Disclaimer: Nope, don't own it.

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The scars never bothered me. I'm quite fond them. They're like a badge of honor, a way to stand out in the crowd. Being like everyone else is boring. I love how people stare. Oh! Just take this man! He's suspicious of me. Maybe I'll mug him, or better yet, kill him. I won't give him any hints. I love how they all whisper and shrink back in fear. Who am I to them? What must I look like? Even before the make-up—the war paint, as some call it—people have gawked at me. So much attention! It brings a smile to my forever smiling face.

I can't remember how I got these scars. Doesn't matter. My past began fading years and years and years ago. Even my own name would slip my mind sometimes. Ah, I hated that name anyway. I can't remember it now at all, but I do know I hated it. Too ordinary. I wanted to give myself a new name, one I didn't have to share with other people.

Oh, oh! I remember the poster on the brick wall. The circus was in town. I'd never been to one, I think. There was a clown in the lower corner, forever smiling. It gave me so many ideas. Ideas buzzing in my skull!

I decided to try something out, so I went to the nearest costume shop. Strange little shop. I wasn't stared at as much in there. They would say the freak doesn't stand out among the freaks. I found the face paint, but I didn't really know what I was looking for. Then there was some white greasepaint. Every clown had a white face, right?

I went home after that. Did I mention my mother? Such a stuck-up, irritating woman. It was the money that made her that way. She hit it big and WAM! Just oh-so-obnoxious from then on. My father? Well, who knows where he went.

I remember experimenting with the make-up. My face, ghostly white. I looked dead. I took my mother's bright red lipstick and smudged it onto my lips and up my scars. That clown's image was burned into my head. The eyes needed something. Some eye shadow? Nope. Too light. Ah, the mascara was pure black. It suited my dark sense of humor. I loved how it looked, menacing and fascinated all rolled into one.

But my hair? It didn't fit with my new look. It was starting to get long. I didn't get it cut because I knew how much my mother hated it. She didn't like much about me. Didn't get me, didn't think I was funny. She needed to smile more. She only did when she was drunk. A happy drunk, but an annoying drunk. She wasn't good for much. Hmm, my hair . . . Oh, yes. I went back to the costume shop to get some dye. I sported my new look on the streets wearing my favorite purple coat. I wonder what happened to it? Ah! A man tried to light me on fire once. That's right! Ruined my favorite coat, so I ruined his face. Oh, the people on the streets gave me such wonderful reactions. I stood out so much that they didn't even bother trying to be discrete about their stares. A few children seemed to like it, though. They smiled and waved at me. Amusing. I waved back and laughed when their parents, so horrified, shielded them and ran off.

In the shop, though, I stood out too much that time. I got more funny reactions. The clerk didn't even recognize me. I picked up green hair dye. That clown had green hair, and green went well with purple, didn't it? I laughed and threw bills at the clerk. I felt so alive!

I dyed my hair in the bathroom sink. Didn't stand out all that much, but I could see it when the light hit it just right. Now my look was complete.

I wonder what clowns do in the circus to make people laugh? Pies to the face? Water that squirts out of plastic flowers? So boring! I prefer explosives and maybe some knife throwing. That sounds like fun! Maybe strap a person to a large piece of wood and put little bombs around them. Aim for the bombs and watch limbs fly! Ooooh, I want to try that now!

Right, back to the story. I heard my mother come home, stumbling through the front door. Just a bit tipsy. Surprise, surprise. When she saw me coming down the stairs, she yelped. Probably thought I was a robber.

I laughed and said, "It's just me."

It took her a moment to find her voice. "W-what the hell? What are you—"

"Shush, shush, shush." I walked up to her, swaying a bit from giddiness. "You won't have to worry about it anymore. You see," I said, holding my arms out wide, "I feel like I've broken out of my shell. I'd say it's about time to leave the nest, don't you?"

She tripped over her words before shrieking, "What are you talking about? You look completely ridiculous! Is this a joke?"

"No joke," I replied, waving a finger in front of her face. "I'm leaving tonight. It's not as though I had a lot of packing to do."

"You're not going anywhere!"

She reached out to grab my arm, but I dodged and grabbed hers instead. Suddenly, I pulled a knife out from my pocket and held it to her face. My mother froze, eyes wide with that delightful fear.

"You have no right to tell me what to do," I hissed, glaring at her. Then I abruptly smiled, my giddiness returning, and I put the blade in her mouth. "Do you remember how I got these scars?"

She was too petrified to speak.

"No? Well, that's fine. I prefer to come up with my own story anyway."

After waiting a moment longer, soaking in the fear she was giving off, I released her and headed towards the door.

"Wait . . . you . . . "

I stopped and peered over my shoulder.

Bravery flashed in those eyes, and she shouted, "I will not have a joker for a son!"

Cocking my head, I turned around to face my mother. Then I burst out laughing. It was perfect! I was quite fond of playing jokes on people, after all. But how ironic that my mother should give me my new name. I had to give her a thank you gift.

I strode up to the woman, grabbed hold of her face, and asked, "How can the dead have a son?" I sliced her face open, laughing maniacally as she screamed, the blood getting on my hands. She collapsed to the floor, still shrieking in pain, but I simply turned around and walked out the door.

The past doesn't really matter; it never mattered. I make it up when the time calls for it. I'll be whatever I have to be to survive, to blend in when necessary. And a little killing here or a little exploding there doesn't hurt. All I want is to have fun.

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A/N: Because he can't remember anything of his past, this is just another story he made up for his own entertainment. Oh, and I've never written in his POV before, so constructive criticism is welcome. I wanted to write this as a sort of challenge for myself, and I'm really not sure if I got his voice down pat. Any advice would be helpful.