I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.
But I couldn't not write after seeing that picture.
Beauty and the Beast: A Freak Show Fairytale
Life in the Freakshow
Children, teenagers, anyone interested in escapism, often dream of running away and joining the circus.
The carnival.
The life of hedonism and freedom.
And though it is true that carnival people and others of such persuasion do have a different set of rules, laws, and justice to guide them, their lives are difficult in their own way.
The evenings of pleasure-filled orgies and opium parties are prevalent, yes.
But so are the days of toil and care.
Mornings of aching bones and sore muscles.
Afternoons of long thoughts and longer hours.
So it was with Ethel Darling's Carnival of Wonders.
Morning rise with the sun.
Laterine visits. An unpleasant, yet human necessity.
No indoor plumbing, not for a free-living carnie.
Sipping coffee from chipped cups, brewed strong and bitter for those of the troupe requiring a bit more 'umph' to greet the new day.
Breakfast. Eggs and sausages and hotcakes when times were good.
Porridge and toast when monies stretched thin.
Then to the chores.
Always the chores.
Laundering. Tent sweeping. Care of the few domesticated animals and their offspring.
Post meal cleanup and pre-meal prep.
Pulling down tents and discontinued attractions.
Putting up the new and refreshing the well-worn.
Everyone pitched in. Everyone helped.
To their best talent and skill.
And sometimes not, when the work had to be done.
Morning was the best time to work.
Morning and early afternoon.
The longer the day stretches, the less willpower one has to get done what needs to be done.
Or the more possibility of a crisis or distraction that will put the entire troupe behind schedule for the next show.
And so, everybody works.
Roustabouts. Performers.
Females and males.
Young and old alike.
"Angel, we need your boy over here!"
She looked away from the banner she and Evie were touching up.
"What?" she called back, shielding her eyes from the glaringly obtrusive sun with one hand.
Frankie rolled his eyes and pointed.
Behind and near her.
Michael's self-assigned position.
"Him! Wolfy! Whatcha call 'im?"
She narrowed her eyes at the scruffy roustabout.
"Michael. His name is Michael."
The man nodded, gesturing impatiently.
"Yeah, yeah. Michael. We need him!"
She looked back over her shoulder.
Saw the uncertainty in his dark eyes.
The boy.
The boy who was taller, bigger, and stronger than her.
Looking for all the world worried and a little scared to leave her side.
"It'll be okay," she whispered. "We talked about this. I won't disappear while you're gone. Go on."
He clenched his jaw.
And went.
Angelica watched him for a moment, holding the rope to raise the latest tent.
He was too attached to her, she knew that.
And she knew she didn't mind.
It was comforting, knowing he was right there.
Knowing he was devoted to her.
More than anyone had ever been to her before.
But she knew it bothered the others. And that it should bother her.
So she turned her back.
And focused on the sign.
"See Legless Suzi!"
"The Half-Woman Who Walks on Her Hands"
Angelica sighed.
Suzi.
That was another thing.
She kept a cozy, simple trailer. Seemed more involved and sociable in the past weeks since Angelica and Michael had been bunking with her than ever before.
Knit.
She liked to listen to old swing music in the evening on her record player and knit.
And chat.
Seemed to take particular joy in brushing Angelica's long hair. When she let her.
Run her strong, gentle fingers through it.
Braid it.
It was soothing. Relaxing.
Never had a family of her own, so she said. Not really in the cards.
And so she played out on Angelica.
Brushing her hair, twining.
And, of course, worrying.
About the weather.
About food.
The waning interest of the carnival.
And about Michael.
Because he was a boy.
Angelica's boy.
Suzi pursed up her lips tight and didn't say anything when she saw them cozied up together in rest.
They didn't seem to be doing anything.
But what would happen when they were older?
The life and environment of a carnie was in no way sheltered or straitlaced.
But the girl and her wolfboy were both young.
Too young.
And too naïve, in Suzi's mind.
And she didn't know what to do with them.
Ethel advised patience, caution.
And Ethel was usually right.
So Suzi kept quiet.
Tended to what needed tending to.
And cared about them, her children who were not her children.
"Maybe you could help care for the goats. They're quiet and calm and they don't try to talk to you."
It had been a good suggestion from Evie. One of the better ones she'd heard.
The reality hadn't gone so well.
Angelica had taken them to the pen, explained the duties, and introduced Michael to Bessie.
Bessie the four fingered goat herder, not Bessie the milk cow.
She had smiled at him.
