Do you know how horrifying it is to hear the sound of your bone—or more accurately, cartilage— breaking? It's worse than the disgusting crack I hear when Derek flogs his beasts. Or worse, when Mr. Twain twists his neck.

I found out on Monday night how terrifying it is.

"Up you go!" Mr. Twain said as I positioned myself in a handstand, his giant hands straightening my back. It was Monday morning, scalding and dusty. I'm allergic to dust. We'd just set up our tents and were practicing for our grand opening tonight. As I jutted out my head, I saw people (mostly yellow-skinned children) peeping through the snake charmer's tent to have a glimpse of what was in store for them. I sighed. Why did I ever come here?

"Straight! Back straight!" Mr. Twain shouted me back into my pole-like position. Russian Twain couldn't speak English well. In fact, he had to learn for my sake when I bolted from Africa to Europe and to the circus. Apparently, I taught him the little I knew from home; he never bothered to learn more despite being the leader of a traveling circus for years. He trained me in the art of aerial acrobatics, as he was a retired— and renowned— aerialist himself.

Blood pooled in my head and my legs lost their sense of touch. I stuck it higher in the air, making sure only my dark fingers, gone pale, remained on the mat.

"Good, good!" I imagined his balding head bobbing approvingly. "Now walk."

And so I did, sweating pouring from my head in hot fat globules. I walked the length of the tent about three times before Mr. Twain ordered me to stop in his nasal voice. I landed on my feet and massaged my hands.

"Brilliant, girl! Brilliant! Tonight, you perform last. Last!" he emphasized. "Derek goes first, Ariel second and so on!"

Derek was the animal tamer, and the first person I developed an incredible dislike for. I don't know if it is necessary to tame animals, but I watched some videos online (on the few occasions I'm allowed to use my phone) and the owners of the domesticated beasts on Natgeo didn't use force like Derek continually does on his animals. I mean, have you seen the way he raps the whip on their delicate skin? Gosh, you'd feel like you were the one being whipped.

Ariel is the tumbler, and one of the few friends I've made here. I build walls around me, you see. Don't like people getting too close. She's one person that cracked my solid walls and slipped in with that pink-dyed mane of hair she has.

"Not eat sugar, Ms. Ebonee! I know you love those things, but you have slow digestion, so no... no, you can't—"

"I understand, sir!" I laughed. That's his way of saying I add weight easily. Frankly, I was a "rotund angel"(as he constantly reminds me) the day we met, and it was quite a challenge shedding some weight, especially since I trained firstly to attain balance on an aerial silk.

I sneezed just as Mr. Twain dashed out of my tent, waving me goodbye. I did a split and rubbed my palms along the length of my legs till it touched my toes; as I repeated this movement, something cold settled in my flat belly.

Hope my parents won't mock me. That is if they come.

I was back home, in the bustling streets of Cairo. With the news of this grand performance circling around town, it was only natural that my charismatic parents lead the way to the event. Probably in the latest version of the trending car.

I bent my head and sighed again. Another ah-choo followed suit.

My parents weren't supportive of my decision to be an aerialist. In fact, the first time I told them, they laughed at me, then scolded me, saying we were the exemplary family in Egypt, so they couldn't have their daughter prancing around with some circus doing air flips. Yep, that's actually what they thought I meant by the word, aerialist.

My brother, Abboud, was cynical. He teased my weight. Said I ate too much, and Africa was too far from the European world and all its excitement.

Well, look at me now, brother!

My hunger for the thrill didn't die with their mockery though. It was only when I twisted my wrist while performing an air spin with makeshift equipment in the comfort of my room that my parents enrolled me part-time in a school for aerial arts. They warned me to take it as a hobby, and nothing professional should come to mind.

I straightened my back, noticing I slouched with my depressing thoughts.

I ran away. Well, not the classic pack-your-bags-crying-then-dash-out-the-door runaway. I got away under the guise of college. My parents believed that I was in Italy, studying business administration for a short while. Not until one of mother's friends saw me performing in Greece and divulged to the family that I was a circus performer. Madam Theresa was able to recognize me in a heartbeat, despite my change of name to Ebonee and the heavy makeup I usually wore for a performance.

I hid my family background from people. Luckily, Mr. Twain didn't ask me any question other than, "What show do you give?" when we first met. I had to tell him my pseudonym without him asking in the course of our training, leaving the use of a surname entirely. Obviously, he was used to runaways and just took whatever he got.

Father didn't waste a second cutting me off.

And now I'm here to perform, with absolutely no one—except Ariel—knowing the sad story of my life.

Still, in a split position, I flattened my palms on the ground, using them to lift myself. Doing handstands and levitations like these develop my upper body strength, especially the strength in my hands. Trust me, gripping that silk is a lot of work.

Ah-choo. Ugh, dust! This time, mucus followed. There's certainly too much dust in the air. Or is it the mat?

Someone moved the curtains. "You're scheduled to use the performing tent now, dear. Come immediately."

