Chapter Text
You were so, so tired.
Sleep had been getting harder to come by lately. On the days you slept through the night, you would wake up twitchy and unsatisfied.
You hadn't waited to see if your tense body would relax enough to go back to sleep. You pushed yourself out of bed, fished around in the closet for a blanket, then dragged yourself to the living-room couch, where you dropped down into a pile of throw pillows, a musty blanket, and yourself. it offered the barest of comfort, but it would have to do.
Your crusty eyes squinted at the bright, stinging lights. You left the TV on once again. You dug you face deeper into a throw pillow.
Where is the remote...Is it—no. No not behind the pillow. Is it between the cushions? Hm, no. Is it... Whatever. You resigned yourself to the stinging TV lights.
Last night, after getting home from work, you had fallen into bed without doing a final check of your apartment. Your sloppy work was evident. Cabinets were left open, your plate still on the table, work bag thrown to the floor. You had been coming home more and more tired, and pared with sleeping less, your apartment had been sinking into disorder.
Work had been unbelievably hectic. A circus had rented the town plaza and brought a wave of costumers with them. And flyers. Small talk now included the weather, the roads, and the circus. It was annoying. This was the first time the plaza had been rented out; normally, the city would host a festival or two, while the locals enjoyed the plaza in the months between. Never had the city pimped it to outsiders before. It was the first thing old men complained about. Then they whined about the adults only policy; the circus was some kind of horror show. What was the point of a circus if the whole family couldn't go?
You hadn't really agreed with the first two points. You were sure the city had "pimped" out the plaza during festivals too. Plenty of big brands had bought stalls or sponsored floats, and it's not like the winter ice rink was paid for by taxpayers. This was just the first time the city was blunt about it. Additionally, a circus of horrors would be a natural progression for a circus, especially with clowns infiltrating the horror genre in the past decade. It is a bit surprising how insistent they are on that policy; you'll give them that.
You agreed with them on the issue of flyers, though. The circus's primary advertisement was sending employees dressed in pink to hand out flyers. It was fine at first. Then it was a bit bothersome. Then it started to really get on your nerves. Sometimes, the solicitors were so insistent it bordered on harassment. Trashcans were cluttered and flyers littered the street.
A bit ashamedly, that wasn't even the main reason you disliked them. They were just so...freaky. You know it was a circus of horrors, but do the advertisers really have to act so impersonable? You couldn't even see their faces past the masks they wear, much less strike up a conversation.
The circus didn't even try to integrate into the town. You pulled the blanket up higher. It just feels so intrusive.
You gave one final huff into the pillow before lifting your head. It was daybreak. The faint oranges and pinks were much easier on your eyes compared to the flashing TV. You wiggle forward so you're resting against the armrest.
Today was your day off. You could just watch the sunrise today. Just like you did everyday back at home. Oh, and you could finally take some real time and clean this apartment up. It would feel so good to come back home to a tidy apartment.
You curled deeper into the scratchy blanket and pulled your cold feet closer to your body. Hopefully, it would heat up by noon. You really don't want to run up your heating any more than you've already had to.
Once the stiffness of your body overcame your desire for warmth, what would you do? Perhaps tea would be nice...
***
On the kitchen table, your phone started to scream. Sudsy water splashed as you startled, yanking your hands out of the dirty dishwater. You hastily grab a dry rag while your phone keeps ringing. You cursed underneath your breath and answered the call; the crunchy sound of a man spoke though the speakers.
He greeted you briskly before continuing, "Hey, sorry to call you in on your day off, but I need someone to come in today."
Now you felt more confused than mad. Your boss tried to be respectful about your days off, particularly if your day off was going to be the singular one between weeks of working.
"Why are you calling me? Carol's on the schedule tonight. Did she call out or something?"
The boss paused, "Yeah, something like that," then he continued, "Listen, I really need someone reliable tonight. I'm gonna have to leave exactly at closing, so I can't stay late to help close."
You shuffled around the sink, drying a cup. Carol wasn't at work yesterday either. What has been going on with her recently? "Can no one else cover?"
"I don't know yet." So, you were the first one he called.
You brought your bad had up to your face. Your knuckles were swollen and red, and your crooked fingers were lightly trembling and pruning. You've been having a rough patch with your bad hand, partly due to the recent poor weather. You were starting to run low on some of your essentials, and even though you only bought over the counter, it still wasn't cheap.
You've been working around that for years. It won't break the bank.
Your gaze shifted. The old blanket was still lying on the back your couch. You were planning to buy electric blanket for next winter, but considering the other things you would have to get first…
"Alright. I'll be there in maybe half an hour, is that cool?"
He sighed in hidden relief, "Yeah, that's fine. Thanks for helping out; I appreciate it."