Patted his arm with her thumbless hand.
And gently ignored him as he tried to ignore her opposable-less appendage.
"They're real quiet and sweet," she said. "They like people so watch your shirts if they get hungry."
Then she took him into the pen.
Three goats were there. Chewing, chewing, chewing.
Until he stepped inside.
Then they stopped.
Went rigid as the scent of him wafted into their snouted nostrils.
And stared in accelerating fear at the thin, blond haired boy.
And his depthless eyes.
Then they started bleating.
Not the careless Heyya Bob, how's the munchin' over there bleating.
But an insistent, frantic oh my god, Bob, where's the wolf, I can't see the wolf, do you see the wolf, Bob hysterics.
Then they started leaping all over the pen, knocking over posts and banging off each other.
"Get out, get out!" Bessie shouted, yanking them back with too much dexterity for a woman with one no thumbed hand.
They scrambled out, slammed the gate closed and dashed around the corner, out of sight of the maddened grass-munchers.
Gasping deep breaths of adrenaline, Bessie stared at them.
"What the hell was that?" Angelica panted.
Bessie stared at them.
Michael.
And just didn't answer.
Michael was helping pound the nails into the ground to stabilize a new tent.
Or trying to.
He kept missing and hitting his thumb.
"Arhhh!"
Everytime he missed, he'd let out a little snarl or growl of anger or rage.
And his aim was terrible.
"Arhhh!"
Angelica stayed where she was inventorying crates of supplies.
Jack had commissioned Michael's help that day, jumping in with the rest of the troupe to try and work with the boy find his niche where he could help.
"Arhhh!"
Hammering obviously wasn't it.
Michael's patience snapped.
"Arhhh!"
He reared back and flung the frustrating implement as far as he could in tantrum.
"Ouch! Hey!"
Michael's nostrils flared in surprise.
And then he ran for it.
She found him sitting on the step of her old trailer, hunched over, drawing in the dirt with a stick.
"Hey."
He didn't look up.
"It's okay, Mattie's not really hurt." She smirked. "It hit him in his fat butt."
Michael didn't look up.
"Michael, look at me."
He did, gaze wavering somewhere around her collarbone.
"You don't have to be perfect. It's okay to make mistakes."
His dark eyes remained concentrated ashamedly on her neckline.
"Look," she said offering her hand. "Just come with me and apologize to Mattie, okay?"
He did look up at her then and she saw the fear in him at the prospect of the social interaction.
"Come on," she cajoled. "It's the right thing to do. Just shake his hand, say 'I'm sorry' and it'll be okay."
Obediently, Michael rose.
And went with her.
They approached the rotund man slowly.
The man rubbing his generous posterior and grumbling.
". . . nowhere like a bat outta . . ."
He looked up at their approach.
"Well, if it ain't the world's worst carpenter," he groused darkly.
And Michael flinched.
Glanced at Angelica surreptitiously.
Who nodded a subtle encouragement.
Michael seemed to force himself to let go of her hand.
And took a step toward the walking wounded.
"I'm sorry I hit you with the hammer."
It was the longest sentence he had said to anyone in the camp besides Angelica.
The rubbernecking carnies took a surprised, collective earful at his clear and simple speech.
Some of them had never even heard him speak at all before then.
Doubted if he even could.
Mattie himself had muttered to others if he howled instead of talked.
And found now himself tossed in with the slightly surprised.
Caught between continued anger and new interest at the boy.
Who slowly raised his hand in offered shake the way he had seen other men in the camp do from time to time.
Mattie looked at it.
"Aw, come on, Matt," someone, possibly Paul, called out. "Hard for him to miss a target that big, 'specially when it's jutting up in the air while you're lookin' for your lost ham sandwich!"
A scattering of laughter followed this statement and the big man's face reddened, causing Michael to all but flee a second time.
Then the moment broke and the sore man snorted, his face breaking into a good-natured grin.
"Oh what the hell, kid," he shrugged. "Just aim it at a tree next time insteada me, wouldja?"
And engulfed Michael's hand in his own.
Eliciting an approving smattering of applause from their audience.
Michael looked around at the gathered, his face red.
Then to Angelica, smiling and clapping.
And then he smiled.
Just a little.
Hey, hey, what's up, wonderful readers? This chapter's mine so hopefully you enjoyed being in the mind of a goat. Oh yeah, and the other stuff too. ;)
Thanks to midnightrebellion86 and anonymouscsifan for your chapters, you guys are very gracious.