It's Mrs. Twain, Mr. Twain's loving petite wife and assistant. Back in their days, she and Mr. Twain fell in love "on the ropes", as she always said. They were air dancing to classical music, Mr. Twain would fill in as they retold their love story for the nth time. It was the imagery of two swan-like creatures floating towards each other, forming the heart shape with their imaginary beaks that made me continue to smile, even as the story had become as boring as reciting nursery rhymes.

"Alright!" I said. "Coming!"

I planted my feet on the ground and rose a bit too quickly, causing me to stumble.

Well, time to give invisible people a show.

**
Screams rained down on the tent. Some women flounced around me like a swarm of bees, smacking makeup on my face here and there. Heavy, as I still insisted out of habit. A dangerously lean man braided my thick dark hair with supersonic speed. Staring into the mirror placed in front of me, my palms suddenly felt cold and clammy. I heard people chanting "Derek! Derek! Derek the Tamer!" It was pretty lame really, but what could I do except sit here?

I smacked my lips—smoking red lips, might I add— and stood when the woman mumbled she was finished.

Mr. Twain bustled in immediately, smiling at me briefly. He was about to say something when Derek barged in with his roaring pride. Makeup artists and stage directors went about their businesses, used to Derek's pack of wild animals. Some female performers huddled around Derek though, appraising his performance, which they never saw. He smirked and said:

"They always behave, my beauties. Once you whip them—" he whipped one, the lioness shying away as he did. Continually.

A confrontation was due. And I'd found something to vent my turbulent mix of anger and fear on, so why not?

I stepped forward. "I think—"

I heard someone clap. "Enough, Derek. Show over!" I grinned. That's my coach.

Derek rolled his eyes and stumped away, leaving the ladies to gossip about how bad Mr. Twain was. Mr. Twain tolerated a lot. From all of us, really.

"Where's Ariel?" he said.

"She should be backstage, preparing to be announced? I don't know. I haven't seen her today." I sneezed. He narrowed his eyes at me.

"You sick?"

"No, sir. The environment makes my nose itch, that's all."

He nodded, "Thank heavens you not sick. You star of show today, know?"

My lips stretched in an archaic smile. He did not notice my hands shaking. He squeezed my shoulder. "Now, get in that flimsy material of a dress you aerialists wear."

I chuckled impulsively. "You wore it once, signore."

Mr. Twain didn't respond. Instead, he let go of my shoulder and looked above my head, "There you are, child. You, on stage now."

I was already turning with a smile on my face, only to see Ariel cartwheeling towards me. At a scary speed. I backpedaled, nearly losing my footing as she came face to face with me. I was tempted to shove her, but I realized doing this just after her stunt was bound to make her fall. So I settled for:

"What's your problem, girl? Trying to kick me in the face or what?"

Ariel's teeth seemed to reflect the tent's lighting as she laughed breezily, "Nah, nah, my dear Patra. I'm warming up."

Yeah, she knew my real name. Cliupatra Arian.

"Don't call me that now!" I whispered harshly, aware of Mr. Twain's looming presence. Ariel only shrugged, her pink long hair falling to her back.

"Enough warm up!" Mr. Twain cut in, moving behind Ariel. "Now go!" And he pushed her, though with little force, to the ringmaster, who had sometimes joined our lively threesome. He, however, wasn't beaming like we were. He didn't like keeping the audience waiting.

"You'd be alright?!" Ariel shouted, her head craning towards me. The knowing look in her green eyes shifted something in me. I looked away, so not okay.

"I'll be fine." Just let my parents not confront me, please!
***

Ariel sauntered backstage, where I was applying rosin on my hands. Her yellow skin grew dark with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. I anticipated exuding that gleam. I dreaded going on stage.

Ariel kissed my cheek. "Courage, girl. Courage. From the way you described your parents all those years ago, I didn't see anyone that looked like them."

I couldn't help the snort that escaped my lips as I closed the jar of rosin. "Exactly. All those years ago. God knows what they look like now. And I'm pretty sure you were too busy doing your weird stunts to actually notice any—ouch!"

Ariel hit my shoulder again, eliciting another cry from me. "Your stunts are weirder than mine, okay?" She glanced at the stage, drawing me to her. She pointed. "His stunts are the weirdest though."

I followed her finger to the tightrope walker, Billy from London. He was walking on a two-inch rope with so much confidence, one would have thought he was Charles Blondin.

"Agreed." I had to say. Still, we continued to gaze in awe of his absurdity. He actually insisted that there be no safety net below! While a professional like me, who has no privilege of using a safety net, spends every day begging Mr. Twain for one.

Ariel snapped out of her daze first; she closed her jaw and swallowed. "I'd best be going then. Good luck." She hummed away.

I waited and waited until I felt cooked by the heat. It was night, for Christ's sake. Why do I feel hot?! After an eternity, the ringmaster told me I was next. I reapplied my rosin and wrapped my aerial ribbons around my waist. A man I didn't recognize walked up to me. I noticed his thick brows first.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes?" I replied tentatively. He bobbed his head towards someone hidden in a dim corner. That person responded by pulling a lever. And suddenly, I was subtly lifted off the ground and towards the center of the stage. From the distance, I saw the faceless person release the lever when I was directly above the head of the ringmaster, though hidden with the shadows of the ceiling. I squinted into the darkness, simultaneously positioning myself in an arabesque.

