Page 95 of Circus From Hell

“I’m just angry,” I lie. “He shouldn’t be hurting you.”

Arlo smiles sadly, and it breaks my heart. “Thank you for caring about me.”

That’s the final straw that makes me look away from him. No one should be thanking someone for that. I’ll take care of him for as long as I can. I feel attached to him like the way he’s attached to drawing ink across his arms, creating patterns and hiding them beneath a jumper.

Arlo stands up, and I follow, itching to grab his wrist. He waits in front of me, like he’s not sure what to do, and then he wraps his arms around me. I can feel my heart beating uncomfortably hard, and I force myself to hug him back. I’ve never enjoyed too much physical attention, but Arlo is small and warm. He’s perfect, really.

But broken.

Maybe I can fix him.

How can I when I can’t fix myself? I hate the world, everything in it and around me. Except this boy.

“Now!” Nancy shouts.

He pulls back, smiles sadly again, and walks around me to the door. I don’t know why watching him leave feels so final. Dooming. My stomach plummets, and I follow my instinct.

Arlo’s body is significantly lighter and smaller than mine, and he makes barely any noise without trying as he walks down the stairs. It’s a fight for me to avoid the creaking floorboards with every step, and I sneak my head around the staircase as Arlo reaches the bottom step. Nancy grabs his forearm and drags him towards the living room.

I can hear voices downstairs as I follow after and put my eye to the crack in the door, keeping myself hidden as I watch the scene unfold.

Two strangers—a woman in a deep red dress that looks like it sparkles when it catches the light and a man dressed in a black silk suit—sit on the couch. My father leans back in his recliner, conversing with the man, and Nancy is setting out a tray of drinks on the coffee table. And between them all, in the middle of the small room, is Arlo, standing like he isn’t sure what to do with his hands or where to let his gaze rest.

“Well, tell me what you think,” my father offers, gesturing his hand at my stepbrother.

The woman switches which leg is folded over the other as the man stands and straightens his expensive suit jacket. I can only see the back of his head, and I’m fixated on the way Arlo tracks him. Eyes wide like he’s terrified and throat bobbing as he swallows.

The man grabs Arlo’s wrist and drags up his arm before releasing it to slap against his side, as if he’s testing the weight. He pulls at Arlo’s t-shirt, threads his hand through his curls to examine the strands, and kicks his leg between his feet to widen his stance. He’s tracking him like something to be inspected, and my blood boils as I watch.

“Small. Weak. He wouldn’t last a month.” The man finally turns, and it’s the evil grin on his lips that makes me realise why Arlo looked so terrified. He’s looking at my father like he’s pleased with Arlo’s thin arms and short height. His eyes are malicious, and his lips look slightly too big for his face.

“He only has one meal a day,” Nancy explains, sitting on my father’s lap. Arlo watches the pair and swallows again. “That’s when we give him the benzos. Keeps him sleepy.”

I should have known. The swaying, the momentary losses of focus, the drowsiness—they’ve been drugging him.

“What do you think?” the man asks, and the woman stands. They swap places, and she narrows her painted eyes on Arlo as she circles his body like a predator, scrutinising him harder than her partner had.

“If we fattened him up, would he fight?”

Nancy and Dad exchange a look. “No,” Nancy answers, and the woman frowns.

“I like a fighter. The bidders like fighters too.”

“But they also like easy breakers,” the man counters, and my stomach twists as I slowly start to realise what they’re referring to.

Bidding.

Our parents are selling Arlo.

To people who want to break. To people who like fighters.

My vision turns red. The strangers keep prodding and touching Arlo, and I can tell he doesn’t understand what’s going on. He looks confused and scared and out of it.

“I think we’ll take him tonight. You’ll get half up front now and the other half when he sells.”

“That’s not what we agreed,” my dad argues, pushing Nancy off to stand. “Full up front. Or the boy stays with us.”

I stumble back, my hands vibrating with anger.