I look to the side. There’s a woman there, red-blooded like me. She lies against the fat man’s arm as if she doesn’t even notice it anymore. No tears. Her eyes are empty oceans; all the fury and hope evaporated in a storm that’s long since passed. Acceptance. She’s, my age.
Further down, there’s a child.
I run my tongue over my inner cheek, biting until I taste blood. My left sleeve is damp in my fist. My right sleeve hangs loose from my body, and my collar covers my brand, a permanent reminder of what I am to them.
Gene and Cham match me, their shirts carefully arranged to conceal their brand marks.
“Why?” Gene hisses, voice low and dangerous. I can see the veins in his neck bulging, sweat running in rivulets down his face.
I stare back at him until he stops, breathing heavily.
“Stop it,” I murmur. “The makeup...”
His nostrils flare, but he clamps down on the rage.
We’re sweating too much; the heat here will ruin our disguise in minutes. I can feel it, my forehead is slick, and I’m sure I’m starting to look suspicious.
My eyes wander, and a blue woman sets three drinks on our table. I don’t thank her, I can’t even look at her.
We sit in silence, trying to be invisible among the other clusters of customers, lost in their own private hells and fantasies.
Across the room, the real show continues.
I didn’t see it last time, maybe Aston didn’t look at it. Perhaps he ignored it like I did just moments ago, or maybe it wasn’t running that day. But now I see it.
An old man dangles upside-down, roped by the ankles, spinning slowly, like a grotesque carnival prize. His body is sagging, his skin marked with burns, cuts, purple-black bruises that stand out like accusations in the blue light.
“S–stop it!” he screams, his voice cracking.
One of them is holding a metal rod, pressing it to his chest. There’s a hiss, the smell of burned flesh rolling across the room like rancid smoke.
My stomach clenches like so many times. No matter how much I see, my body won’t get used to it, probably never will.
He could be my father’s age. Bald, with only burned tufts of hair clinging to his scalp. His skin flakes off in rusty sheets, sienna giving way to raw meat, falling to the floor in damp scraps.
I bite harder on my cheek. Not just out of rage. My arm is screaming at me. The brand throbs in the heat, every heartbeat sending another spike of pain through me, as if it remembers what it is.
I can feel the sweat pouring down my spine. The voices around us get louder, rising in drunken revelry and cruelty.
I glance at my hands in panic. Are they still blue? Is the dye holding? I rub at my knuckles, fighting the urge to claw the color off.
I grab the drink and down it in a single, savage gulp.
Cold, then heat. The alcohol burns its way to my stomach, numbing me for a blessed second.
I drain my drink in one go, the bitter taste burning all the way down. Across from me, Gene’s fingers tighten around his glass so hard I think it might shatter. For a second, I want it to break—his blood would smear across this piss-stained table, showing everyone just what he is. What we are.
But he holds back, the rim of the glass cracking with a dry snap before he eases up. I watch Cham. He doesn’t drink, he just stares over the edge of his glass like he wants to disappear.
My right hand twitches—except it’s not there. It flickers, that ghost limb, and I try to grab Cham’s drink with it like an idiot. I remember. It’s gone.
Gritting my teeth, I shift my body, awkward as a crippled dog, and reach with my left hand instead. I’m turned half away from Gene now, no eye on him. Vulnerable.
Cool ice kisses my palm as I finally grip the glass. I barely register it, because that’s when Gene explodes out of his chair and slams his hands onto our table.
The whole room freezes, and his chair scrapes back with an awful shriek, a scream that slices through the stale smoke and muffled laughter. Every single eye is on us.