KIAN'S ACT

Eleven

“What are we doing here?” I finally asked, my eyes on the old tent that had collected so much dust that even under the moon light and the light posts, I could almost see every speck of it. The tent seemed brown, but I was sure that it had been white before. Red and white, and it was large, and it flapped with the wind as my Maryjane’s crunched on the dried grass as we stood at its entrance. I felt a chill run down my spine; this had been a circus. 

Everything about Kian was eerie, strange, and demented. He felt a lot like a bad dream, like a scary movie, like Pennywise, except he didn’t have on clown makeup– he only wore a mask. I looked straight ahead, at the dim lighting inside the tent; a large empty stage in the centre of the arena, a sand pit, dangling ropes from the ceiling, a rope I was sure they used for tight roping. I was met with the whoosh of the wind, as if whispering to me to flee. “Run,” it said, crying out in my ear, “don’t go into the devil’s lair,” it continued to cry out in agony, suddenly slapping me in the face and causing tears to escape the outer corners of my eyes as I shut them and took a step back. 

“Devil! You’re the fucking devil!” I could hear my distant cries from that day. They played in my mind like a broken record, as if playing on a scratched vinyl, repeating the same thing over and over with that strange breaking sound in the background. 

“Kian,” I spoke up, hoping to escape all that was coming at me. I turned to my side and looked up, meeting his large frame standing behind me. He was looking straight ahead, my head reached his lower chest, and the back of my Maryjane’s brushed against his expensive German leather shoes. I could smell him; he smelled of the forest, just as his eyes were that forest green. As I called his name, his eye looked down at me, meeting my own. 

He silently slid his gloved hand across my chin, the smoothness of the leather on my face made me suck in a breath of fear. I could feel my eyes widen in fear, mostly, a little bit of wonder though; but mostly fear. He made my heart race, made my stomach clench in fear, he made the back of my head hurt, he’d broken my heart, shattered every bit of me, and yet he seemed to love me all the more. I could always feel the strength of his grip around my throat when I was sleeping, and I’d wake with a start. Only to find him sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, watching me sleep. 

“Yes, pixie?” he responded, his eye so intently staring into my orbs as if he could do it for an eternity. The poor lighting surrounding us, cast shadows over his mask and the rest of his face, his large and long hair was free all around his shoulders. He wore a crisp mauve suit, and his body seemed to be moulded perfectly into that suit of his, yet another mask I’d like to think. Did the man not know of anything other than suits and masks? Was he always so guarded? 

Pixie? That was new…

Why did I like it? Why did he say it in that powerful accent of his, that twang to it, I could hear his Afrikaans roots in it, hear the English roots as well and I wondered which his mother was and which his father was. He had an accent, one that was thick, almost Dutch…well, maybe thickly Dutch, I don’t know. The man is a mystery to me. 

I was so lost in everything that he was, in the aura that surrounded him. The moment he put his hands on me, the wind around me stopped hurling at me. I felt it continue to lift my skirt, but my oversized sweater kept me warm. He surrounded me, and as he did, it seemed everything else immediately took a step back and let him have me. It was so strange, I hate to say it, but it felt like I was an offering. The fairy in a jar for a broken boy who had nothing going for him. 

It seemed he had everything going for him though, Kian was rich, the kind of rich that was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. 

We’d leave the home in a helicopter, and return with a luxury yacht, or maybe he’d think that traffic was too much of a bother to just head an hour into the city, and we’d use his private jet. He had an underground garage with an assortment of over 80 cars– I’d counted. And each car was custom, some cars were brands I hadn’t even known of, and he’d told me that it was one of three that were made in the entire world. He showered me in gifts, spoiled me with large diamonds and rubies, he surprised me with a sunflower field the size of a small country, I swear, and I had everything that I’d ever dreamed of.