A/N: Thank you to everyone who is giving this story a chance! This chapter is a direct continuation (timeline wise) of the first chapter. It gets a bit violent, so please read at your own discretion. As always, it makes my day to receive comments and thoughts, so if you're enjoying the ride, let me know!
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Openings in the Flesh
Christine found herself daydreaming during the entirety of Mr. Beauchamp's briefing. And though she would never admit it, she longed for a Ringmaster that would defend the defenseless, instead of exploiting them and allowing the behavior of drunken, egotistical tiger handlers.
She sighed as quietly as she could, her fingers pulling at a stray thread on the side of her leotard. Leon seemed to be in better spirits; he sat near the front of the tent, chain smoking and laughing at Mr. Beauchamp's attempts at making jokes, which always seemed to include demoralizing the gypsies or talking about the tigers as if they were expendable and replaceable.
She glared at the back of Leon's head, wishing she could finish the fight between them that had been interrupted. Would she have to hear about this later, from her mother? Or would it be another scolding that included the bite of a whip, along with the tittering of the crowd that watched, delighting in the fact that Christine was not allowed to speak or defend herself. Her fingers clawed at her shoulder, where the newest slash in her skin was healing. Mr. Beauchamp, whenever punishing her, only utilized the whip on areas that could be covered. And if he ever misfired and accidently nicked her arms or shoulders, she was instructed to cover the marks with a darkened mesh fabric.
Most of the time, her mother would sit with her late at night inside of their tent, rubbing aloe and frankincense onto the pink scars that lined her naked back. She sang under her breath as she worked, promising Christine that soon, Mr. Beauchamp might leave her alone, that he might abandon his self-righteousness and his bullwhip. But Christine knew the punishments would continue, regardless of what her mother said; and this was precisely why she spent most of her time dreaming of leaving the company, and journeying down south, where the legend of New York City circus's awaited her.
Christine felt a nudge against the side of her arm, and she looked down into the face of one of the gypsies daughters, little blue-eyed Willow. She usually followed Christine around the grounds whenever she could, trailing her like a shadow created by the evening sun.
"Christine! I wanna show you something," Willow whispered, smoothing her small hands over her dirtied and tattered dress. "It's important!"
Christine eyed Mr. Beauchamp from the crowd of performers and leaned over stealthily, ducking her head behind one of the gypsies that sat in front of her.
"Willow, I need to stay for the entire briefing," she responded gently, running a hand across Willow's long brown hair that was tied in a messy braid. "After the show, I'm yours, okay? Does that sound all right?"
"Christine!" Mr. Beauchamp announced loudly, and heads whirled around to glance back at Christine; her heart shrank inside of her chest as she realized the cost of speaking while the Ringmaster spoke. "Is there something you'd like to say? Something more important than my briefing?" His beady eyes glittered, and she knew he was imagining her getting whipped, again. Christine swallowed, pulling Willow behind her to hide her away – she refused to stand idle and allow his treatment to extend to any of the children. Hell, she would let him flog her to death if he only left them alone.
"No, Ringmaster, nothing," she answered quickly, clasping her hands together in front of her. "I'll take my punishment after the briefing."
His twisted lips formed into a smile, and he stepped forward earnestly, nodding his head while a few of the handlers laughed. "Oh yes, you will. And I will be reporting this to your mother, as well. Hopefully you'll learn something this time."
Dread now filled the entirety of her stomach. She felt the cold chill of a violent urge flow into her hands and through her bloodstream, and she closed her eyes, imagining him crumpled before her, begging for his life, apologizing for the mistreatment of the women and children who worked fervently for him…
She blinked, forcing herself to come back to the present moment. Why did her thoughts continue to boil over and become more violent with time? Was this even normal? She bit the inside of her cheek, shoving the thoughts away while deciding to bring the urges up to one of the gypsies, after the show. Was she becoming someone different, someone who couldn't control their own thoughts? Christine knew that as time went on, she was having more and more frequent urges to hurt the men around her. And this was why she would never trust a man, and why she didn't understand how gypsies would lay with them and perform sexual acts for the sake of lust and love. Men were dangerous, and she could never imagine herself trusting one after everything she'd been through.
Especially when she'd never even had a father.
When the briefing had finally concluded, performers began to filter out of Mr. Beauchamp's tent, but Christine stayed behind. She had pushed Willow into the crowd, making sure that Mr. Beauchamp had not seen her, otherwise he'd extend the punishment to a poor, small child. For some reason he seemed to derive pleasure from his "openings of the flesh", and as Christine stood defiantly in the empty tent, he sat in his straight-backed, dark colored chair, a misfit within the mirage of royalty that he was dying to create.
"State why you're here," he drawled, his pudgy fingers grasping a clear glass filled halfway with whiskey. Christine closed her eyes, not wanting the violent urge to harm him to take over her again.