When I wriggled my fingers and found them clammy again, I had to slap and rub them together to build friction. If my parents are here, I can't be seen handling the fabric like a clumsy amateur. I had to show them how professional I'd become in six years.

"And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for. The star of the show, an Egyptian indigene just like you—"

Ariel!

"—the wonderful aerialist who proved herself worthy as a student under the supervision of the great Thaddeos Twain. Swooning to Phoenix by Lama Troco, I present to you—"

I shut my eyes and let out a breath. Ah-choo.

"—Ebonee the Aerialist!"

I sighed in relief as I dropped like a cannonball, making sure the gold fabric unfurled to perfect the resplendent entrance. At least she didn't tell him my real name.

I began with simple twirls, levitating with my feet pointing in different directions, towards the opposite sides of the building with the silk suspending me upside down, my hands barely touching the ground. I followed the soft music of the violin as it filtered into the background. I'd practiced with this piece so many times that at the precise moment, I knew when to spin like the spokes of a wheel as it rolled vertically. And so I spun, using my previously idle hands to grip the fabric and climb like a monkey would a tree. The tempo of the piece increased.

It was when I formed a loop through which I stuck a leg and began pirouetting round the tent that I realized I had an audience. They cheered loudly as I curled and uncurled the silk around my waist, around my feet, and around my hands, striking a combination of ballet and yoga poses.

I was so engrossed in the excitement of the crowd mixed with the fiery thrill bubbling inside me. Courtesy of the music which had risen to a crescendo, I didn't bother to search for my parents. I swung and twisted my body around the fabric. At some point, I stopped using my hands and positioned myself in an ankle hang, making the audience gasp as I precariously swung and came nose to nose with the ground, dangling from the material that held my ankles firmly.

Apparently, I was having too much fun, and my luck ran out. I heard a snap. The audience heard it too before I plummeted to the ground. The impact of my nose colliding with the hard floor was enough to make me blackout.
**
I woke up to a place that smelt like sterilized stuff. And drugs. Ah- choo! Ah- choo! Ah- choo! Hate the smell too? Not really, though.

"Awake, my dear? You slept well, two days straight." I recognized Mr. Twain's voice. I traced it to the right side of the bed I hadn't realized was so soft. Compared to the mats I'd grown used to sleeping on, it was comfortable. Too comfortable.

Mr. Twain sat in a metal chair that seemed uncomfortable on the other hand. He looked tired and pale, every inch of his sixty years.

I opened my mouth to speak. I sneezed.

"Sorry." My nose burned. I tried to rub it, my fingers bumped into wraps of bandage instead.

My coach's smile lacked its usual jubilance. "Stupid engineers never fix a beam right. Fell right off the roof, taking your fabric down with it. Luckily, the beam didn't land on you. Still, the doctor says you'd be sneezing for a while. But you were already, so..."

So that happened. And my nose bore the pain. It's better than some performers, I guess, who break their backs or worse. Then they'd have to zoom out of the circus world. I couldn't bear it if such happened to me.

Twain sighed. "Why didn't you tell me, love? I mean, I knew you were from Africa when you came to me," he chuckled, "but when the ringmaster announced you were Egyptian, I felt... bad that I hadn't known after training you for six years. Felt quite stupid too, for not realizing the uneasiness that accompanied the rue of returning as a runaway to your hometown when it settled in you." He gauged my surprised look. It was my first time hearing him speak in English this long. Had he been pretending not to care about the language? Not to know how to speak it?

"And you're from an influential family too. A family that was present today, might I add. A woman—"

"They were—ah choo— here?!" My mind automatically left our previous conversation; it was programmed for this information today after all.

"Your mother, just her. Said something about you being cut off, but she couldn't resist coming to watch you. Had to hurry back, though she was here some minutes ago watching you before her husband ordered her home. She left you a letter."

"Where?!" I asked.

He roared at my eagerness, life back in his voice. He pulled a thick piece of paper out of his pocket. I snatched it before he could offer it to me. He chuckled, rising. "Everything necessary is in there."

I was already scrutinizing the details of my mother's handwriting. The way she never crossed her "t's" and always scribbled the rest of a word towards the end of writing it. Miraculously, I understood. I always did. Though my heart sank like a capsized ship at the thought of the only mother coming to see me, I had to thank my lucky stars that someone who shared my blood was still out there, rooting for me somehow.

"Cliupatra?" My head snapped up like a cobra about to strike. Mr. Twain's smile had knowledge of it. He and my mother must have had a long discourse. "Get well soon. And come back to the circus. Eat well, sleep well. And remember you're human too. Take it easy." With that, he opened the door and sauntered off. I turned back to my mum's letter.

My eyes brimmed with tears as they caught a singular part somewhere in the body of the letter:

I'm proud of you, darling. I'd be visiting. After all, I'm paying for your treatment :)

I tried not to cry. My nose was already on fire.

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