Page 142 of Out for Blood
The stage swims back into focus.
The dancers are still smiling and bound by invisible handcuffs.
Fury takes root inside me, and at my shoulder Tyler is stationary. My instincts scream at me to move, to end this now, but we can’t. Not yet. We don’t know who is armed and who isn’t. We’re outnumbered with our targets dispersed throughout the theater. If we rush in, that mistake could cost innocent lives, including our own.
They’re scoring them. Ranking them. Buying them.
The ballerinas continue dancing, unaware or perhaps painfully aware that every elegant turn or extension is being scrutinized.
From their boxes, the men observe which woman they will own by the end of the night.
Another paddle rises.
The auctioneer writes again.
Tyler’s hand closes into a fist before relaxing again.
“What is he doing?” I whisper.
Tyler doesn’t take his eyes off the stage.
“Tallying the votes.”
The word lands like a stone in my chest.
The auctioneer continues marking his ledger as the performance unfolds.
By the end of the night, one of the women will be chosen as the prima ballerina.
Not because she’s the most talented, because three men selected her as their favorite.
The longer I watch, the more disturbing it becomes.
The buyers are engrossed with rapt attention.
The auctioneer’s eyes sway, hypnotized.
And all I can think is that these women are being showcased like a priceless collectible doll in a glass cabinet.
Eight women remade into marionettes.
All forced into someone else’s idea of perfection.
The music stops.
The ballerinas hold their final positions as the curtain drifts shut.
All I hear is my heart hammering.
Then the curtain unveils the stage again.
The prima ballerina is still suspended above the stage, but her costume has changed.
An exact replica of the gown she wore before, only black.
The stage lights bathe the crystals in the fabric as the music begins once more.
Her solo is conducted with remarkable control as she ensnares the entire theater.
