The Prelude

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A sweep of freedom.

Her hands grip mine tightly, blood rushes to my head, blinding stage lights create a flicker of disorientation.

Her hands are sweaty, the backs of my knees ache, the crowd is agape in anticipation.

A plea tumbles from her lips in the form of a shriek that echoes off of the canvas of the big top.

My curse splinters into a desperate shout of helplessness.

Our fingers lapse, my ears ring with the thunk of a boneless body, a rippling domino effect of gasps fragments the crowd.

Twisted, mangled, gnarled, contorted, deformed, tortured.

A blanket of crimson.


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