Phillip Carlyle always knew he never belonged in this life. He was the second child born to Margret and Arthur Carlyle. They were happy, at first. Phillip, in their eyes, would be the perfect child. The child that his older brother by six years, Edwin, could never be.
He was five when he started to show his parents wrong. He was creative, ingenious. He could do and solve things kids his age shouldn't even begin to comprehend. His parents were proud, and he was moved up two levels in his school. At school, there was a girl who was born with a defect, and had eyes set to far apart and no eyebrows or eyelashes. Children stayed away from her, but not Phillip. Phillip, who was her first friend. Phillip who was supposed to be the prefect child, the handsome, intelligent, the one to make Edwin jealous; not a friend to a freak.
He was eight when it happened. He was pulled out of school, and his father decided he would school him. Phillip, or Phil as he had been called by his deformed friend, had cried and pleaded why? His father had looked into his innocent blue-gray eyes and had simply said "discipline".
Home schooling was hard and boring. His father always pushed him, and kept him away from anything that seemed to be "not for his place." He couldn't draw or paint. He couldn't play soccer with the boys on the street. He wasn't even allowed to play pretend with his brother! He was, though, allowed to read. He was allowed to write, and it was from there that his future career of a playwright began. He could express what he wanted to do in words, his creativity flourishing across the page, colors flourishing in his minds in a way his parents had banned him from. Words were his life, now, and continued to be so with his entrancing penmanship with the fountain pen until he was ten.
Phillip was ten when it happened. He and his brother had grown close, Edwin even helping out with his writings. Edwin was even the one who taught Phil a differently writing style than the usual novelists, and had introduced him to the world of plays. He had walked into his older brothers room, bursting with joy about the first play he had wrote. It was about two brothers who helped each other find joy and happiness in a bland, plain world. He had walked in and saw his brother hanging from a noose, a letter connected to his shirt by sealing wax. He had screamed for his mother amd father before grabbing the letter and quickly reading it in Edwin's bed, ignoring the still figure hanging a foot off the ground. He had been unhappy with his life, unhappy with his parents unliking for himself and happiness and joy towards Phillip. He had wished Phillip a happy nice, and to see people for who they truly are, and to be his own man. His parents had rushed into the room, his mother breaking down and father cutting Edwin down. He had snatched the letter from Phillip, furry in his eyes after reading it, and had said words that changed his life forever. "Phillip Carlyle, you will no longer ever leave this house. You will be disciplined. You are the reason Edwin died." His mother had cradled Edwin's body as his father had dragged Phillip to the dark, cold cellar and locked him in.
It had been six years since Edwin, his best friend, had died. Phillip was now sixteen, and he denied everyone, even his mother, from ever calling him Phil. Once sun kissed, beautiful skin had gone pale. Once warm, emotional, curious eyes had gone cold, wary, piercing, and untrusting. Writings once filled with emotion, joy, and color were now serious, moral, and penetrating. He was used to the beatings. His father would yell at him for any tony mistake. Imperfect penmanship, incorrect grammar, insufficient word usage, a mistake in a math problem...life was living hell.
His mother never knew about the abuse. Years ago, his father had drilled into him that he was now useless, pathetic, and a burden. He was a burden to his father, and will not be one for his mother. He always wore a collared shirt and pants to cover the bruises, cuts, and scars. His back was littered with the lashes lf a belt or the horses whip. His torso and legs often had bruises. He had long ago found out how to deal with the pain. The best way to deal with pain was with pain, and that was how his brothers pocket knife had become his best friend.
When he was twenty, his works were finally published. All of them except for his first play. It was basically his life story, and he continued adding to it. The brothers were unnamed, and he had made the elder die by the others fault. He made the brothers life a living hell, filled with a very abusive father and serious depression. He wrote of the brothers slow but sure deterioration. He wrote about the brother's play career. He even finished to drawing he had meticulously, secretly drew for ten years: a drawing of his happy brother and a stoic him.
Alcohol drowned his sorrows and made life a little easier to bear with. His arms had self inflicted scars, a deep ones on his wrist and running from his wrist to the crook of his elbow, when he was about to end it all, but had turned back just before he went beyond nicking an artery. His parents loved his income from the successful plays and filled theatre's, but it didn't bring any joy to him.
He was twenty-two when he was found by Phineas Taylor Barnum. He was on the side of the road when the man had come up to him and offered to buy him a drink. Phillips heart had pounded. He was rarely allowed outside the home, and everything was an adventure to him. He read the papers, and had heard of Mr. Barnum and his show. It had been going on for a few months, and he had seen the happiness on the exiting audience's face. Honestly, he loved the circus Barnum had made just from what he heard. Collecting multiple types of people as equals, not treated them as the so-called "freaks" the papers called them.
He had gone inside the bar, and Phineas had almost immediately made the offer. It was stunning his performance, his fingers dancing in front of his face, his words spun into a song. His answer was yes, but his parents? Years of abuse on his fathers hand made him fear disobedience, so he got up to leave, grabbing his hat before he hears, "but I guess I'll leave that up to you?" he had stared at the door before smiling for the first time in more than a decade, and it reached his eyes, turning his eyes innocent as they once were before turning back into their piercing cold orbs. Then, his world had burst into color. He danced, put up the show. Made a deal and ran with Barnum to the circus, where he traded hats with Barnum and tipped his hat at a bearded lady who then laughed. And then he saw her, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen swinging from the trapeze. Her name was Anne, he learned, and then he said "I din't have an act" and she left, Phillip feeling more useless than ever. But now, he smiles. He was part of the circus. And his act? Well, if he could stretch it a bit, it would be to discover freedom.
And that is where his world began.