Where Your Nightmares Lie

Chapter 7 | The Feathers

Holding my arms in a T-position, I suspiciously eye the box of multi-colored feathers doused in thick glitter. Sticking up in a wild flurry it appears like someone stuffed a rainbow-colored peacock into the box and brutally mutilated it to make it stay. The room is dimmed by the glow of lanterns shadowing the towering boxes of costumes and metal racks. The ground is littered with rogue feathers, glitter, and random shoes. A messy table sits in the corner of the tent holding a heavy sewing device and various spools of fabric. The air is heavy with the scent of warm glue and fresh steam.

A woman with harsh cheekbones and pursed lips stands before me with a skeptical look. A curled measuring tape hangs off her narrow-boned shoulder with a notepad in hand. Her eyes graze over my body with intense scrutiny. Her lips curl back into a crooked smile. "A fine body for a gentleman. A nice lean figure... such pretty hands. I've never seen such lovely hands on a man..." her deep voice laced with an unplaceable accent. The woman lets out a happy shriek, clasping her hands together with eagerness. "They are so dainty! Almost like a lady! How could you torture the world by not showing your beautiful hands!"

Involuntarily, my cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment and rising anger. "Ma'am," my voice slowly raises with a warning, "I can assure you, my hands are not ladylike."

The woman scoffs, completely unconvinced. "I've seen many bodies in my lifetime but I've never seen such beautiful hands."

Internally, I'm growling. Outwardly, I can only remain perfectly still and swallow my horrible shame.

My damned hands.

I've never liked them in the first place. They may be wonderful for stealing, however, I believe it is my one weakness. I've strived to become strong and rough. In order to survive, I've hardened my soul into rock to live another day. But my hands was the one thing which I could never change. They are softened and smaller than most. Weak. They are a constant reminder of the boy I used to be. Tormenting me day and night that I could never be truly strong.

My damned hands.

"Have I embarrassed you?" she taunts, pulling the measuring tape off her shoulder. She snaps it in the air before straightening it out like a whip. She smiles cruelly, "Never be ashamed of your body, Mr. Marchesi. For many of the performers here, their body are masks of the heart. It's their strongest armor. It bears the scars of their life, shows their weaknesses... but as the saying goes: your greatest weakness is your strength."

"I've heard it different, ma'am," I answer tightly, slowly lowering my arms. "Your greatest strength is your weakness, isn't it?"

The woman only scoffs with a secret smile. "Here, we take such sayings and twist them to our own will. The rules bend to us, young man. You best to remember that."

I begin to smile at her. "I will."

That's a statement I can agree with. I've always made the rules bend to me. I've used the rules to my will and twisted them as I pleased. It is the first rule as a conman. This only confirms the circus' spirit is much like my own.

"Now, hold your arms up again," she commands sternly, her smile fading and replaced with a dutiful expression.

I raise my arms again and allow her to come close. My gaze flicks to her own hands, swallowing hard as I banish my shame.

She pauses in front of me with another skeptical expression. "Your shirt... it is far too baggy. My measurements must be exact if I am going to make your clothes."

"I thought you were only making my costume?" I lower my arms again beginning to untie the string at my neck which keeps the shirt tight around my throat. Untucking it from my pants, I yank off the shirt before balling it in my hands. "Are you to make more outfits for me?"