, took a final deep breath, and watched the knife fly towards the spinning monster. I saw the sharp edge tear through his flesh as easily as he had torn through our marriage, and the crimson liquid that powered his worthless life spilled onto the floor. A disbelieving gasp, and then a scream from the audience reached my ears, muted, somehow, in the heat of the moment. Bullseye. |
