Untamed Sanctions

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Fantastic.

That is all. For now.

       

Feelings of anxiety stirred within, anticipation and hesitation. The sound of the crowd’s chanting, applause and bursts of cheer made their way down the backstage passage, into the dressing room. It sounded even more daunting, even more loud than it possibly could have been; from this distance, it should have been no more than a soft echo. Yet it felt more than that, as though the vibrations of many vocal chords were coming from within the room, only inches away from one’s ear. Oh, how it would make a head spin and stomach to twist and leap with giddy recluse. It had been a while since the operation, a while since the uncertain return; the days were supposed to be over, or at least, that was the thought which occupied many a mind.

A smooth application of deep plum lipstick lightly covered the surface of lips both full and sensuous. The shade emphasised the perfect appearance of the expressive flesh, and exsentuated the finer features elsewhere. Hands, though ready, show signs of nerves, weakness and slight suffering with their tiny jittering of unsteadiness. A brown curled lock of hair fell slowly out of place, just near the fringe, resting beautifully beside the coloured lips as eye liner, eye shadow and mascara was gingerly being applied; a light shade of purple mixed with a skin-tone cream. It made a point of showcasing brown eyes. “Ladies and Gentlemen…” came an amplified voice, drifting into the room and into the eardrums which anticipated this precise moment.

“…the incomparable…” the smooth voice continued, familiarly and dauntingly. The entire community knew what to expect, they greatly loved what they paid to see, yet the community of such supporters is tiny, close knitteded and just as ‘out-cast’ as everyone else they surround. They too felt the bearing eyes of the world, even if it was not exactly in such a similar way. As always, there will be a few who pay to view, though not to support but instead to entertain themselves with their own performance of humiliation and taunts. Oh, world, would it not be more simpler to merely feign death and start a-new? If only that option were possible. Not now, though, time has expired and the ability to renew has died. Unlike the phoenix, it shall never be reborn within its own death. Not for I.

“…Lucilia Foxtrott.” A burst of cheer errupted, with the occasional booing mixed well within the audience. The light shone only on a lavish red leather thigh-high boot as it stepped out onto the stage, followed by another as the slowly introductory music began, and a sweet voice wonderfully crafted its song, “Where have all the good men gone and where are all the Gods? Where’s the street-wise Herculese to fight the rising odds? Isn’t there a whight knight upon a firey steed? Late at night, I toss and turn and dream of what I need….” the lights turned on full and the music picked up the pace and intensity, to show Lucilia Foxtrott. Not entirely woman, and not entirely man.

Ah, yes, the small community of transvestites. We are the freak show, baby.

       

Formal occasions always created a little bit of spite within me, and every occasion I attended only happened because someone diligently convinced me that my appearance there would be beneficial and good. “We’d love to see you there, you know how influential you can be, you hold a lot of power at times and there’s no better way to get our message across than through you,” they’d always tell me. Yeah, I was well aware that they were using me for the most part, treating me as their ticket to success. I had power, voice, and probably one of the finest abilities to be very convincing with the greatest of ease than anyone has ever known.

That and the fact everyone enjoys a highly successful writer.

Of course, I submit to their request and turn up every time that they ask me to, always wearing a dress that many women can do nothing more than envy and compliment me on, out of fear that I might dislike them. These women know when to keep their opinions to themselves, or at least, their husbands know how to keep these women in line. One wrong word to the right person and their husbands could be losing fortunes; wealth and self loathing wives never really did mix, especially at functions which mattered largely. Mind you, what those women could say about me would hardly be of a concern, especially considering that my means of income are, dare I say, more creative and justified than their own.

They are societies finest though and the idea that being lazy covers sitting at home daily whilst maids clean a house isn’t particularly in their field of knowledge. To them, anyone who isn’t married to a wealthy man and has no job is automatically lazy. Hand these women a mop, and they would ask you what it’s for and how to use it. Still, these functions made excellent means of obtaining copious amounts of wine, usually rather vintage drops, also. Who am I to turn down great wine and a bit of a laugh if all it asks of me is to talk about something I care little about, wear a beautiful gown and look like a high-society lady for one night?

‘Seems odd of you to be here,’ said a smooth voice, as I stared into the glass of wine, swirling it. I saw his reflection in the dark red liquid, and I looked up to see a well represented man dressed in the finest suit money could by, with his hair slicked back neatly. Regardless of whether this man earned a penny or not, he had the ability to make anyone believe he was worth billions, just by appearance alone. Usually I am one full of words, able to respond quickly to anything, but he left me breathless for a few moments. I bought some time by sipping on the wine, before finally replying, ‘Doesn’t seem that odd at all, I’m always at these stupid fucking places. Do you even know who I am?’