"I spoke while you were speaking," she managed, forcing herself to avert her eyes to the ground. He often went easier on her if she didn't stare him in his eyes, and she was doing everything in her might not to spit directly into his face.
"Was it a little gypsy girl that I saw you whisper to? Willow, was it?"
"I spoke to her first," Christine said quickly, her hands interlaced behind her back. "I'll take extra marks for her mistake."
"That you will, Christine. I take much more pleasure in silencing your insolence than a silly little child. You think you're a grown woman, don't you? But you've never had a man." He adjusted himself in his chair, running a hand over the black stubble on his chin. "Don't you think it's time you lost your virginity? Or are you saving it for…" he stood up from his chair, advancing upon her slowly. "Someone special?"
"I've already lost it, Sir," she lied, biting down into her cheek so hard she tasted blood. He closed the distance between them and stared down at her, a feral smile forming against the sallow skin of his face. Inside, she was screaming, wanting to run as fast as she could to get away from him, and away from the thoughts of harming him. He was disgusting and cruel, and she tried to imagine herself in a different place, with different people…she forced herself to think of her mother as she smelled the sweet scent of tobacco leaking from his mouth.
"Take off your leotard, and turn around for your punishment. You're lucky to have such a large part in the show. If you didn't need to move so freely, I might have had you like I've had the gypsies…their legs are always open. But you…you are different. Not just anyone can have you," he simpered, touching the edge of her chin with an extended finger. Christine gritted her teeth inside of her lips. She turned around slowly, pulling the elastic of her leotard off of her shoulders and gathered it around her waist. She heard him suck a large breath in – this, if anything, was the sickest part of each punishment; him standing in awe of how slashed up the skin of her back was. He acted like it was a piece of artwork that he had created with herculean hands…something that should be on display for all to see.
She drew in a breath when she heard the slithering sound of the whip uncoiling. He snapped it a few times in the air, testing its strength as one might pull the metal trigger of a revolver before the aim that would kill; the crack that would mark the end of someone's spirit upon earth.
But he didn't wish to kill her.
He wanted to make her dream of death…But he would never allow her to completely attain it.
She grimaced as she felt the bite of the whip open a new wound in her back. As he drew back his arm for the second blow, she felt warm blood dribbling down the small of her back, and knew he had purposely struck her in the most tender area that had just begun to heal. Her last whipping was only a week ago, and she knew that by the end of his punishment, her leotard would be soaked with blood. She would have to use one of her older ones, and she tried to imagine which one she should wear; the black one covered in rhinestones? It could look beautiful in the light of the arena…shimmering like shards of broken glass.
Fuck. The third lash felt like someone had sliced her with a knife. She heard him humming an off-tune melody as it recoiled. She would not allow a single sound to pry her lips open.
The fourth lash stung like alcohol poured into a scar that was prematurely ripped open.
Strangely, in the midst of his violence, she began to imagine a man. Someone that was not like the handlers or the Ringmaster – he was made of shadows, and he towered over Mr. Beauchamp, tying him down to his regal chair, a whip in his long, pale hand…
She saw the gleam of two yellow eyes in her mind. Her eyes flew open, searching the ground for his feet. Why had he come to her in such a fevered dream?
The fifth lashing hit her harder, and she fell to the earthen floor on all fours. The gypsies said that any type of dream, whether during sleep or inside the conscious mind, was real in some form or another. She tried to imagine him, whoever he was, once more…
The sixth mark almost made her cry out. She searched in the darkness of her mind for him.
He was there, a shaded figure as if he was drawn from black charcoal. He ran a long white finger across her fevered forehead.
Christine…
"How…how do you know my name?" she breathed, panting as the seventh lash brought her head into the dirt. Christine heard Mr. Beauchamp's distant chuckle…had she satisfied him with her complete and utter delusion? The entire extent of her back felt warm and wet, and she realized she was probably losing a large amount of blood. How would she stand up once he was done? Her head was already spinning, and she tried to imagine him, whoever he was, again…
But her vision had begun to blur, and she fell face down into the dirt once more, her mind weak from the end of the whip…and her world was snatched away from her as if she had fallen deep into dark waters, her eyes rolling back as she blacked out.
...
"Christine, wake up, my darling…Oh Lord, what has he done to you?" A familiar woman's voice was calling, and Christine began to fade back into consciousness, reaching up toward the voice with shaking hands. She felt the cool touch of a soaked towel pressed into her forehead, and she tried to sit up, groaning as she felt the soreness and stiff bandaging around her mid-section. "Mother?" she asked, forcing her dulled eyes to open, as a woman came into sight, with wavy brown hair falling down past her shoulders.
