A/N: Rated M for blood and gross shit, and maybe the language. My interpretation of a circus freak might be way off (and I know it is haha), but I just did this for fun~ So if there are any inaccuracies, I know about them too xD
if you see any spelling mistakes, tell me and I'll be sure to try and fix it~!
also thanks to Lamby for motivating me to work on this fic~ She's great, yo
Thank you for reading- I hope you like it!
Beyond the sea blue light
I met the love of my life
She'd rather see me dead than face me
I like your starry eyes
They yell, "Surprise, surprise!"
I'm in love, but not for long
I always wake up, staring at the same moldy ceiling
Hearing the same bickering between my parents
With the same unfinished homework sprawled across my floor
Sometimes I cry. Other times I'm just annoyed with having to get out of bed. But most of the time, I manage to drag myself out and get ready for the day. The sun leaking through the tattered bed sheet that doubled as a curtain tinted the room to a dull green to match the fabric, I stumble from my blankets and get my shit together. Or at least—There is an attempt. The process of waking up is always intertwined with trying to ruffle though my many deaths, wondering how I went out last time.
This go around, I had a drunk accident and split my head open. It was a Friday, I'm sure, because my buddy Stan had won a track meet or something. But since I'd take any excuse to celebrate with booze, I was all over the place.
While brushing my teeth and mulling the situation, I sort of smirk to myself; thinking of the comedy of the night in whole. Standing on top of a flimsy wooden bench propped up on a mountain cliff, I remember flipping the moon off and calling it all sorts of things.
Kyle, god bless his heart, was the only sober one of the three of us, and he was busy trying to pull Stan away from the driver's wheel.
"Fuck you, moon! Wh- what's your game anyway…" I remember slurring, with a bottle still in my hand. I was piss drunk, free of all responsibilities, and I couldn't be happier. With the small price of rotting my liver, I was allowed to be rid of my condition and just enjoy myself.
Naturally, I'm a reckless kid. But when I'm boozed up everything just seems… Better. Sugar coated; the sweet fucked up vision of scotch gave me a sense of peace. Like I was whole and giddy.
But fuck that, right? I collapsed forward, tripping over the small barrier used to keep people from falling, and plunge to the bottom of the dirt, landing head-first into a rock and sending my brains everywhere.
"Oh my god, they Killed Kenny!"
Oh god, spare me.
I spit the mint toothpaste out into the sink, running my tongue along my teeth and feeling the spaces where two of them used to be. Without looking up into the mirror, I return to my room and look for something to wear. After I scrape together some not-too-dirty-looking pieces of clothing, I gather the assigned, untouched papers and stuff them in my backpack.
I never bother to look for a mirror, because I'll know what I'll see; a lanky, pale blonde with missing teeth and a naturally arrogant look.
It's not like I try to come off as some sort of douche-bag, but I always seem to pull it off. I'll admit—I'm a pervert and an asshole, but no douchebag. People say it's the way I walk, that since I stroll around with a serene sort of smile plastered onto my face that I must be full of myself.
I should be offended by this, and maybe I am to some point. But I can't argue it, I do look pretty cocky sometimes. Hell, though, it's not like I can do anything about it. So I smile most of the time, that's not so much of a bad thing right? I bet I'd look a lot weirder if my tall body tried to hunch down and stare at the floor while walking down the hallway. At least I can carry myself in a decent way.
Mostly, I'm only forced to look at myself 3 times a day. Once in the morning, zipping up my orange parka and checking the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. Maybe I'd run by a reflective surface at school, and have a quick glance at myself. And, if I make it to that time of night, I'd examine my bare body before and after taking a shower; tracing faded scared that only I could seem to explain.
You don't really understand; I really fucking hate looking at myself. My freckles piss me off. My un-fitting, wide blue eyes piss me off. My figure pisses me off. And my hands most definitely pisses me the hell off. They're boney, like the rest of me, but they are so rough. I feel like they're the only things that really define my never-ending stomachache that was life. Calluses covered my fingertips, and they were usually a burning red. You know; the type of burning that leaving you folding and unfolding your palms because it's so uncomfortable.
