Dancing in the Dark

Chapter 1: Dancing in the Dark

Hero

"Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed. It is all part of the fairy tale."

― Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

London, 1861

Hazel bowed and swept her arms together, feeling the incredible rush that flooded her heart and accompanied her thoughts after every performance. She was performing in front of thieves and criminals, their faces a dirty portrait of grime, their hands groping into each other's pockets. But if she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was only her, and the stage, and the night. The town clapped and cheered, piercing the sky with their hands grasping a bottle of whiskey. The women hooted and the children sat on the awnings of closed stores, hollering between two cupped hands. Hazel tried her best to open her heart up to the audience, and to love them, for they loved her. But it was hard to lend her heart out after it had been wrung and crushed so many times. She exited the stage, and the curtains drew close, signaling the last performance of the night. The clowns headed to the trains, taking off their itchy wigs. The acrobats stretched their arms over their heads and chatted about a warm bath. The extremely fat woman had slight difficulty making her way to the train, for she was fat. Hazel watched the performers go by from backstage; it was like a ridiculous parade that marched to the step of their own beat. Hazel slipped from behind the curtain and weaved her way through the performers she never got to know too well. Hazel didn't join all the other performers on the train ride that wouldn't get too far. She met Neal, Henry's son, at their own personal carriage. A smirk lit up his features when she approached, and he unfolded his crossed arms. Hazel looked up at the dark sky and wished for it to snow. She drew her coat tighter around her shoulders, bracing herself against the harsh wind. Neal's gaze slid down her, lingering at her lips and chest. Hazel scowled and helped herself into the carriage, though any proper gentleman would have gladly done so. Hazel did not care that Neal would not hold her clutch or help her in. She just wished he wasn't such a scoundrel and could keep those godforsaken eyes to himself! She slid into the leather seat and forced her shaking hands down into her lap. Hazel was being especially irritable tonight because she was terrified. She was scared of what horrible man the circus owner, Henry, would force onto her tonight. The wind was fierce and the night was still young. It told of coming change. Hazel leaned back in her seat and continued to take shaky breaths. The carriage door opened and in came Neal. He sat beside her and at once started to run his hands down her back. Hazel stiffened.

"Stop!" she shrieked, and hit him with her fist. He backed away and snapped,

"What is the matter?"

Hazel pushed back her red hair with trembling fingers.

"Don't touch me," she whispered, and Neal's features were invaded by anger.

Hazel backed farther into the corner. Her heart beat like a terrified rabbit, jumping to and fro in her fenced in body. A knock came from outside the carriage and Hazel sighed of relief. Neal, temporarily distracted, reached forward to open the door. Much to Hazel's disappointment, it was only Henry. For some reason, Hazel always expected someone to save her. But no one ever did. Her hands started to emit sweat, and she bunched her dress in her palm to keep them dry. Following Henry was a young man. Hazel's tongue felt heavy in her mouth and her cheeks flamed in anger. She snapped her head away, refusing to look at him. Usually Henry's disgusting customers were middle aged men or older. To see someone her own age made Hazel wonder what kind of parents fostered this...boy. Could he not get a proper girl for himself? She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled a common habit that invaded her reactions.

Henry looked down at her and she stared up from his big belly. Henry was a portly man with a handlebar mustache and black, beady eyes. While his face was large, his nose was rather small. It gave him the face of a rat. Worse than his physical features, and his obvious lack of fashion, was his personality and actions. He was hot-tempered, without a care, and everything a proper man strive not to succumb to. Even the whores at the pub needed a fine price to agree with such a man.