He nodded as smoothly as he spoke, as flawlessly as his appearance before he held out his hand, silently requesting a dance. ‘It seems odd of you to be here,’ he reiterated, ‘in that dress, with that hair and that overall look.’ He was right; the dress is uncharacteristic of me but necessary to fit in with the sea of women who think designer means power, knowledge, ability and status. We made our way to the centre of the room saying very little to each other, yet we held the other abnormally close, our hands seemed to do the talking. It felt as though everything that could ever be told about him could be read with his touch.

‘How about you? I hardly imagine you’re half of what that suit makes you appear to be. I can tell by your feet that you care for this dancing as little as I do,’ I said, ignoring the stares of many. He smiled and looked over his shoulder to a woman in a white dress, the kind that parted from her neck down to her navel to reveal the cleavage that she had – or didn’t have. Her arms were folded, an expression on her face that showed annoyance as her foot tapped in some ridiculous diamond-riddled high-heeled shoe. She didn’t seem too impressed that the attention wasn’t being showered on her.

He looked back at me, giving a gesture that said “that’s life for you” and with that, he left without even taking his impatient date with him. I watched as he left the front door into the car park, where he began fussing with his clothes and hair, which was curious all on its own. It seemed even odder that he made no real attempt to leave, or get his date to leave with him. I walked out the doors, alongside the white van parked beside his own car, and leaned against its rear doors, watching him silently as he continued to adjust his hair and outfit. Minutes passed as his sleek and neat appearance shifted to his casual and slightly scruffy appearance.

I admired his short and slightly spiked hair as a smile spread across my face. It wasn’t much longer before he finally noticed me standing there, and began acting as though he had been doing nothing the entire time. ‘Oh, shit, I was there watching the whole time,’ I said playfully as I approached him, my smile changing to a grin. ‘It could have been much worse,’ I continued, taking the last few steps before standing directly in front of him, ‘you could have been playing with your dick instead.’ A shade of red flushed through his face as he tried to hide his nervous smile, ‘Well…’

Without allowing another moment to pass, my hand grabbed him closer by the back of his head until our lips infused into an electrifying kiss. In all honesty, neither of us noticed that she had been standing there for quite a while, observing us in a fiery embrace, heat surging through our veins as hands became lost in the canvas of each others body. Soon her presence was too difficult to remain unnoticed, her pseudo attempts to clear her throat, her precious shoes stomping into the ground and our attention eventually turned to her, with small fits of giggling emitting from us both, whilst poorly acting as though nothing had happened.

‘I was just…’ I said, searching for a plausible excuse for being outside with a man I didn’t even know, yet possessed strange physical attraction. Nothing came to mind and the raised eyebrow on the impatient date’s face suggested that I shouldn’t even continue trying. Another laugh passed through him and me as we leaned against the car and looked at her. ‘She was just telling me about the new book that she’s writing,’ he, to my surprise, excused on my behalf as his gaze looked at me, smiling and trying desperately not to laugh.

‘I don’t care,’ she said, although we could tell she was clearly annoyed, ‘just take me home.’ She walked around to the other side of the car and opened the door, getting in and sitting silently inside the vehicle. I bit my lip softly as I looked at him, and he laughed slightly once more, knowing that life’s turn of events can be amusing. By now we had realised we weren’t so different from each other, that we were just as much outcasts to the level of society as one another. ‘I’ll…’ he said, letting his sentence trail off as his hand grabbed to door handle. ‘…find my number by calling my publisher, pretending to want more information on my writing,’ I said, finishing his sentence for him.

‘Exactly,’ he said.

       

My heart pounded, my head raced at a million miles an hour, my hands became sweaty as my ears ran hot. Every nerve within me was on high alert, more sensitive than they had ever been. Even normal breathing had to get in on the action and doubled itself, as if to compete with my heart’s persistent thumps against the cage of my chest. No other feeling ever felt quite the way this did, no other feeling was ever as irrational and uncontrollable as fear. Anyone can be so happy that they’ll cry, anyone can stop those tears and feel just as happy. Fear takes a hold of you by the throat and threatens to sever the vital connections that run along your spinal column and to your brain.

