Opening Night

The smell of fresh varnish is sharp enough to burn, but I've learned not to flinch. Father's rough thumb gently polishes my stiff, cold cheek. It is the only time he touches me with such tenderness anymore. "My beautiful girl," he whispers, his breath smelling of stale whiskey. "Full house tonight. Make them weep." He picks up the silver eye-screws and twists them deep into my wrists and the nape of my neck with practiced precision. Then, the stage lights blind me. I am jerked upward, suddenly weightless. As the music swells and his fingers twitch in the darkness above, I begin my dance.