You let out a grunt in reply and ended the call. You slammed the dishwasher rag down on the countertop with a loud thump. You needed to stop agreeing to cover every damn shift.
You moved to your room to fish out your uniform. It wasn't official, but a kind of white shirt along with some sturdy pant was expected. You grabbed an ironed, white button-up and a pair of blue jeans; your face wasn't good enough to also dress messy. Once you were ready, you grabbed your keys and bag from where you threw them on the floor last night, then slipped out the creaking door. You have got to talk to building management about that.
The streets were comparatively sparse at this time of day. It wasn't very pleasant outside; the sky was overcast and slightly chillier than you would've preferred. But on days like this, you missed laying on the front patio in the warm summer sun, alone and protected by acres of cornstalks. Once, one of your patron's meanest barn cats came up and curled up against your side. She would die a week later—the poor thing, you would find her body underneath the same patio—but that was the first time you heard the old cat purr. Her dusty soft fur with the rough wood pressed against your skin. The sun soaking into your bare torso.
You sighed as your shoes scuffed against the cracked sidewalk, if only you could've kept your mother's house. You didn't mind the city, but it was all so...fleeting. People come and go, and even the sun doesn't like to linger.
Up ahead, right where you have to turn, a group of people in pink stood. Standing a head taller than the rest, a ruffled red clown stood. Your pace slowed. As you halfheartedly walked towards the group, you could almost smell the acidic, cheap printer ink.
They tended to rotate posts. Sometimes they were in your way, sometimes they weren't. From the grumbling of customers, you could assume they rotated daily. Today, you were not so fortunate.
In your despair, something fluttered in the corner of your vision. A missing poster stood out among rusty nails and staples. A girl no older than you was smiling as she held a grumpy cat to her face. "Missing" was in big, red letters. The news was full of it, and you didn't care much for it. Of course, the news anchors had nothing better to talk about and grasped onto it with drooling muzzles. They had to enflame the city folk and get them fussing over meaningless things. You wanted to shake your head. Where you were from, people didn't "go missing." You either got shot, killed yourself, or just left town; people were too busy trying to feed themselves to worry about feeding an unwilling hostage.
It was crazy. Almost a new person every day. At that volume, calling all those people 'missing' was just taking the easy way out. Seemed the police was incompetent no matter where you went.
Some people even started pointing fingers at the new circus. How stupid. Don't people have anything better to do?
A methodical voice interrupted your thoughts. A man with a white mask and pink clown suit stood close. He held out a flier for you to take, talking blandly about "The Freak Circus." You try to (as kindly as possible) refuse. Repeating "no, thank you" like a wind-up toy as you weave though people and paper cuts. You felt a rare sense of solidarity at the sight of others doing the same.
You just avoided a woman in a big pink skirt when a man started to yell. Then, the sound of a fist swinging with a crack. Your head shot up instinctively. The ruffled red clown, standing taller than most anyone you've seen, fell like how a rock sinks into a stream.
the man was recovering from his swing, huffing. He was in a white button-up and black slacks. Boring, if it weren't for the colorfully floral tie. By his feet, rice spilled from a Styrofoam takeout container. The man was yelling, his face red and tense. The clown's head was ducked down with hunched shoulders. Long, white hair obscured the clown's face. You couldn't tell if the performer was a man or a woman.
You looked around. No one seemed keen on intervening. Some looked at the clown with clear schadenfreude, others looked on in pity. Most scurried away. The pink clowns barely acknowledged their fallen coworker.
The man was still yelling. The performer stayed on the ground. Why wasn't he getting up? The shouting man kicked the performer in the shin, who only jerked from the force, but stayed down.
Jesus. This is getting out of hand. Should you...?
You could walk away—it would certainly be in your best interests—but you would find it harder to sleep at night. You were already struggling as it was; you couldn't risk losing more.
You pulled your bag tight to yourself as you walked up to the man, "Hey, um, dude, other people are trying to get to work right now."
The man furrowed his eyebrows at your voice, stilling. He looked you up down. He had a pleasant face with tall cheekbones and a thick head of dark hair. If only his face wasn't red and twisted with rage.
He clicked his tongue at you like you were a disobedient cat. Yet he still tried to straighten his posture and smooth out his expression. "These assholes have been harassing people just to go to their fucking circus; you shouldn't defend them."
"It's just flyers. I know it's annoying, but this doesn't seem worth it."
"Flyers are one thing—" rage was getting the better of him. He spat out his words like a hiss, "but this bitch," he gestured towards the clown, "knocked my food right out of my fucking hands!"
You tried to keep your expression smooth, "Whatever the reason," his face reddened more, "you’re a grown man hitting someone up over takeout?"
"You don't know what the hell you're talking about, woman. This isn't any of your business."
