A single curse slipped from Trixie’s lips as the door slammed behind her, sending a solid wave of sound echoing through the apartment. When the bang faded, Trixie threw a glare at the varnished wood.

Loud sounds always made the apartment feel even emptier than it was.

Trixie kicked off her sneakers and laid them in the tray at the end of the foyer—the same place they always went. She slipped out of her sweatshirt and hung it on one of the hooks, just above—the same place it always went.

Still gripping her schoolbag, she turned and walked into the hallway, only to be greeted by herself.

The mirror's reflection frowned at her, eyes ringed with light bags, back slightly hunched. Her hair fell in limp streaks over her face. The glass was crystal clear, not a smudge to be found; Feather Duster had stopped by at some point. A tickle ran through Trixie's cheeks as she realized that she wouldn’t have to see Feather Duster, nor answer any of the maid’s inane questions.

And yet that satisfaction soon dissolved, tearing open a cold pit in her chest as she looked around the dim hallway, and the silence coated her ears with its leaden paint.

Trixie stood up straighter, brushed her hair back into place, and left her reflection behind. She averted her eyes from the door to her father’s bedroom, which hung ajar, giving way to a thick but familiar darkness.

The lock on her bedroom door was well-worn, and it took a few strong jostles to force her way into the room. She kept her hand on the knob as it closed.

Across the room Trixie glid, socks sliding along hardwood like butter in a hot pan. The warm afternoon sun cut through the windows, sending bright shapes twirling through Trixie’s eyes. She stopped at her desk for just a moment to pull the smoke bombs from her pocket, laying them down with steady hands—the odor of chemical smoke still hung in the air from last time, as if a warning.

She sat cross-legged on the bed and pulled a thin laptop out of her schoolbag. Faded stickers of stars and planets plastered the chassis. She flipped it open, and a picture of three girls met her gaze.

Lavender Lace stood on one side, Fuchsia Blush on the other, and they both had their arms draped across Trixie’s back, pulling her into a tight hug. Wide, toothy smiles all around.

Trixie blinked. How long had it been since the Battle of the Bands? Seven months? And how long had it been since any of them had spoken? Six? And still they hung in her head, their names popping to the front of Trixie's thoughts even faster than her own.

Eyes narrowing, Trixie clicked away from the desktop. Why she still had that picture set as her background was beyond her—it wasn’t even a good picture. Her grin made her look like a puppet.

Her fingers hit the keys mechanically, typing in the same few words they always typed: “Awesome Magic Videos”.

The first result that popped up was one that she had seen dozens of times before. She clicked on it.

This time, her smile didn't fade.

The cheer of the crowd floated from the speakers, grainy and yet still full of life, full of awe. On stage were a magician, presenting a hacksaw to the audience, and his lovely assistant, shoved into a long box. The crowd’s adulation quickly melted into one of shock, awe, disgust as she was sawed in half. Trixie giggled.

Video after video, performance after performance, Trixie traced a familiar path down the information highway. She knew every trick, every stunt. Nothing was new. Nothing was an unknown.

So Trixie chose to leave her room.

Trixie stood on that stage, arms stretched out wide, drinking in the audience’s roar. The must of the stage mixed with the sweat running down her neck, her legs, her sides. Callouses pocked her fingers, earned from years of service to this crowd—to these believers. Every heaving breath was a prayer, a song of praise to the spotlights that hang above.

Trixie fell back onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Swirls and shapes rolled through her eyes as the laptop sang to her.

The afternoon light had faded, replaced by an inky twilight. The room was dark. The apartment was still quiet.

Trixie closed her eyes and imagined being sawed in half.