I Eat Rainbows

My name is Avanya Ofiaragwalt.

It is my stage name, whatever. My act is very different from the normal ones Usmiecha sie Klaunow do, with very many reasons. For one, it is at night – late night. For two, it is not advertised, and only those who know and those who those who know have told ever come. For three, it is not a happy act.

No, not for me.

They tell me I am – a very good actor. They tell me this because they see my act, — they see my act, knowing what they will see — and they see what I do, and they think, “Oh, this woman, she must be acting, yes?” They cannot think of the idea that it is not an act. And I am not permitted to tell them. I am not permitted to tell anyone.

It is not an act. But it is – entertainment. If they thought it was real, they would still be entertained, those who come. Horrified, perhaps. Shocked. But not unentertained.

I am dragged out. Sometimes this is on a leash, sometimes just by my clothes. I scream, here. I scream and shout and dig my nails (my nails, which they always paint and manicure, every single time) into the ground. It looks like it is an act.

They – well, it’s not a they, yet. There is only one person at this point. It is different, each time — I do not know who it is, until they come to my room and drag me out. He leers at me, sometimes. He will do worse, later.

They all will. They – abuse me. Every time, I get many many bruises. My hair rips, and my makeup runs, and I am forced through indignities and humiliations. When the Vladca comes out, I have broken a bone, one or two times.

And always they will think it is an act. When they shout at me and laugh, it is an act. When I scream, it is an act. When I cry out, it is an act. When I bleed, it is an act. When I curse them and promise to kill them and swear at them and then collapse, it is an act.

When I flick out my small knife, and stab and kill the Vladca, they stop. They do not stop thinking it is an act, no. But they do realise they have never seen this before, or never heard of this being done.

When the others rise from their stupor, and start yelling, they do not know. They are confused. Still, they think it is an act.

When I run, run as fast as I can through the small flap I have cut away before, and they yelling gets louder, it looks like an act again. They think it is an act.

Then, when they hear the dogs, they clap. They clap loud enough for me to hear, though I am far and running. I think the others said it was still an act, and they believed them. It would not be hard to fool them.

I do not know if any of them ever wondered why the Midnight Special was never performed again.