Your stomach twisted, "Woman? Dude, you're beating someone up in broad-fucking-daylight! What do you mean it's none of my business?"
"Listen here, bitch. I'm not against hitting a woman. Why don't you go whore yourself out to this asshole, huh!?" Spittle flew from his mouth. He took a step closer, "Is he the only one who would fuck you?"
Whether your face was red from embarrassment or anger, it was unclear. People were stopping and staring at the show the three of you were putting on. The whispers further inflamed your face. You knew once you spoke your first defense, you were stuck until the performer got up and regained his bearings, and you were accepting of that fact.
But he wasn't getting up!
You glanced at the performer, still huddled on the dirty sidewalk. Perked up, they were now staring at you. Underneath everything, the performer seemed grateful. Maybe. You softened. Maybe they were still scared.
You twisted your trembling hands together without realizing, "Dude! No one is having sex with anyone! I just asking you to stop beating people up in the street while I'm trying to go to work, for fucks sake…" You took a moment to breathe. "I will literally pay you to leave this poor dude alone. How much was the food? I have cash."
You started to dig around in your work bag, looking for your wallet. Are you going to cry? God, you hope you don't cry.
The man recoiled as if you had actually hit him, "I don't want your damn money." More people had gathered around, watching the spectacle. His eyes started to flicker around, perhaps just realizing the precarious cliff-edge he had walked onto. He gave the clown one last hateful look before spitting by the clown's shoes. You could hear the wet splat. "Damn whore…"
Then he was gone. Shame snuggled heavy in your gut. Despite the overcast, it was warm. Or maybe you were just embarrassed. Your hands were still trembling as you clutched the strap of your bag tighter.
Some people were still lingering, perhaps looking over the clown and apparent clown-fucker (you want to die at the thought). A child tugged at her mother's hand, pointing at the two of you; the mother quickly pulled her away. Once people realized the show was over, and when pink workers started to get back in their face, the stagnant flow of pedestrians resumed.
Face still burning, you turn back. The performer wore a large ruffle around his neck, and on his head was a fool's cap separated into thirds. Bells hung from his cap and costume. Reds, blacks and yellows filled your vision; you couldn't see any other color. The performer's face was indescribable, either through a mask or heavy with face paint.
You felt an instinctual level of repulsion to such an extreme that you desired nothing more than to take a step back. You could see nothing of their skin, yet in that brief moment, they were the ugliest thing you had ever seen. The feeling passed as you allowed your mind to adjust to this strange fellow.
You were surprised at the viscerally of your reaction. It was shocking, and very unwelcome.
Disgusted at yourself, you reach a hand out to the performer, who was looking almost reverently up at you. That both soothed and irritated something within you.
You were intending help them up, or at least offer to call someone, but the performer rendered your intentions useless. With such swiftness it made you wonder why you were even needed here, the performer stood. The jingling of bells ringed in your ears.
You slowly craned your neck to an almost comical degree. There was a small mark on what should be a cheekbone, but you saw no blood. That was good.
You were wondering if the performer was a man or a woman—the long hair and bulky, modest consume had made you wonder—but the height that towered over you cleared much of your misconception. A man, of this size, had to be rescued by you! Oh, how your mother would've laughed if you could tell her.
You cleared your throat, restraining a disconcerting laugh, "Are you doing alright?"
The performer just…looked at you for a moment. Did he notice your discomfort? You hope not. Then, he nodded. Bells jingled.
"Ah. That's good." The words of the man echoed in your mind, and looking at his face felt like too much. You stared at the ruffles on his collar instead. It was more comfortable on your neck anyway. "That shouldn't have happened, but I'm sorry either way."
What else could you possibly say? How do you comfort a man who let himself get beat up? There really wasn't a kind way to suggest having more self-respect, nor was that ever a safe thing to suggest to a man.
Your eyes flickered back up, and you failed to hide the way your body twitched when he was closer than you expected. He was looking down at you, his head blocking the sunlight. It was as if he was hiding both of you from God.
And still, he said nothing.
"Um. Sorry, I'm going to be late for work. I hope the rest of your day is pleasant?" You carefully pried a stiff hand from your bag to wave at the clown. You walk around him, praying you hadn't offended him, and got back on your path to work.
It was perhaps another five minutes before you reached the front door of your work, and it was a welcome sight. The bell ringed as you walked in, and a wave of espresso assaulted your nostrils. You put your stuff away and tie you apron and go to find your boss. He was standing behind the cash register, saying goodbye to a woman.
Your boss said, "Thanks for coming in on such short notice."
You both talked for a short moment, exchanging pleasantries and updates on the shop. You interpreted a short moment of silence as dismissal, but you were stopped when he spoke, "Have you heard anything from Carol recently?"
