The one for the voiceless is a hero.
Mother's words. They left a stain for sixteen years. The lingering phrase, a ritual said before every performance. My eyes drifted upwards to meet the scarlet curtains; the red sliced through the stage's darkness.
Tap. Tap.
In practiced motion, heels clicked the planks below to start a rhythm. Slow. Smooth. Steady. My useless experience let out a chuckle; repetition meant nothing to a nervous body. Hands grew slippery from sweat, a trait left from the father. Pupils dilated as the curtains were pulled back with a deafening screech.
Lights akin to the sun illuminated a small circle upon the stage. Heat permeated from its beam. A look down revealed where it was-on me. The tuxedo-clad audience forced my attention downwards; in tables of four, eating food worth my life. From the audience came the theater scale- a magnificent spectacle, windows lined with gold took the form of walls. Its dome shape, held by pillars, made it a cathedral. But my voice was the focus, rather than a god.
Childlike eyes glimmered amongst the guests; I was nothing more than entertainment fitted in a suit. The lyrics spilled before me, accompanied by an accumulated elegance of six years. Silence was soon tamed by a single melody. Slow. Smooth. Steady. The harmony widened eyes, but where they saw awe, I saw defeat.
A crescendo followed by a bow signaled the end. A masterpiece gifted with no applause. The stillness returned. My eyes lift upon the crowd again; a sight I've seen many times before. They wanted to clap but couldn't. Uplifting a slave was delirious, and acknowledgement of a Hazak was inconceivable. I was both.
Their awe surprised them, while their culture froze them. My steps retreated as the curtains closed once more. I was nothing more than the appetizer, an inferior meant to prepare the meal. With haste, I made my way across the stage and downstairs. Eyes fixed on the ground, the Hazak didn't earn the privilege of sight. My descent of the spiraling stairs was met by the approaching orchestra.
Instinctively, I turned to face the wall. Slaves didn't exist-not to the free. Laughter and wine-drenched mouths followed them. Five minutes later, my feet reached the basement. Dark with the taste of rotten lemon. Hands twisted the rusted knob before me.
Home.
A room designed to be a hallway, the cobbled space held beer-reeking heckles, kitchen slaves begging for sleep, and children using bunkbeds as playgrounds. A stern slap on the back awakened focus. Spinning back, I met the origin of my torment. Moon-kissed hair and porcelain skin revealed his Arethian heritage. He wasn't meant for a slave, yet here he was.
Christopher.
"Pleasure to meet you, 'song-boy'," the drunken brute's speech slipped as he made a sarcastic bow.
"What do you want now?" I responded with sternness.
Christo