Anesha would dance along the tightrope, suspended above the popcorn-cracking jaws of the audience, pale face catching the light with flowers sitting in her red hair. Purple light filled the air, dancing off the sweaty veil of her skin as ribbons twirled from her graceful fingers and wrapped around her like an explosion of green silk. The music tinged the atmosphere with a meloncholy glow, setting the public in a mood of absolute awe of her slender movements.

Then the music would end and the audience would applaud as she curtseyed gracefully from her platform, held high on a pedestal above them. She would smile, ignoring the dull pain at the back of her head caused by a relentless insomnia that covered every nightfall.

The curtain would fall at the end of the night but the performers did not smile; the ringmaster would stride up to Anesha, eyes wide at the expectation of routine, imagination running wild at the thought of her screams and her reluctant submission, as the flowers shook from her hair.