Yes, Carol. She was on the schedule with you. A responsible woman of few words, she was arguably a bit boring to work with. But she had a beautiful smile, and she was kind to you when you first worked here, all jitters and flinches. It was odd, then, that she hadn't show up or call off for her shift.
You shook your head, "No. I've heard nothing."
The boss huffed, but he didn't look surprised. She was more private than even him or you. "Well, in that case, I've already got a few orders made and waiting. It's been packed today, so try to be quick on your feet."
You got to work quickly, picking up trays and hot cups to deliver them to their tables. You made small talk about the weather and all other monotonous topics. But the fight on the street kept lingering in your mind.
Beatings you could take, but words stuck to you shamefully easy. You felt even worse because you could understand why he became violent, and you felt ashamed to pity him. Something about that performer just rubbed you the wrong way and made your spine prickle. The sensation hadn't really faded.
Yet the violent man treated you like some street whore for helping a man. As if you…
Two men were sitting together. They looked like friends. They stopped and talked with you. You smiled and served them. They asked if you'd been to the circus, so you shared some of the gossip you've heard. Something shriveled within when he called you 'ma'am.'
When they paid and exited, they left circus flyers on the table. Your boss eyed the flyers with disdain as he moved them to a growing pile of circus posters.
The idea of seeing that performer again filled you with hot, wet shame. Intrusively, you couldn't decide if you were more ashamed because he might want to have sex with you or because he might think you want have sex with him; you didn't know if you would rather he be disgusted or interested in that.
Thinking about it only made you more sluggish.
You smiled to a young woman as she placed her laptop and notebook on the table by a window. She ordered a caramel cappuccino. When you served her, she grunted in acknowledgement; her attention remained fully on her laptop, but when she briefly pulled out a folder, the same missing poster you saw earlier was in it. It gave you pause.
You were working at the espresso machine when the woman yelped. You turned around, pulse skyrocketing, but it was only a spill. She was grasping her laptop like a shield. Her eyes flickered from you to the window, and to the puddle of coffee dripping from the table.
It was a bit odd to see this well-dressed woman so nervous over a simple spill; it made so much less intimating. She was stuttering, trying to regain her composure while simultaneously trying to explain herself. It was a bit cute. You pulled a yellow slip sign from the storage room and tried to reassure her, but she kept babbling on. Someone was up against the window, she said. Their eyes looked like they were glowing—she stumbled over the word 'glowing', seeming to realize how crazy she sounded. You told her it was fine, sometimes kids would press their faces to the window, but she didn't seem fully convinced.
You offered to make her a new drink, but she refused, apologized, and left you to mop. When you raised your head, someone had fogged up the window and drew hearts in it.
***
Your boss was right when he said it would be busy. You spent your time running around, playing server and janitor. But as the day started to end, the flow of customers started to slow down. Only a few people lingered in the shop.
Once again, you were cleaning. Broom in hand, you were sweeping behind the counter. The noon heat had dissipated, and a chill was starting to seep in the air. If you looked out the window, no doubt the sun would be starting its descent. Even inside the shop with its cool fluorescent lights, the air was starting to be tinged in orange.
The bell chimed, and another costumer walked in. He was well-dressed, wearing a blue suit with slicked back hair. He took a table by the window and settled down. His movements were noticeably stiff. He didn't pull out a phone or even a book, instead, he waited.
You swept faster. One moment. That was all you wanted. One second without talking so someone. When you glanced up, he was still sitting there, but now his eyes locked onto yours.
Goddammit.
You gave him a tight smile and rested the broom against the wall. His eyes never once left your face. After you greeted him, he ordered black coffee. Hot and strong, he specified.
He was still watching you as you worked the coffee machine. It was hard to focus on anything else than the shiver his gaze left on your skin.
Your distracted state caused your elbow to hit the pile of circus flyers that your boss had been stacking. They scattered to the wood floor like dead leaves in fall, gliding so slowly it felt like watching your mistake in slow motion. Cursing under your breath, you crouch down and pick them up.
Despite the uncomfortable position, you didn't want to stand back up. The moment out of his intense gaze gave way to the full realization of the man's creepiness. It wasn't the usual creep--he didn't stare at your breasts or behind, nor did he reach out to grab anything. But his gaze was violating in a way you couldn't fully articulate. It was like he was unweaving your sanity. Putting the messy stack back on the table (which you will now have to clean after) the coffee machine beeped. You changed your gloves and put a lid on the paper cup. You had the grainy stack of flyers under one arm, and the cup in the other.
You placed the cup in front of the man. A small, cold professional smile stretched across his face. "Thank you." He didn't touch the cup. "It's gotten chilly recently, hasn't it?"
You realized you were faintly shivering, "Yeah, it got cold fast this year."
