Page 96 of Circus From Hell

How could they do that? How could my father do that? How could Arlo’s own mother do that?

Arlo’s confused and scared eyes find mine as I back away into the kitchen without thinking. His bruised cheek and look of terror are the last thing I see before I fall against the countertop, grasping the edge and sucking in a deep breath. But it does nothing to console the war raging inside of me. The disgust. The betrayal. The hurt.

I can’t let Arlo go with them.

I can’t let Arlo be taken.

My hands search the grey countertop hurriedly, my vision fading in and out, like the fury is fuelling my movements. I don’t know what I’m doing when my palm wraps around a handle. It’s stiff and sleek and follows me as I retreat to my previous hiding spot.

But I’m not hiding anymore.

They’re still poking and prodding at Arlo’s small, slim body.

It makes the fire inside of me flame brighter, hotter, raging tenfold.

I move without thought.

I see red-painted fingers around a slender, pale neck.

And then I see nothing.

Someone’s screaming. A woman. She’s on the floor.

My knife dives in and out of her chest, her cries of protest thinning out as people yell around me.

I black out.

My knife finds another victim. Nancy.

Blood squirts out her neck as I slice the blade across her flesh.

“Don’t ever touch my little brother again,” I grunt, stabbing her pallid face and marring it with bright red blood.

My vision fades in and out. I have no control.

I find the suited man. He’s begging the woman to wake up.

But she’s dead.

I killed her.

He doesn’t even look at me.

The blade dives into the back of his neck, in and out, in and out. The noises fall on my ears, making my lips drag up in a smile. I’m protecting Arlo. Poor, little Arlo, who I want to destroy, to keep, to build back up, to love.

My father is yelling. Screaming in a way I’ve never heard before. Not when my mother died. Never.

He’s pointing his finger at me. There’s red flushed across his entire face, and it meshes into the red surrounding my vision as I stalk forward, blood dripping from my knife, my hands, my face.

His eyes are full of fear and fury, but the fury drops as I keep taking steps forward. My knife inches towards his chest, and he backs into the wall, blocking himself in.

I see all the times he held my face still and forced me to watch grainy films of death so pure and terrifying that I sobbed. I see the times he pinned me to the floor and made me take his fists to my face until I stopped reacting. I see those clowns, circling that convulsing body, laughing, mocking, smiling.

My own father. A beater. An abuser.

“Micha? Son! No!”

I dive in.