Blessed Virgin of the Circus -25.

Artwork by Karla Usagi

The night of their first show back in the swing of it was upon them. Tito and Annie were eager to see how training would manifest itself. LaShawn wanted to make a point to attend their first show back. There was a sure-footed confidence in the two of them he had never doubted, despite their time being out of practice.

They had maintained proper diet and incredible focus on their acrobatics. Old memories were being rewritten, when they had worked breath by breath as a team. The two sisters returned to the most cheerful spirits that had graced their camper in months. No past, no loss, no breakage, no embarrassing hookups. Yana cut back on her drinking drastically, noticing that there simply wasn’t the time available. Mara was pleased, if only at the better treatment that she was receiving.

“Remember when I burned my eyebrow off when breathing fire in that one show in Tucson like three years ago?” They were laughing about old memories again. Mara thought it a pity that neither of them had ever been fond of taking or keeping many photos. They had some of Aunt Lala and the uncles and a couple of their parents, but it had not been their common practice. Neither sister had been taught to care about photos.

Yana was sincere and softer than usual.

“Are you going to go visit the statue before the show?”

“Are you kidding, Yana? With all that prep and our stage makeup and whatnot? No.”

“So…you’d only visit her when you were in trouble.”

“I….I guess. I mean, it’s better than nothing, right? It’s better than you, who doesn’t believe in anything at all.”

“I believe in us. I believe in people, even though they are terrible. And I believe that Mala is a powerful witch.” Yana began to cackle exaggeratedly and grabbed a broom from the corner, putting it between her legs and swerving around in a drunkard’s spiral.

“And I don’t believe in God!!”

“Ok. I fucking get it. Geez, sometimes I liked you better when you were fucking the guys in the band.”

“Yeah, notice how you don’t talk about how you did, too.”

“Ugh. Rick. And I didn’t, technically. Whatever.”

There was silence for at least thirty seconds.

“I wish this could all be behind us. You know I was thinking about leaving the circus completely.”

“Were you, Mara?”

“Yes.” More firmly. “Fuck yes. Who ever told us we can’t have normal jobs?”

“Nobody? I just thought this was going to be our thing. Our sister act. It’s what we do.”

“All this suffering that got us understudies and house jobs for the past two, two and a half years? Waiting in fucking Purgatory? That’s supposed to be our thing?”

“I think life just happens sometimes, Mara.” It was one of the most lucid things Yana had ever said.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re doing a show now. This is happening.”

“This is happening,” concurred Yana.

**

The music was loud. The bass was pumping. Mara didn’t remember it being so distracting the last time around, but this was a similar routine, just with the music changed up slightly. The thing that Mara adored most about doing her routine with Yana was the absolute mental clarity, the blankness, that they could achieve together. No past, no future, no crappy hookups. Yana had never had a drug or alcohol problem or clouded her mind with those things. Mara had never dreamt of the Virgin; the night in Jerry’s camper was washed clean from her hands.

The bulk of their routine was a dialogue between Yana on the lyra and Mara on trapeze. The finale was Mara at her finest, doing a brief tightrope act. Yana would do some floor tumbling with a grand finale of the two bowing.

Mara kept her trapeze act somewhat mellow and conservative that evening, trying to reason with her body and understanding that she was just getting back into the show. She know that much would be demanded of her later.Yana was the best she had been in a while that evening. Confidence, sobriety, accuracy, grace, strength. The audience’s gasps of incredulity and energetic applause were audible. Deep down, Mara felt incredible pride that Yana had been eating better and had tried to keep herself sober for these few weeks. And she felt pride at seeing her sister onstage again.

The pre-finale segment came. Tentative steps, a graceful lean. Piqué preparations. Another small lean with no fear. Before her eyes was blankness of mind. Purity of action. The do-or-die abyss of failure. A thin string. And then the backflip. One of her favorite ice skaters from when she was a little girl used to do these with incredible power. She was on the ice, and it would break if she did not fly.

The tiny voice in her whispered, “Make me a bird. Fly me away from here.”

And then the fall. No grace to it, but contortion. She recalled aiming her chest up, arms pulled back, bowing her body.

The mat was cheap and thin. The lighting in the room was fluorescent. 3am stillness before gasps and raised voices. A scream.