He looked to the flyers under your arm, "What are you doing with those flyers?"
"People have been leaving them in the store. We collect them and throw them away in stacks. It fills up the trash slower, you know?" you said.
The man agreed, "Yes, you have a very smart idea."
It was your boss's smart idea, but didn't feel that smart when you were picking them up off the floor.
"It's quite rude to leave them in a place of business." He said. "I can take them for you. I'll recycle them when I leave."
The flyers smelled strongly of coffee. Coffee grounds stuck to them, making the sack slightly lumpy. The side of your shirt was now stuck with more grounds as you held them under your arm. If the bitter smell hadn't infested you by then, it sure would've now. "Thank you, but that's not necessary."
He insisted on it. "Oh, are you sure? It's really no problem for me."
You glance over your shoulder at the bell. A young couple walked though the door and took a seat. "Are you sure? They've got coffee grounds on them."
His lips twitched down, and he said nothing more on the subject.
"Well, if that's everything…" You trailed off.
"Do you like the circus?"
"Huh?" You blinked, "Um, I've never been."
"You should go visit."
Your smile started to strain. You can't say your not interested in visiting. In fact, you could see the circus from your balcony. The warm, yellow lights and colorful tents looked like something you shouldn't be lucky enough to see. You wanted to understand what you could only catch glimpses of. But with summer fading away faster than usual, you don't have the time nor money to spare.
Glancing back to a table, you see a couple seated together. They glance from the menu on the wall and back to you.
"Are you listening?" His voice cut though your distraction.
"I'm sorry?"
His smile stretched wider. He let out a polite chuckle, almost as if he understood something you did not. "I thought so."
Your face started to slightly heat up.
He shifted, his stiff movements seemed more like a machine than flesh and bone. He moved his hand from where it was rested on the table to his coat pocket. He pulled out a bright pink, almost childishly feminine, ticket. The words 'The Freak Circus Ticket' were written in big, golden letters on a black background. He held it up, and it was inches away from brushing against your apron, "Here. Have this and go visit. Try to tell me afterwards you didn't have chills."
You stared blankly at the ticket for a moment. Tickets, while not expensive, were certainly not cheap enough to hand out like candy. Principally, it would be a horribly idea to take this from a man who spooked you so.
"No thank you, I couldn't possibly take this."
He lifted the ticket closer to your face. "Don't worry, I already visited. I thought of going again, but I'll be leaving soon."
Looking beyond him, you can see the couple shifting in their seats. The door bell rang again. Someone's footsteps entered the shop. Your boss was in his office: it was jut you out here.
"I…"
His voice got more insistent. "Take it or sell it, it's your choice."
A woman walked up to the counter. From the corner of your eye, you see her glance around the shop. The man doesn't retract his hand.
if it gets him to stop...
You carefully pinch the ticket to take it from the man, "Alright, thank you."
His empty eyes crinkled as he smiled, "I'm glad someone will use my ticket." Finally, he turned his head in dismissal. It was a welcome comfort.
You shoved the ticket in your apron pocket, hearing it crinkle among pens and abandoned receipts. You scurried off to the couple and take their orders before talking to the women and grabbing a creme-filled eclair for her.
When you look back to the man's table, he's gone. Counting the dollar bills and change, he left the perfect amount.
How odd.
At the end of the day, when the streetlights had turned on and all costumers had left, you turned door sign to 'closed.' The sun had just barely left the horizon, and now it was dark. You were getting ready to take apart one of the espresso machines for cleaning. Your boss was picking up a few flyers off the tables. You heard the crinkle of the trashcan as he threw them out.
"Don't bother today." He called out. At your confused expression, he said, "I have to leave soon, and I don't want you staying this late too close."
Right, he was leaving early.
"Alright…" You hesitated. What did him leaving have anything to do with you leaving early? For your nit-picky boss to ask this… "Is everything alright?"
"I have an unexpected appointment."
You waited to see if he would add anything more. He did not. You nodded slowly, worries not eased.
He instructed, "Just wipe everything down and make sure the dishes are clean and ready for tomorrow. Leave everything else."
Once he was satisfied with his directions, he hoisted his bag to carry over his shoulder. He had taken off his apron and the lights in his office were off.
He really was leaving early. You wouldn't believe it if it didn't happen right before your eyes.
"Sounds good, boss. Have a good night." You lazily waved as he closed the door, bell ringing.
Now it was just you, your breathing, and the buzzing lights.
You don't really understand why he didn't want you staying late. Not like he had a problem with it before. Was it because of the missing people? It wasn't like it was going to happen to you. Maybe Carol's absence was freaking him out more than he let on. You were more likely to think she finally ditched her family rather than 'go missing,' or whatever people were theorizing. When she gets back, you were going to tease the shit out of her.