So if I can help it, I don't look at myself and I make sure others can't see the majority of me. When I was younger, I'd completely let my infamous orange jacket swallow me whole, leaving only a small space for my eyes to peer out of.
I grew out of that stage eventually, but never stopped loathing the look I get from others. The look that says "Wow, look at that obnoxious poor kid." And "at least I'm not him."
Fuck that. Fuck all of the people who think of me like that.
But I try not to get too mad about it; if it was their fault for bring judgmental pricks, I'd be a huge dick to every person I've ever fucking came in contact with. But I've come to terms that everybody is a judgmental prick in their own way, and I leave it at that.
I stare at my door before I leave for the bus stop, and begin lecturing myself, "This is Kenny McCormick." I have to mutter "Anonymous cockroach. You like sex, beer, smoking, and the occasional drug party.", I'm having to adapt to what I can only explain to you as a sort of identification crisis.
I'm certain that my blonde hair follows me wherever I go, and sometimes I wonder if it's the same for the rest of my body. Do my scars just disappear, replaced by the others that have been inflicted on me? I'm not sure, but I know that my same voice, save the redneck accent, is what I hear when I shriek for mercy in another suspected body.
"GOD, PLEASE!" My eyes nailed to the ground and my face dry with being used to unheard begging. I can't look up, not being seemed fit to look upon a human. "please.. Have mercy.." My voice is quivered, as I'm yanked to my feet and pushed from my living space.
I'm dragged down the same dirt covered corridor, lined with the other performers. Some are smiling, some are sleeping, and the others are weeping in sheer agony. They call for me ("angel boy, angel boy, look this way!"), But I don't look up; I never look up. If I do, I'll meet the stares of the 'masters', and they'll make me pay for daring to gaze at them
The air reeks of urine and body odor, some of them splashing around in waste buckets. I can't see it, but I can smell it. I know how they are. Cracked smiles are pressed up against the bars, as the corner of my eye catches one of them. She—it spit at my boss, provoking a harsh scold and what I can only assume is an arrogant chuckle. They'll pay for that.
I near the center ring, the vibrating of cheers making a lump form in my throat.
The lights are blinding.
My constrained hands lead me to lose my ability to carry my starved body, as I crash to my knees. My cries have fallen silent, because by this point, I've been smeared with bitter defeat. The sound of thousands of people ogling at me fills the large arena, with "ohhs", "ahhs", and a couple of "My lord, it's the angel!". Their shrieks almost drown out the cocky voice of my superior, but not quite.
As chains are clanked around my ankles, I hear him lean over to his coworker and hissing, "Make sure the mess is cleaned up by the end of intermission, huh?". I know what he's talking about and I clench my teeth. I'm panting, on the edge of puking my nervous guts out , but I don't. I never do. Because if I do, that bile will become my dinner for the night as a punishment.
The sound of the audience makes me want to rip my ears out. Their excited cheers are not from admiration or love; but of pure distain.
I only leave myself to try and focus on my clothes, worn and dirty. But, the smirk I try to force falls dry. The comedy of the whole situation, I remind myself, is the night in whole. How are things going to end this time? Aw man, it's great.
I get my head split open.
I dance my eyes around my torn outfit, but am surprised to see it's not the usual primary colours decorating it. Instead, I was dressed in a violet textile, with neon green circled dotted all over. Skin tight, it made it easy for me to feel a heavy type of cape draped on my back, striking me in an all too familiar sense.
"Please, not this... Don't take this, too." I silently hoped, feeling my sanity crumble as I crouch down to the ground further. My lips meet the dirt, with my grossly wet face trying to choke out a hoarse scream, but to no avail.
Screaming is a human benefit.
Paint is cracked across my face, probably not cleaned up from the time before. I feel its weight caked on my face, seeping into my skin. The air hits it, as I feel a cheap re-application. The design they've put on me this time is a mystery, and I'm not really sure I want to know, but my back heaves up and down as I'm comforted by the same thought-
"TONIGHT-!"
My heart drops, and I howl in desperation. The night has begun, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
There never is.
