Il etait une fois . . .

Lights blinded her as She began her assent towards center stage to join the other performer. 

No longer could fear hide Her in the wings as the curtains that once held Her in safety were rapidly breached.

She felt the heat of Her blood charge into Her features whilst She desperately attempts to recall Her monopolized speech. A habit She was known for in situations where words no longer mended the imaginary wounds ripped back open by the headlining Martyr. 

Walking on egg shells became routine when this opposing force repeatedly brought their own garbage to the stage.

Grasping at straws or words - whichever gave solace first - a peace and realization came over Her. 

This Martyr fed off her once rampant insecurities. This Martyr was starving from this risen star's regained joy and craved that sweet taste of doubt that once abundantly flowed within Her. 

Slowly, the Martyr fell away and the scene was over. The only taste it consumed now was that of pity and contempt. 

A word was never spoken but the actions resounded through the auditorium and the audience were to their feet with bewilderment. 

With that the curtains fell as the Act was finished and She withdrew awaiting their next performance.