So, yes, as it was specified in the description, this is the lead-in of a novel I'm trying to write.
This story takes place in the early 19th century and tells the tale of a girl that was found by a nomad circus. They enroll her as a servant but soon her breath-taking beauty unravels itself and her owner decides to use her a a divertissement for men. She then engages on a highway to hell, sinking into the vicious world of drugs, hysteria, paranoia, hallucinations and manipulation. Her story is told through the eyes of a 'freak', a lonely man who outside his act covers his face with a mask. He watches her grow from an innocent catterpillar into a dangerous butterfly as she wraps him into her manupilative tentacles...
The reason I'm submitting it it to have your honest opinion about this beginning : would you like to lead this story or not ?
As she sat there, on the wooden stool of her obscure caravan that served her as a boudoir, she terrified me more than she ever did.
Animated by her murderous paranoïa, the jerky movements of her body seemed to fit the insistent music that resonnated from the principal big top, but in truth she was crying hysterically, her inaudible screams marking her panicked features. With the feable, golden light of the candles refecting on her shiny, red lips and her blond hair, she reminded me of a raging devil, a sun setting for the last time. I panicked. Without being noticed by her, I rushed back out of her trailer, blocking out my conscience telling me to sit beside her. Because, God ! How many times had I already suffered for the sake of that soul ?
The worst was I knew I was but a dose of cocaïn to her eyes. I guess that deep down, I was convinced that behind her manipulative smiles and tears, a piece of her was sincere, maybe that little girl I had known a long time ago.
How I had been blind ! I still mistook this child that transpired innocence through her long, wild, blong hair and her big blue eyes, pleading me to not tell our owner she had eaten an extra piece of bread, for this lecherous, latent and paranoid feline. At the time I did not understand how these two conflicting images could live side-to-side in one person.
But today I am well-placed to know that nobody, nobody in this whole wide world, is innocent. As she smiled at me, as she stroke my deformed cheek, it didn't mean more to her than when she had to sway deviously to the lascive music in the Adult-big top. It was all a well-thought out tactic to wheedle the hierarchy and maintain her grade in it. Only her sadness made her vulnerable, similar to a red autumn-leaf, pretty and attached to the tree of life, to our circus, but dead from the inside, ready to be blown away by the wind. So she had needed me. Me, because I was weak, because I was lonely, because I scared people away. Because I loved her, because I admired her more than anyone else. Not for her beauty, but for her soul. Because I stood beside her, no matter what.
Well, not anymore...
Near the steps that led to her door, I noticed a crimpled note. I don't know why but I felt the urge to pick it up and unfold it, eventhough the ink of the message had been drained away by the rain. All that was left of it was a saggy, greyish piece of paper, so I threw it away, back to where I found it.
That night, I fell asleep with engraved on my retina this image of her, sitting on the stool, naked, sublime, wild. In my dreams, her blong hair entangled itself in my fingers and her warm breath danced in my neck. My hand slid under the black lace of her knickers and found the entrance of hell, where men ended up sinking...
The next day, they found her dead. Our doctor, Gillian, accused a cardiac arrest to be the cause of her death. I knew it was false.
Everything had been written in advance. From the day the circus found and enrolled her, from the day I watched her grow up and become a woman, from the day I'd desired her, up to this tragic moment.
Once it had been started, it could not have ended otherwise.