daya {avox/fin}

Would they call you lion tamer anymore?

A girl stands proud at the age of eight, feet planted firmly upon the stump of a tree as she addresses the crowd consisting of her father alone, arms outstretched as she attempts to resonate her voice to the listening tree line that lies far behind.

“Ladies and gentlemen; boys and girls, won’t you come and see the show of the century?” She cartwheels from the spot, landing squarely before training her gaze upon the tree branches far above, and she jumps—once, twice, three times—before her father recognizes the struggle and lifts her just to the lowest extension, waiting to let go until she’s dug nimble fingers into the rugged grooves. She struggles for a moment, eventually pulling herself to a standing position before crawling out to the far edge of the branch, shifting her weight back to her hands as she swings—once, twice, three times—before letting go, sailing towards the ground with arms extended.

She is falling, flying—one in the same.

She stands again, at the age of twelve, dark hair tumbling across her shoulders and down her back until it fades with the night sky that stands behind her. There’s a motley crew now, the misfits, the outcasts, the comeback kids with scars etched upon their skin in the form of names never asked for, and she happens to stand at the forefront, power caught in her throat as she speaks, and this time solidarity is replaced by the small crowd that gathers at their feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, gather round and maybe I’ll dare and tell you tale of boys and girls who played normal to no avail. Freaks and outcasts one and the same, and here, I’ll show you them all, name by name.”

They called her ringmaster and with it came a name which meant power all the same.

She conducted the world in a standard stance, pulling strings to manipulate the hearts, minds, and souls of the few that had come to lay their full trust in what expertise she so easily claimed. She spoke with confidence that they were all that was needed, that unity and jointed wealth was a card which they could all play. And with seats sold in back alleys they gathered in the clearing twice a month, yet she no longer stood upon a stump but rather paced among the small crowd, looking children in the eye as she spoke with the tone that if nothing else, could save the show. She spoke the same line, time after time, and with it came the soaring hearts of minds enthralled with the amazement of bodies not their own, watching children swing from branches and tumble across weed-ridden fields, bowing only after she’d step to the center of a platform carved simply from the repetition of their feet across the same paths, treading across the twisted truths they stomped under their heel.

She was seventeen, then, with eyes so bright, you’d swear the sun couldn’t share the same light.

But then again, following the day always comes the night.

She announced less then, let the actions spill their motives for themselves that evening, when morale was low and attendance was lower.

The motley crew had met, had sat cross-legged in the smallest of circles and discussed a plan of action for the night to follow. An acquaintance had resigned, had turned in her hand on the acquisition they were playing foul. The girl had been their fabled lion tamer, bringing along a stray dog she had only managed to teach to walk on its hind legs for a step or two.

A circus built on fantasies with hearts to match.

And so she stepped up, did what any sufficient leader would do, and took the dog by the collar and held out her hand. Dethroned from ring master she took up position over beasts and burdens, feeding scraps and spoils until ribs could only slightly be seen. She did not fear bite or scratch, though both came in time, and by the time she stepped to the platform for more than a moment or two her arms were crossed with the shallow scratches.

It was not known what claws would cut deeper.

This continued for a month or so, and the change of pace was almost welcome, and though bites deepened on the worst of days she was more than open to the ideals of falling into a position subordinated.

It seemed best for another reason too, for their dwindling crew was more than content to play the game as equals, running a show that seemed to be drawing the favor of a crowd uncontained, for word was spreading and numbers were rocketing, but with exposure comes risk, and on the last Tuesday night of her seventeenth year the smell was caught on the breeze, and their once back alley, shallow clearing circus had been set in the limelight of a very interested set of eyes.

They asked for a leader, and her name was spoken.

Her fingers grasped tightly to the collar of the brindle mutt by her side, the heavy steps advancing towards her causing the dog’s upper lip to curl back in a snarl. There was a pull and a tear, and the collar of rope snapped under her grip, and between the realizations of this there was a shot to break the air, and as the animal fell dead in front of her feet she lunged, fingers grazing the thin coat before closing around thin air, and the same hands that had pulled the trigger on a companion loved pinned her own trembling arms to the small of her back.

She did not speak when they asked for a name.

She did not speak when they asked her to put on a show.

Instead she only turned her eyes to the floor, listening as they went over charges of public disturbances and unlawful soliciting, account after account coming to be heard against the case of a leader turned lion tamer.

They tapped her ankles with the barrels of their guns, speaking in childish tones as they pushed her down the pristine hallway. Doors passed left and right, and as they paused outside the last on the latter the guard at her back leaned over her shoulder to speak softly in her ear, “Ladies and gentlemen; boys and girls, gather round, this show you’ll want to see.”

He bowed when her screams faded to the forgiveness of unconsciousness.

She stood tall now, at the age of nineteen, with hands tied in front and head bowed down. They called her name in a tone reminiscent of pride and terror mixed unevenly, and it matched the uneven steps she took down the dimly lit hall.

It was a game played before, and time after time they’d watch acquaintances fall and shatter like the bottles broken on nights where shows were few and far between, when the guards found entertainment at leaving shards to scatter the floors like landmines. This was not her first time to play lion tamer, after all.

They handed her a sword on the way out, sneered and wished her good luck as they ripped the chains from her wrists and shoved her forward.

She had often worked in the quiet of night, but the thundering of voices and flashes of intense light were storms unseen, and as she grasped the hilt firmly with the same fingers that had dug into the grooves of trees at the age of eight, she planted her feet firmly upon her place and stood tall, if only for a moment, and watched as faces blurred one into another above. Desires to fall somewhere between ringmaster and breaker of beasts were still festering in her soul after all, and the snarl of an animal at her front gives them nothing short of a golden opportunity to stand at the forefront of her mind.

She wields a weapon and draws forth her bravery, feeling the push of her ribs against the thin shield of armor at her midsection, and as her thin arms tremble and quake she strikes—once, twice, three times—until she feels the warmth of blood upon her hands. She lays her sword across its stomach, reaching to the back of her neck to remove the piece of rope that’s been used as nothing more than a restraint for the tangled strands of hair that would be best off cut, and she ties it tightly around the neck of the mutt, after which she rises to her feet, small frame stepping lightly until back at the gate where the guards stood.

Her back to the crowd she turns one final time, watching faces blur and thoughts jumble as she raises a bloodstained hand to shield her sunken eyes.

(“Ladies and gentlemen; boys and girls, gather round and won’t you tell, this is the story of the lion tamer and how she fell.”)

daya
nineteen
avox
odair