High Wire

TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains references to sexual and physical violence.

The first things to fall are my shoes. There’s a quiet smack-smack as they hit the ground, the pair creating their own echo in the almost-empty tent. The only other sound is a plodding clump…clump…clump, giant shoes finding their place on the ladder behind me. Quickly I am mid-wire, ahead of him, but not far enough. I need to create more space.

From behind, he threatens: “You can’t…” (clump) “run away…” (clump) “from me…” Clump-clump. He is on the platform. I say nothing, trying to focus. My silence will make him feel my fear and that’s the only way this will work. 

Another smack-smack as his outsized shoes join mine below. His weight is new and heavy on the wire as he takes his first testing steps, forcing me to counterbalance. My eyes stay on my goal but I can see him in my mind: a clown—a literal circus clown—still in costume, sweaty red curls pasted to his forehead, trying to chase down a tightrope walker on the high wire. He must be terrified, but he doesn’t show it, and he doesn’t stop.

How does it feel? my mind asks him, at the same time reminding me to feel it too, how it feels to be terrified, because those memories will help me do what I need to do.

“I…will…ruin…you…” His panting betrays much: his fear of heights, his blood alcohol content, and his recently-kneed groin. But he is staying on target, this target that he has chased through the dark. This target that has dodged trailers, cages, and creatures of all kinds tonight. This target who has now led him up here. 

As he struggles to find his footing, time slows. I have a clear shot at the dismount platform ahead. I could just get away. But tonight, that’s not my end game.

Getting away isn’t enough anymore. I want to stop being terrified. I want to be free.

My eyes close. I breathe deeply. Then suddenly, I pivot to face the man chasing me. I’ve warned him so many times before, but I give him one more chance: “Don’t come any closer!” But my voice, like his, is a traitor; I fear, not the height nor the wire, but what will happen next. 

He stares me down. As he stares, I calculate. He outweighs me by at least 75 pounds, has a good 12 inches of height over me even without the wig, and has bottomless liquid courage—on the ground, he is intimidating. And we both know it. How does it feel? I dredge it up: the leering, the leaning, the feel and smell of his breath, the touch of…and I stifle a shiver. Terrible, yes, but I need the fuel.

Down there, he has the advantage over me. But here, 20 meters up, everything is different. I am a skilled tightrope walker; he is just a drunken clown trying to balance on a high wire. My high wire. How does it feel?

He makes a move. I crouch, ready. And then something slices the air past me, ricochets off the platform, the next thing to fall. A knife.

I didn’t plan for knives.

“How dare you!” It’s all I can manage.

“You’re…nothing…but…nasty trash…I told you:…ruin!” The last word rolls through the tent as his hand moves back to his jacket pocket.

The time has come. 

I remember the nights after the crowds have gone, from that first night when I became his target. The nights that followed when this target had to learn how to move. 

I see the faces of other performers when I tell them and they can’t do anything but share their own stories and cry with me. So. Many. Others.

I relive all those pre-dawn hours practicing up here alone on my high wire, rehearsing like my life depends on it, because it does.

How does it feel? My leotard is shaking in time with my heartbeat.

With no safety net, my options are few. But I’ve made my choice.

I take another deep breath, say a quick prayer to the big top, and jump.

As I leave the wire, I realize there’s no going back.

Both feet land squarely on the tightrope. The jolt on the wire shocks the clown. His hand, holding another knife, leaves his pocket and strikes out for balance, but he is out of his element. 

He is the next thing to fall. 

Smack.

The sound empties my lungs. I make my way to the platform ahead, barely make it down. My hands and feet shake and slip off the rungs. Slowly, I approach his body splayed on the circus tent floor. He is motionless, still gripping the knife that was meant for me. I kick it away; my toes tell me it’s too thick and heavy. Rubber.

I check for breath, a pulse, any sign of life. Nothing.

His stillness emboldens me. My hands rummage through his pockets to find the trigger to the garish red flower on his lapel. As I press it, the flower squirts in my face and I open my mouth and let the liquid burn my throat and drip down my chin.

Now it’s my turn to stare him down. I look him square in the eyes that are still open, permanently surprised by the night’s events. Never again will he see me with those eyes. Never again will they spy on me through tent flaps and trailer windows. Never again will they run me up and down like my costume isn’t there. Never again will they enter my dressing room uninvited, unannounced, and predatory. Never again will those eyes haunt me.

I take another squirt from the flower to make sure that last part holds true.

Tears and Tanqueray fall from my cheeks to streak the whiteface of the lifeless clown. The harassment, the fear, the pain, and the hate in me: all of it, seething to a boiling point, finally begins to settle. I am free, but I am left with a bigger stain than the blood pooling now around my knees ever could leave, a stain that will take more than gin and tonic water to remove. 

The clown has fallen, and I have too. I am changed, for I am no longer a target, and it stuns me to think of what that means. How does it feel? 

No. I shake my curls at his, rip the wig from his head and throw it over his painted-on grin. I have not fallen. He was a clown, not a prophet; he did not ruin me. When all is said and done—when this mess is cleaned up and I can finally sleep with both eyes closed and wear a leotard that fits me properly and work and live without fear—I will be back. If I know anything, it’s how to keep my balance under tension. No one beats me on my high wire.