Page 14 of The Opening Act is Death
She stiffens, then something inside her shatters.
Her lips crash into mine, not soft, not gentle, but desperate. A punishment, a silent plea. A kiss that tastes like blood and defiance. She pulls me into her, one hand gripping the collar of my coat like she’s trying to tear me open. I respond before I can think, kissing her back like she’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning for years.
We don’t undress. We unravel.
The kiss ends just as suddenly, breathless and bruised. She pulls back, eyes wide, furious with herself. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like she’s trying to erase the moment.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she lies.
“Then why are you still holding on?”
Her hand is still gripping my shirt. She lets go like it burns her.
“I should kill you,” she whispers. “Right here. Right now.”
I lean in, nose brushing hers.
“Then do it.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she turns, disappearing into the dark, her skirts whispering like ghosts behind her. And I stand there alone, lips tingling, heart thundering, the scent of roses and rust still clinging to my skin.
She didn’t kill me.
She kissed me.
And that’s far more dangerous.
Nineteen
Carnival Interlude I — The God That Demands Applause
Blood isn’t the price. It’s the promise.
They think The Carnival is just cursed silk and broken bones. They forget it has a mouth, and it is starving. We have them perform. We make them scream. We stitched roses into their ribs and laced knives into their slippers. We wrapped their guilt in velvet and whispered forgiveness in the shadows but they mistake our mercy for silence.
No more.
She was supposed to feel nothing.
He was supposed to disappear.
And yet they keep bleeding meaning into each other.
We warned them: Love is a disruption. Lust is a sacrifice. And devotion without obedience? That is rebellion.
If they want to rule this stage, they must earn it, with more than performance.
With more than pain, they must rip themselves open and beg to be devoured. We are not a haunted house, we are a god built from broken spines and final bows. Let them tremble. Let them burn, but most of all, let them bleed.
The Carnival is watching.
And it is waiting.
Twenty
Visha - This Dance is a Confession