Nothing can ever happen fast enough when one is driven by fear - feet can never be fast enough, accurate enough and the mind simply forgets to send important signals to everywhere at once. “Run” is the command given, and only half executed. Yet there’s a weakness with fear, a weakness that fights a battle with curiosity and stubbornness. Unfortunately for fear, curiosity and stubbornness make an excellent fighting duo force and more often than not brings fear right back into my face, asking me to relive it “just once more.” Foolishly, I used to listen when it asked, pleaded and tempted me, but not anymore.

My senses are dead, disconnected not fear but by me. As I walk this lone path in a mountain of heavy trees, I am blank. The sound of gravel crunched beneath the rubber soles of my sneakers, the light struggled to make its way through the canopy of leaves. The wind was cold, and I hadn’t made any effort to bring a jumper – I wouldn’t need one where I was going. The option to turn back came and went many meters back; many footsteps have since been made, carrying me closer to what I had planned all along - a warm body, a cold grave. No thoughts crossed through my mind, and it felt as though bodily functions had disabled themselves already.

At last I came to a clearing where a part of the mountain became a small cliff dropping down to a pool of water. This place was familiar to me, I came here daily, and I saw a lot of things here that probably should never be seen and some things that I wished I hadn’t seen. So my feet stood on the edge, gripping onto the ground as much as I used to grip onto any reason for living that would pass my way. Wind screamed eerily through the narrow spaces between the land as my arms held themselves outwards, as though they were wings and I felt the rush of air flow through my hair and attempt to overpower my weight.

With a small twist of my foot, my weight shifted and I became unbalanced, descending downwards toward the water. Panic did not come, fear never set in, adrenaline was dead, excitement didn’t exist; nothing was there anymore, not even time, it seemed as my fall seemed to pass slowly. Calmness was all that stayed around for the show, as the number of meters that came and went started reaching the hundreds – I felt like a feather. I had listened to fear after all. Then finally: nothing.

All I saw last was the sky.

       

He liked to own a little part of me, he got a kick out of the idea that somewhere there was a piece of me with his name on it. It gave him a sense of superiority, control and status; it was something that usually went to his head and inflated his ego far too rapidly. Ash never was one to know when to pull the rip cord before it was too late and most of the time, he had let it get to him before he could manage it effectively. ‘Why is it that you think you know me?’ he asked, whilst I sat eating a bagel that I had diligently coated with cream with all the fat and high calories.

‘It isn’t think I think I know you, it’s that I can see certain things about you that give me an impression, a view, an opinion,’ I said, with my mouth full and chewing at the same time. It was true – I never thought that I knew Ash, despite that we talked often and our friendship had withstood many things, for years on end. He was an odd ball, one of those people that society wouldn’t cast a second look at because he would dance in the street in fluoro colours just to be different from everyone else. Maybe it was because he actually was different from everyone else, naturally.

Another bagel sat on my plate, free of any cream and not yet ready to be eaten. He took it upon himself to pick it up and take a healthy bite out of it, then smiling in the way that he does when he knows he owns that little part of me. He has me, and my bagel. ‘So how can you be certain that what you think and see is right?’ he asked, as I stared at him eating my now last bagel, and chewing on its remains. I knew where this was leading; it always ended up being a conversation that went back and forth between us, in a pointless manner.

We both enjoyed stirring the other and we took pleasure in doing so on a frequent basis, just for kicks. ‘I don’t know if I’m even right, but I only have whatever you show me before I can make any kind of evaluation. Why is it that we do this, every day?’ I asked, licking my fingers clean of any cream that I had accidentally gotten on them. He smiled even more, and reached a hand for my coffee, another sign that he could do what he pleased with me and anything that I had. I was fine with this little fact, oddly enough.

‘We do this because we can, because you and I both enjoy it,’ he responded before asking a question of his own, ‘Why do you do this with me?’ It was a question that was much easier to ask than it was to answer. He continued, ‘you said that you don’t care, so why do you do it, why do you ask the things that you ask?’ and I sat there, contemplating my response, calculating a move. With him, one has to calculate their responses, find some algorithm that works; one wrong move and it was check-mate, he’d have you in a position you could not get out of.

‘I’m purely curious, Ash, just wondering about it all, really. I don’t have to care about everything to at least have a slight amount of compassion and interest for you,’ I responded, hoping that would be sufficient enough. He rolled his eyes, a bastard kind of smile across a face that seemed tired and worn, ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ he said. With those words, he consumed the last of my coffee and stood up to leave, but not before I asked, ‘Why do you do this?’

‘I like the feeding the ego that is me,’ he said with a smug grin, and left without another word. There’s a bit of him in all of us.