Page 86 of Circus From Hell

I look up to see them towering over me, snarling and waiting for me to leave.

I’ve thought long and hard about what their deaths would entail, but I never took that step. I wish I had.

My eighteenth birthday, and I’m on the pavement, with barely any belongings to call my own.

They warned me this would happen. I thought they’d at least let me finish my morning wank before chucking me out. No such luck.

“Can I at least⁠—”

“No,” she spits before slamming the door.

I’ve been in this orphanage my whole life. No one has ever wanted me, not even my own mother, and now I have nowhere to go.

Great.

A man clears his throat from beside me. I scurry to pick up my bag and get out of his way—the bruises from Matron’s whip are still fresh two days later, so I don’t want to give anyone else a reason to hurt me.

It still doesn’t rival the internal pain I live with every day. The pain that drives me crazy.

“Stand down, young man.”

The stranger’s voice makes me freeze. It’s assured but scratchy. When I look up, it’s his bright white hair that catches my attention. It stands upright and spiky, like he’s been electrocuted, and he’s wearing a long red tail coat.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“The master of the ring,” he states. He holds his hand out for me, and when I hesitate to accept it, he raises an eyebrow. “The name’s Kreo.”

“I don’t have a name,” I huff, and I let him drag me up to stand.

He places his hands behind his back and looks me up and down, openly examining me. Eventually, after an awkwardly long time of being scrutinised, he hums. “You’ll do nicely. Follow me, young man. If you want a reason to live, that is.”

Surely he can’t know suicide is my plan? I don’t have anything to live for, no one to call a friend or family, and the pain in my head is getting to the point of completely unbearable. Death doesn’t scare me; living with myself does.

Would I consider myself depressed? I don’t know. I’m not sad. I’m not miserable. I’m just fucked. I have morbid thoughts and find comfort in tormenting the other boys in the orphanage—that brings me the most joy in life—but there isn’t much point in being on this earth.

That’s why I follow this strange man. Kreo. Because I have nothing else, and I may as well see what he wants before I find a tree to hang myself from. Maybe I could do it outside a nursing home. Would that scare some old cunt to death? The thought makes me laugh, and I notice Kreo turn to look at me briefly as I follow behind him with my bag on my shoulder.

I don’t know where he’s leading me. I’ve been in this cold and dreary town all my life, but I’ve never explored. I’d steal the older boy’s drugs and sneak out into the alley behind the orphanage until the early hours to take them, and I’d always have a whipping awaiting me when I returned. Not that I minded; it distracted me from the pain deep inside my head. And the weed from the older boys helped too.

The concrete pavement is damp and spotted with puddles from the rain earlier in the day. It feels like everyone’s watching me, like they know I’m a degenerate who doesn’t deserve to be here and should be halfway to the afterlife by now.

We walk through the town until Kreo turns into a pub. It’s dark, mostly empty, and has the thick smell of stale beer. It reminds me of Matron’s husband.

“Two whiskies, please,” Kreo says at the bar. The man behind the counter doesn’t look our way before nodding and grabbing two glasses. When he’s filled them with light brown liquid, Kreo grabs the glasses and leads me deeper into the pub. I follow behind like an obedient puppy, eyeing the few other patrons and the lousy, dirty décor.

He chooses a table in the back corner of the room. He sits down and waves at the chair opposite him for me to join.

“What were you doing on the street, boy?”

I drop my backpack to my feet. “I’m eighteen now. The orphanage doesn’t want me.”

He wraps his hand around the glass and brings it to his lips. He watches me as he takes a sip before gesturing to the other glass. He doesn’t stop staring expectantly until I grab it and bring it to my nose. The smell makes my nose scrunch—again, it reminds me of Matron’s husband—but I bite the bullet and take a sip like Kreo clearly wants.

The harsh liquid slips down my throat, and I cough against the intrusion.

“That tastes like shit.”

Kreo huffs a laugh and sets down his glass. “You might find that it helps your head.”