Alison's Wonderland by Alison Tyler Read Free Book Online

this ever happened and I were to kill them all afterward, I can honestly say, hand on my unbeating heart, it would be done in a spirit of regret not revenge.
    Because I can’t help who I am. I need blood to survive. Perhaps there’s a murderous streak sparkling in my eyes. Whatever the reason, I don’t get the right guys and for too many years, my submission has lain dormant, existing purely in my own warped fantasies. It’s not enough. I want to play passive. I want a man who’ll bring my dark desires to life again.
    I lay a hand below my throat in an attitude of piety or mild shock. He’s still watching me, that rapt and cunning expression on his face. Gazing beyond my audience, I focus on a faux-Victorian lamppost in the shopping plaza. A droplet of sweat dribbles past my ear. No one will see that, I’m sure. But it’s only a matter of time and before long, I feel moisture stippling my painted face. I’m corpse-white already, so the paint is merely for texture and sunblock. It can’t hide perspiration. A single bead of sweat slides down my forehead and, horrified, I picture it as an enormous globule of shimmering liquid, pink as a strawberry milk shake. They’re all staring. Seconds later, the droplet spills and splashes from the ledge of a white-coated eyebrow.
    Nothing happens. There’s no muttering or shifting among my audience. I reckon I’ve got away with it. But then a second droplet emerges from my hairline, a third and fourth. I don’t like to come alive when the crowds are large. I prefer to let the numbers dwindle, but it’s too hot today. This isn’t going to work. My secret isn’t safe.
    “Oi!” calls a voice. “Yer wig’s melting!”
    Their laughter is nasty. Sweat is running freely down my face now. A patch of uncertain applause lifts and dies and coins clatter brightly at my feet.
    “How does she do it?”
    “Ugh, that’s well creepy.”
    “My God, she looks rotten. She was so pretty before.”
    Droplets trickle toward my eyes, making me weep pale red tears. I stand like a parodic Jesus Christ, my candy-pink hairmy crown of thorns, my face streaked with sweat that has the taint of death.
    Money tumbles and cameras click. Carefully, I step down from my pedestal. I keep my head low, my movements soft. I bend and crouch then I lie on my money, curling into a ball. The money smells bitter. Some people walk away. All I want to do is stay here till it’s pitch-black, the shops have shut and everyone’s gone home. Moments later, a shadow falls across my face. He squats and clasps me by the wrist, making my arm twist awkwardly. Jewelry glints on his hand.
    “I’ll look after you,” he says, and his voice is laced with threat.
    His hair is shorn, his eyes are hard and a small graze on a cheekbone hints at ruby-red blood. He has the corrupted beauty of a handsome man who’s too fond of danger. I wonder if he’s a dealer or a pimp. He jerks my arm, urging me to stand.
    “Thank you,” I reply, and I know I have him: my victim, my prince.
    I leave my pedestal and cash in a locker at the train station and, as the light fades, we walk through town. I pat my sweat dry but don’t bother changing. I’ve loosened my hair and it tumbles past my shoulders in crazy pink tails. I hook the drapes of my toga over one arm and walk barefoot. My soles are as tough as old boots, a legacy from my hippie days, and I shun shoes whenever I can. I look like a cerise Medusa and beside me is David, worthy of Michelangelo, eating a burger from a polystyrene tray.
    “There are more lucrative ways to earn money on the streets,” he says through a mouthful of food. “I could show you where to start. Pretty girl like you is wasted as a statue. Plenty of men who’d appreciate your charms. Trust me, you could make a fortune.”
    “Are you trying to make me your sex slave?” I ask hopefully.
    David laughs, throws his burger box into a bin and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. A chunky wristwatch