I move steadily, each movement fluid and deliberate.  The man in the front row is watching me, his eyes glued to my every movement, no matter how miniscule.  A small smile curls the corners of his lips, and he almost looks human.

But he’s not human.  He’s a monster.  Any creature that can so easily slay the cowering parents of a young girl cannot dare call itself ‘Human’.

I pull my paper fan from my kimono sleeve and he smiles wider, stretching the ghostly scar on his chin.  It has faded quite a bit in the ten years since its violent birth, and in another ten it might be gone altogether.  In fact, a person might not even see it now unless one was looking.

But I saw it.  I was looking, years ago.  Searching for the mark I left upon the murderous beast.

I wonder.  Does he know he’ll die tonight?  Will he understand why?

I doubt it, as he probably doesn’t even remember the murders that lead us both here.  Ten years ago, he brutally stabbed two merchants and left them to die in the middle of the street.  He meant to take me—no doubt to use me for his enjoyment—when I fought back, scratching and biting as hard as I could.  My nails gifted him with that faded scar, and as I recall, it bled quite a lot for such a small wound.  He had screamed—a high, shrill sound which had caught me by surprise—and pushed me away.  I scrambled a bit to keep my balance and then ran away as fast as I could.  When I had finally ventured back to that spot some hours later, my parents’ bodies were gone.

This monster had not only taken my parents from me, but also my chance to grieve them.

The memory fills me with the hatred I’m so familiar with and I struggle to keep my face expressionless.  The thick white paint may hide a lot of things, but a sneer is not one of them.

Hatred is a funny thing, when you think about it.  It usually leads to vengeance, which in turn leads you down roads you thought you’d never take.  I had never wanted to be a geisha, with their painted faces and rehearsed movements.  They always seemed so stiff.  Like dolls.  Dolls that men hired to perform while they drank sake and talked ‘business’.  I had honestly never really given them a second thought.

Until one day.

I had been following the man with the scar on his chin for about a month, trying to find his weakness.  My frustration grew steadily as it appeared he didn’t have any.  He had no favorite food that could be poisoned, no hobbies that could harbor a lethal ‘accident’ and no favorite location to visit in any predictable manner.  It would seem that he was untouchable.

And then, a pattern suddenly emerged.  I had never noticed it before, because I had always been more interested in where he was going and what he was doing instead of who he was with.  When I finally recognized it, I nearly wept.

It was the geisha.

No matter where he was, he always had a geisha with him.  Those expressionless dolls with their painted faces and rehearsed movements.  They were his weakness.

It’s taken me ten years to get here.  Ten years of chores, studies, and lessons.  Ten years of being ogled and groped by sake-soaked businessmen.  Ten long years.  For tonight.  It was all for tonight.  To finally catch the eye of the scarred man.  Finally.  

My heart flutters madly within my chest.  My dance is nearing the end, and the man with the scar is smiling even wider now.  Once I finish, he’ll come forward and escort me to another room, just like he does with all the other geisha he hires.  It’s funny how you can see a pattern once you know what to look for.

The music has ended and I slip into a deep bow, being careful to hold my left arm close to my body.  The knife hidden deep within my sleeve was not evident during my performance, but now that I am still, I worry that the weight will cause the sleeve to swing awkwardly, and possibly expose my intentions.

The soft applause of the audience begins to fade, and there is a firm grip on my right arm, just above the elbow.  I look up into the face of the man with the scar and keep from grimacing through sheer will.  His eyes are half-lidded, and shine with too much sake.  He smiles and leads me off the little stage, and toward another room near the back of the hall.

I wonder.  Will he utter that high-pitched shriek when I plunge my knife into his throat?  Will he see my smile as his vision goes dark?

Will he remember me before going to hell?

I wonder.