You just wish she at least called out. Was that so hard?
You slumped back against the counter, and you threw your head back with a loud sigh. How had your life gotten this complicated so fast?
You brought a hand to rub at your tired face. The smell of raw coffee grounds on your thin plastic gloves made your nose wrinkle. Gross. You ripped your gloves (really, the whole box is basically yours. You're the only one who wears the damn things) off and threw them in the trash. You didn't need to wear gloves all shift anymore, now that your bad hand was better, but habit had gotten the better of you.
Well, now that your boss wasn't here to stop you...
There was a pastry chiller built into the counter. Normally you werent allowed to have any, so you could only steal one when your boss wasn't here. Using your fully functional hand, you grab the oldest caramel and peanut butter cup. It was the one for display. You set it on a napkin. What your boss doesn't know won't hurt him. Plus, he owed you this, right? Calling you in after working all week. You deserve it.
You cut it in half with a small paring knife. Sticky caramel stretched from the knife as you pulled it out. You could see the shine from the hanging lights on the tempered chocolate coating. You eat one half, sweet caramel and rich peanut butter mixed beautifully with a crunch of dark chocolate. You hummed in pleasure. The other half sat on the napkin. You'll save the other half for home.
Mood lifted, you grab a damp rag and a small bucket of soapy water. You went to the farthest table from the door and started to wipe it down.
The jingling of the bell interrupted you.
"Sorry, we're closed right now!" You turned to the door, and stopped. It was tightly shut.
Huh… That was weird.
With a buzz, the lights went out, instantly turning your body cold.
Your skin prickled, and anxiety climbed up your throat, chocking you. Your boss's voice rings in your head. I don't want you to stay late, he said. You looked and looked around the coffee shop, squinting your eyes. You couldn't see anything past your outstretched hand, but you knew goosebumps were spreading across your arms.
No. You were letting doubts claim your rationality. If all the lights shut off synonymously, then that meant the breaker shut off. You were being hysterical. What trafficker would want some hillbilly like you?
Yet, you hadn't felt very reassured. Just to be safe, or so you told yourself, you would grab the paring knife off the counter. The one resting next to your treat.
Your steps were lighter than they had been in a long time as you tip-toed to the counter, snatching the knife. You continued to walk slowly. Dogs only chased prey that run. So, you remained in a painful limbo of uncertainty. all you could bring yourself to do was creep across the hard wood floors, guided only by the dim glow of streetlights though the windows.
You stumbled right into the breaker panel, tripping on the corner of the counter. That was enough momentum to make you scramble to open the plate and reset the breaker.
Click.
The sudden light made you squint. Everything was normal; tables and chairs were just how they had been. A sigh escaped you while your shoulders slumped. Then you giggled to no one: what a scare you had given yourself!
The door jingled. Seriously? How uncharacteristically irresponsible of your boss to leave the door unlocked.
You span to face the door, delirious joy gone. "Sorry, but we're closed— Oh."
The same performer stood in front of you. His tall frame obstructed the door behind him. His pure white face was stained with dripping blood. A few strands of hair hung wet: red streaked in his white hair.
"Are you alright? You're bleeding," you asked.
He tilted his head while gazing downward. Curious, you looked down to see what he saw. Tight in your grip was the small knife. The blade was covered in drying caramel and bits of chocolate.
You cleared your throat as you placed your impromptu weapon on the counter top with a embarrassingly loud clack. You mutter something about the dark.
To be perfectly honest, you never, ever wanted to see him again. You didn't even want him to see you. The thought of looking into his eyes after what he heard made you tense. A nasty part of you blamed him for your humiliation. Yes, you knew that it wasn't his fault; you should've blamed the man who spat the vitriol instead. But it felt easier to blame his weakness rather than the man's cruelty.
Look how far you've fallen. The younger you would feel so disappointed.
Your mouth was open, prepared to deny his refuge, but your eyes lingered on the blood. Perhaps he got hit again. Could you really live with yourself if you turned him away for your own broken ego? You couldn't risk losing any more sleep over this man.
You held your tongue, but a huff escaped instead, "Please take a seat at the counter, I'll grab a first-aid kit."
On the counter, across from the sink, was your treat. It had been knocked over in your hysteria. You glance to the performer. You were nauseous just looking at the blood. No doubt his day was worse than yours. You huffed, even his savor couldn't bring themselves to think kind thoughts about him.
You gently grabbed the other half of your reward, careful to only touch the napkin. You slid it towards him, not bothering to look him in the eye.
"Here. Don't worry," you added, "I'm already full. So, feel free to have it. It's good to get some carbs in you."