"It's all right, sweet Christine, I'm here."
Christine sat up, and recognized the distant music of the circus. She immediately tried to stand, and fell back down into the mattress on the floor, cursing the ringmaster who apparently had decided to run the show without her. Anger rose in the back of her throat, and she pushed away the nauseous feeling of bile that threatened to overtake her, trying to focus her line of sight upon her mother's face.
"He whipped the shit out of me," she whispered, trying to roll over on the mattress in search of her leotard. "I need to…I need to go perform, mother…please…"
"My dear, you will do nothing of the sort. You've lost too much blood," Magdalene responded firmly, pushing her daughter back down onto the mattress. "He said that you took the whipping in place of a little one."
"Willow…she, she wanted me to see something. She said it was important."
Her mother sighed. "You know better than to speak during one of his briefings…Oh Christine, how I wish this would stop happening! He had two of the gypsies carry you back here. I'm about to administer some morphine, for the pain. You're torn up."
Christine nodded, rolling over onto her stomach to lessen the burning of her back. "He lets the handlers speak! He favors them, Mother! Tell me why a grown man should even be whipping people in this day and age. It's archaic and nothing short of cruel. And the children, for God sakes. He threatens to whip the little ones! What should I have done instead? What would you have done?"
Her mother began to tie a long strand of rubber around Christine's bicep with gentle fingers. "I think it might be time for us to leave."
Christine's eyes widened, and she stared at her mother, her lips parted with surprise. "Mother…are you serious? You're finally considering my proposal? Of you and me leaving this wretched place? He purposely hurt me so that I couldn't perform! Think about it! He's bound to do it again…"
Magdalene held up a hand calmly, instructing Christine to relax back into the mattress. "As much as I don't want to leave a place that's been my home for the last…oh, fifteen years? I can't keep watching you get punished like this. It hurts me to see someone scar you like this," her mother filled a syringe with morphine, and administered it into the vein below the tied piece of rubber. Christine let out a long breath, clinging to the high of the drug as it washed away all physical pain from her body. "And mama…I…I'm starting to have these thoughts. These strange, horrible thoughts about hurting him. He…he asked me why I was still a virgin. It seemed like for a moment…for a moment he was going to rape me."
Magdalene's eyes widened with fear. "Did he touch you in any way?"
Christine shook her head slowly. "No. I lied and said I wasn't a virgin. He whipped me after that, so many times that I blacked out. And I never usually black out."
Her mother sat down onto the mattress, staring into the wall of their tent, her eyes seeming to gloss over. "God. What have I done? What have I done, keeping us here?" She put her head into both hands. Christine rolled over to face her, reaching up a hand to touch her softly on the shoulder. "It's okay, mama, I promise. Let's leave tonight, all right? I just need a few hours of rest and then I will be able to walk…"
Magdalene shook her head sadly. "My dear, you are going to need more than a few hours to recover. I bandaged you up, but you've lost a good bit of blood. He left you there, on the floor. The gypsies were covered in your blood when they brought you to me. I've already put a salve on the scarring…you should be back to normal in a few days."
"Mama, we don't have time for that. We need to get out of here, tonight!" Christine argued, letting her head fall back onto the pillow.
"We are pretty far out into the country. It would take us days to hitch-hike down to New York City. And I need you healthy for that journey, Christine. Especially if we are going to head out with some of the gypsies. They saw how badly he beat you, and…and we have a group that wants to leave here, for good. I suppose we can all stick together in the city, and that wouldn't be such a bad time…perhaps we can find a ringmaster that doesn't whip my beautiful and talented daughter?" Magdalene sighed, riddled with grief over Christine's blood-soaked wounds. Christine smiled at her mother's words, a warmth spreading in the deep of her belly.
"Oh, mama? Something…something odd happened to me, when he was whipping me. I dreamt of a man. Someone tall, and dark, like a shadow come to life…with yellow eyes. He wasn't real, I'm fairly certain of that, but…he seemed real. I don't know where the vision came from…it just happened. Almost like he came to my defense, or something. Maybe it was an angel?"
Her mother ran her hand through Christine's black curls, smoothing the long strands out to fan around her head like an ebony halo. "Angels aren't usually so full of darkness," she responded thoughtfully. Christine frowned, disliking the idea that he couldn't be an angel simply because he was made of shadow; of darkened paint and night sky.
"I think he was an angel," she said softly, staring up at the twinkling lights on the ceiling of their tent. She smiled to herself, imagining him near, if he even existed at all.
…
A/N: Mr. Beauchamp is a nasty piece of work, isn't he? Will Christine and her mother be able to escape to a different circus, a different life? Is Christine's imagined "dark angel" real?
Thank you all for reading! Please leave your thoughts, no matter how short or how long! They really do make a difference.
Love, L.
