Free Unmasked by Michelle Marcos Page B

taught me
well.”
    “Another seamstress,” said he, rolling his
eyes. “We have all the women we need. And what we don’t need are
more costumes. I’m sorry.”
    He made a move to go backstage, but I stopped
him. “Monsieur Frenet, please. I need to find work.”
    “There is nothing for you here,” he insisted.
“I’m sorry.”
    “I can teach,” I offered hopefully. “Your
children –“
    “I have no children. And I have no work for
you. Good day.”
    “Then let me clean for you. I can scrub the
floors or polish the brass.”
    “No. I don’t need you. And I don’t want you.
Now go!”
    I never intended to show my weakness, but I
could not keep from crying. It seemed I wasn’t wanted anywhere.
    “I have nowhere else to go,” I pleaded
desperately.
    The director leered at me from the stage.
“There’s a circus in town. Why not try there?”
    His off-hand remark brought a round of
laughter from the workmen.
    “Why not try raising your skirt on the
corner?” one of them said. “Maybe then someone will take you.”
    Again the laughter. My head began to
spin.
    “Gentlemen, please,” admonished Monsieur
Frenet, his finger aimed straight at me. “No one would pay half a
sou for that !”
    The poisoned arrow found its mark. Not “her,”
not “that woman,” but that . Something inside me crumbled,
and I began to run. The word beat at me like a club – that , that , that – bludgeoning away my femininity, my very
personhood, and I fled from the bloody, crumpled thing that was the
object of their derision. I flew through the very first door I saw,
away from the unfeeling laughter, that horrible sound that seemed
to follow me everywhere. I hated myself for being so grotesque, not
just to the ignorant villagers of Sescité, but to the enlightened,
sophisticated eyes of the rest of the world. I wished the earth
would swallow me whole, and bury this ugliness forever. Hot tears
blurred everything I saw, one corridor melting after another,
flights of steps leading down to more.
    Until I collided with a locked door.
    I stopped to wipe my wet face with my sleeve.
The voices that haunted me had disappeared, replaced only by the
sound of my ragged sobs. I had no idea where I was. Instead of
taking me back to the Paris streets, my blind flight had led me
here, to what seemed like an unused part of the theatre. It was
very dim, but I could still see the cobwebs streaming from the
hinges on the door and the heavy dust upon the knob where my
fingers had not touched it. A key glinted in the lock. I curled my
fingers around it, and with a loud metallic grind, it turned.
    Opening the door, I was instantly enveloped
by darkness. There was a faint odor of moisture and mildew, but
there was nothing to be seen, save for the palpable blackness. I
released the knob to wipe the tears still pooling in my eyes, and
the door fell closed with a loud echoing thud.
    I whirled around to open it again, but there
was no knob from within. I clawed the door, a cold dread smothering
me as I realized that no one could possibly find me in this decayed
cellar. I beat on the door with my fists, but only my own strangled
cries reached my ears. Eventually, my screams grew fainter and
shorter, dying down with the hope that I would ever be rescued.
    I had wished to be buried forever, and God
had granted me that wish.
    I leaned my flushed face against the cold
mortar. That is when I heard the rustling.
    It was very faint at first, but it grew
louder. And nearer.
    “Hello?” I rasped.
    Nothing. I called out again, afraid of
hearing no answer, but equally afraid of hearing the wrong one.
    Then I heard it. Squeaking. I shuddered
violently. A rat! Bunching up my skirts, I flew away from the walls
toward the center of the room. I heard it scurry along the corners
and pause in the very spot I had just vacated. Then it scrambled
across the opposite wall, and then it vanished.
    I let out my breath, unaware I had been
holding it. I have never been able