That was a lie. You wanted that crunchy chocolate and peanut butter caramel so bad. You swallowed back the drool in your mouth, turned to pull the first-aid kit out from under the employee sink. It made you strangely restless to have your back turned to him. You grabbed packs of gauze as carefully fast as you could manage. Then you slipped on your thin, plastic gloves.
When you deigned it appropriate to turn back, the performer was holding your leftovers like delicate china. He looked back up to you, and his face seemed to brighten, maybe. He was very hard to read.
You tore open a pack of gauze, and leaned in. You waited a second to see if he would bat your hand away, but he didn't. He merely waited, setting the chocolate down and moving his gloved hands to his lap. You gently dabbed at the blood, feeling mildly nauseous. How long has it been since you did something like this? Maybe when Carol had her black eye. Was that really only a few months ago? Felt like a lifetime.
A small pile of bloody gauze formed on a napkin before you deemed your work satisfactory. You tossed the gauze in the trash and peeled off your gloves, hopefully for the last time. Turning around, you flinched in surprise. The performer was back to his full height, looking down to you. You heard nothing.
Oh God, what should you say? Can you kick him out now?
"Do…Do you speak? Or is it, like, an act?" You mentally cringed. That came out wrong.
He didn't seem upset at your audacity. He glanced around the empty store, before stepping closer to you. Too close, actually. But curiosity kept you in place.
"I can't be seen talking."
His voice reverberated around in your skull, buzzing pleasantly. His voice was deeper than you would've thought, but it wasn't ill-fitting. He wore his voice with quiet luxury.
You felt a sense of childish wonder bloom in your chest, "So it's part of the act! That's has to be inconvenient, but pretty cool."
"Yes, my lady," Your wonder sputtered out like a dying flame, "I truly appreciate all your help."
You don't know why you're disappointed—you shouldn't be. Sure, it had felt so good to think he didn't see you that way, but you had to come back to reality. You stepped back, regained your composure, and introduced yourself. He didn't seem surprised. He most likely saw your name tag.
"I am the Pierrot, it's very nice to meet you."
You noted the use of 'the.' A Pierrot… A type of clown? Jester? Performer? But…
"Aren't they dressed in white?" You asked, confused. There was usually two of them, right? One sad in white, the other in colorful triangles. The other started with an H, you think.
Wait, did he say something? "Sorry, I wasn't listening—"
"Indeed, you are correct!" You repressed a cringe, but he thankfully quieted his voice, "We were required to…" he hesitated, "modernize my appearance. But my role remains the same."
"I wouldn't have been able to guess. Is that just me or do others get confused?" You ask.
"What other people think doesn't matter," He stopped himself, "it only matters that they enjoy our show."
"That's a good mindset to have, especially after today." Fuck! You kept saying stupid shit.
How many times do you have to learn your lesson before it sticks? Men have fragile egos; it's never a good idea to poke at them, but you keep doing it!
To your relief, he nodded with an air of aloofness, "I suppose we appear a little uncanny to the general population. It tends to unsettle people."
That was...an understatement.
Truthfully, you had never met someone who triggered your flight reflex quite as much as he did.
HIs costume didn't help matters. His outfit was made to take up space: his fool's cap was large, and it hung more like horns than hair. His sleeves and pants were puffed up, and then the ruffle around his neck was obtuse. The tassels with bells hung long and heavy around his neck. The red and yellows were visceral; the black only pretended to subdue the others.
It was overwhelming. How could anyone miss him among a crowd, even ignoring his height?
Not to even mention his face. You didn't feel intimidated (seeing a man curled up on the street tended to wreak any natural-borne weariness) but you understood why someone would be. After cleaning his face, you would now guess it was mask. An expensive mask. One where the edge was impossible to see, and one that could hide his eyes so completely.
You think you saw it move, but it was hard to hold a thought about it. The logistics melted into your brain and refused to surface. A mask felt better: more real.
"What about the performers on the street? Are they also pierrots?"
The people in pink tended to blend together in militaristic similarity. Any sense of identity you could've discerned was destroyed by the masks they wore. They seemed so cheap in comparison that you wondered if the Pierrot was even really wearing one.
Now that you're thinking about it, you've never met someone who admitted to working in the circus outside of costume. Maybe their masks were a way for protection?
"While they do help perform—we are a small cast after all," His expression turned slightly malicious. In your tired delirium, it was a bit comical. "I am the only Pierrot. The others are mere jesters and… harlequins."
Oh wow. He didn't even look at the man who hit him with as much malice as he said the word 'Harlequin.' What kind of work-place drama does a circus even have?
Actually, that sounded really funny…
"Do any of the others stay quiet? I don't imagine that's very convenient." You leaned back into the counter.
"I'm the only one who remains silent." You nodded. "But I will make an exception for when it's the two of us."
"Your secret's safe with me."
