The Butcher and The Lamb

Prologue: To Be Sold

New York City, NY: September of 1952

Her body folds, bends, and twists ever so gracefully to the classical tunes played loudly by the small instrumental quartet.

Her only concern while in the spotlight is remaining there- captivating the eyes and minds of the audience as she has done so many nights before.

At only the tender age of eighteen, Contortia has grabbed the attention of thousands from around the world. Admirers flock from far and wide to watch her contort herself in ways no one ever thought possible.

She was able to seize the hearts of almost everyone she came into contact with.

All but one.

Her ringmaster, Ali, hated her.

He hated her with a passion. A passion none of the other performers knew he was capable of possessing.

After a particularly impressive performance, she was immediately apprehended backstage by Ali.

He angrily spat hateful words into her face as she stood there and took it, defenseless, like a newborn lamb.

As she reached her delicate hand to her face to wipe away a stray tear and spittle from Ali, he roughly grabbed her wrist, and squeezed tightly. She whimpered out of fear and discomfort.

"I don't believe she enjoys that, monsieur." A voice spoke from behind Ali.

Without releasing her wrist, he whipped his head around almost a full one hundred and eighty degrees, like an owl, and viciously stared at the body possessing the rogue voice.

"Excuse me?" He pressed, clearly mad at the interruption.

The woman who spoke smiled carelessly and walked toward the pair. Her kitten heels clicked with every slow stride, only further irritating Ali.

"I don't believe that is how you handle young girls, that is all." The woman states. She reaches a hand into her purse to pull out a skinny cigarette and a box of matches. She effortlessly lights it, and takes a drag, blowing out an elongated puff of smoke into Ali's face.

"How did you even get back here anyway? Who let you in?" He questioned.

The woman shook her head, "that is no matter. But I came to inquire about buying one of your. . . Performers." She spoke, choosing her words carefully.

Ali slightly relaxed his grip on the girl and turned more to face the unnamed woman.

"Who we talking?" He asks, with an eyebrow raised.

"I wanted your three-legged fellow, but--"

"Not happening. He's a headliner. Talent like that can't simply be bought." Ali interjected.

The woman smiled, "that is what I figured you'd say. My second offer was to take that girl of yours off you hands for you. She seems to cause you trouble, with you grabbing her like that." The woman states, pointing at the young girl.

Up until this moment, she had been silently watching the conversation unveil between the two. Now that the woman brought her into this, her eyes became wider.

Ali glances maliciously from the girl to the woman, ". . . how much are we looking at?" He demands. Finances are clearly his only concern.

"Fifty dollars and not a penny more." The woman speaks strongly.

Ali takes another hard look at the girl, still in the shackles of his large, grubby fingers.

He shoves the girl towards the woman roughly, almost causing her to fall.

Without a word, the woman pulled out a crisp fifty dollar bill from her purse and hands it to Ali.

"Have fun with the blue-hair, princess." Ali says to the girl with a wink. He laughs evilly and turns to walk in the opposite direction.

The girl stares up at the woman, taking in every detail of her. In a way, this is her savior. While she was thankful, she was also too afraid to speak first. Remaining quiet was something she trained herself to do with Ali. Old habits can't be broken that quickly.

"Don't you believe a thank you is in order?" The woman says humorously.

"T-Thank you,"  the girl quickly started out, ". . . who are you, madame?" She inquires.

The woman smiles and her eyes crinkle. Then suddenly she begins to laugh softly.

"Oh, my dear. I'm your new mother. I'm Elsa Mars."