How entertaining this was. You, standing so close to a man in private, how scandalous! You jest, of course. But it was odd: you didn't even have an itching, almost repulsion-like, sensation you'd normally feel around grown men. You felt other things, certainly, but not that. Your boss wasn't even spared your disgust, and you trust him the most of any man you've known recently. Perhaps he wasn't even a man. Images of fantasy princesses in the suits of knight's flash though your mind. You could imagine a sense of solidary with him, if you chose to indulge in such a fantasy.
"Thank you, my—" he hesitated, almost imperceptibly, "—dear one."
You hardly had to time to think before he was reaching into some unseen pocket.
"And…" He pulled out a ticket. It looked the exact same as the one the customer gave you, except it was a brilliant red instead of pink. "I've brought a token of my appreciation."
It was a lot prettier than yours, "Thank you, but it's not necessary. You see…" You reached into your apron pocket, and past all the little random scraps, you pulled out the crinkled pink ticket. After the weirdness of the acquisition faded, you were a bit excited. "I already got one today. A man was very insistent I take it."
You rattled off your little story about the strange man in a blue suit, but the Pierrot didn't seem to be listening to you. He was staring at the ticket, his shoulders tensed and his fists clenched.
"My dear one, let me see it, would you?" It didn't sound like he was asking.
You acquiesced, some humor fading and worry taking its place. He snatched the ticket so fast you don't think you could have stopped him either way. He held the ticket up near his chest, out of polite reaching distance. Then with his other hand, he hid the ticket from view. You leaned forward; your eyes fixed on him.
Once he removed his hand, and the ticket was viable, your pink ticket was now his red one.
"That's some slippery fingers you've got there." You said, impressed, "But why?"
He melted back into his element: his posture relaxed as he gently took your hand to place the ticket in it. The fake claws lightly tickled your palm. His hand lingered for a moment before withdrawing, almost as if he needed to be sure you wouldn't drop it.
"That ticket was incorrect; you wouldn't have been let in with it." Dammit, you knew it was too good to be true. "Please, take mine instead."
"So it really was a fake?"
He nodded solemnly, his voice gentle, "Indeed, a counterfeit. Please do not take tickets from strangers. I wouldn't want you to be troubled at the entrance."
"Thanks, then." you said, "Why would someone hand out fakes like that?"
The Pierrot merely brushed it off, "Do not worry much about it now. When you visit, I can assure you that I will make you smile during my performance."
You blink at the non-sequitur. Are fake tickets really that common?
"Then I can't wait to see it." You glanced at the clock on the wall, faltering. "I really need to start getting ready to close." In his white hair, dried blood was starting to clump. "You should probably go home and wash your hair. You've got some blood in it."
The Pierrot touched at his hairline, feeling the clumped hair. "Yes, I shouldn't want to keep you any later. I had hoped to arrive earlier, but I didn't wish to cause you any distress."
If he walked in while costumers—or God forbid your boss—were here, while looking like that, he would certainly get chased out.
"No, no. It's all fine."
He paused before leaning in slightly more, "If you should feel you need it, I could certainly walk you home. It is quite dark outside."
Looking to the pitch darkness outside, it was a tempting offer. But the word 'whore' flashing in your mind. You refused. He seemed a little disappointed, but not frustrated. That was good.
He smiled at you in farewell. "I wish you a goodnight, my dear one."
He grabbed the peanut butter cup an napkin it rested on. He cradled it in his fingers, holding it close to his chest. He smiled, more brightly than you thought anyone could after today's shit-show.
"And thank you for your gift. I will treasure it." He said.
How was that the most embarrassing thing he said? You waved him off, looking anywhere else. "Don't sweat it. It's not a big deal."
Then, he was gone out the door. The chime of the doorbell mixed with the jingle of his bells. You were left with a queasy feeling in your stomach and a tingling warmth on your hand.
***
You closed your balcony door with a click, shivering at the draft. The lock was broken, so sometimes it would open slightly when you were gone. Today, it had opened more that usual. You were so distracted with the idea of a shower that you must have hadn't noticed it was open. You really needed to talk to building management about that.
You threw yourself on your bed, the springs protesting with small creaks. The TV ran in the background. You were freshly cleaned and fed, and now in pajamas. You shoved your head in your pillow, groaning as long as you can manage while hitting your legs into the bed. Today was absolutely disgusting. You dread going back to work tomorrow, almost feeling sick to your stomach.
You laid there, comfy in your bed, and massaged your lame pinky. It had always got cold fastest.
At least you made a weirdly attentive friend, hopefully. Your mind can't help but wander back to him: to his words. You were used to nicknames, but his seemed a little too intimate.
And now you were thinking way too much. You hoped sleep would come easily today.
You were so, so tired.