There are two spots of light in my blackness. Through them I can see my hands, dirty from the chores of the day, and callused from the labours of the years. I can also see the little toy I have fabricated from a child's discarded blanket, and the silver chimes I've fashioned from littered bottle caps. It looks like the monkey Lombardi sports on his shoulder—in my mind, at least. In the overwhelming blackness that imprisons my face, the two spots of light that are the eyeholes also reveal to me my other prison: the mocking bars of my circus cage.

As much as the symbolism of light against darkness should ignite hope and affection within me, it does not; in fact, it ignites just the opposite. I hate the light. I hate it even more than I hate the darkness. The light serves only to remind me of my prison, and that another day has broken upon the evil of my life. I am not like other humans. Perhaps I am not human at all…perhaps I really am the child of Satan. Demons hate light as well, and I am deemed a Demon, against my own choosing.

It would be so much easier to be an Angel. My mother was an Angel—even her name suggested it. It is clear, then, why she hated me as she did.

I do not know how long I have been waiting. It is the calm before the storm. In these moments I am most at rest, though I know exactly what is in store for me. In these moments, I am alone. Lombardi is with the other Gypsies, and his monkey with him. My tent is empty, sheltering me, and lit only by a candle. Candlelight is the only light I find beauty in—the shadows it births distort everything, and everything is allowed to be an illusion. Even my face.

The noises are coming nearer. I hate them. When there is only silence, and emptiness, and me with my eyes closed against the candles, everything is right. But the noises are the beginning. I do not know how many years, though I could guess perhaps three, that this has been my life. If it is indeed three years, it is maddeningly clear that I should have grown accustomed to and un-bothered by the constant, daily, nightly attacks of the world against my visage. My mother once said she had grown hardened to me after awhile; it only makes sense that I grow hard to my own chains.

It is not to be done. Every time I hear the noises, my calm before the storm begins to dissipate. It is laughter that steals my joy; it is curious squealing that makes me quake in dreaded anticipation of the familiar, and it is the satisfied clanking of well-earned coins that begins the tears of anguish in my throat. It is the same every night, and I curse myself as these horrible manifestations start anew that I am not yet hardened.

"Come."

The deep, guttural voice I fear and hate beckons the world. I focus on my cloth monkey, stroking the frayed edges with my trembling fingers. Perhaps if I can hold onto him while—

"Come inside."

"Shut up," I whisper.

"Come and see…the Devil's Child."

I cringe at the name, closing my eyes as the curtain is drawn back. The noises soar as they find their way into my tent, eager and sadistic laughter mingling horribly with the dizzying carnival music behind them. A silver chime slips from my fingers, and I open my eyes to reach for it as the swirling notes berate my eardrums. I grasp it from the hay-scattered ground and fit it into the toy once more. Lombardi's voice drowns within the chaotic noise emanating from the wolf pack's mouths.

I hate myself.

A brief, sweeping glance is all I want to steal. I cannot explain what attracts me so much to their faces, other than their expressions in the sole moment as they look upon me without seeing my face. All I see—all I ever see—is apprehension, and morbid curiosity. At least it is not disgust. At least it is not fear. I turn my head sharply to take them in before closing my eyes. A moustache; freckles; a cleft chin; curls; rosy cheeks. My swift gaze encompasses each face and one defining characteristic. Sideburns; a solitary scar; a chipped tooth.

A sad, sad frown.

My eyes rest on her for a second longer. Tightly queued red-blonde hair, and a narrow, straight nose. Thin brows knit across her forehead, and tiny lips drawn down at the corners in distress.

She meets my eyes. My breath catches. I have never seen such a look before…so much so, that I cannot even place a word to it. My mind races through fleeting lists of vocabulary. Sorrow, yes, but more than that. Anger…not as much. Pity? Yes! Sympathy! Sympathy?

Sympathy?

My mouth parts, and I inhale the dusty scent of the bag over my head. I have never seen a sympathetic look before, so I cannot be sure. Surely it will vanish as soon as he uncovers my face. I bite at my bottom lip. I hate her. Because I know that she will not pity me for long.

Painfully, I turn back to the cloth monkey, and bring the chimes together.

The Gypsy master reaches for my covering. Without thinking, I shrink back from him, and throw my hands over my head. She can't see! What if she sees?

"Why, you wicked—"

My hand swoops and bats against his, all the while my mind knowing just how futile and dangerous such an action and such disobedience will prove. But I cannot let her see!

His large, dry hand clenches at my arm. I bite down on my lip hard as he yanks me from my sitting position, and my legs flail out beneath me. Inwardly my muscles clench, and I drop the monkey. The wooden baton meets my flesh with a sickening smack that sounds far more painful than it is. It should hurt more. But it does not, because I understand just how painless it is compared to what will most assuredly come next.

He hits me often, but never has he hit me in front of them.

In front of her.

Again and again the baton collides with my body, leaving fresh welts atop yesterday's bruises. My body flinches and retracts, and I hate myself for hating the physical pain, knowing that something far worse is in store for me. All the while, I can feel the eyes of the laughing crowd upon me, glued to my beaten flesh and mentally guessing at what lies beneath the sack. But more than that, I can feel her eyes—I can feel them. I do not look at her, but I can feel her watching me, and it shocks me that I can still feel her sympathy. I grit my teeth against another blow, and anger begins to heat within my bruised ribcage. She still pities me, now more than ever—I know it.

The beatings cease, and I am left heaving for air, and gasping at the pain a simple intake of breath induces. One look at the sympathetic face and my musings prove true. I cannot stand for her to see me like this, broken and humiliated. I cannot stand for her to feel sorry for me, because it is causing me to feel sorry for myself…as if I deserve such pity.

Lombardi's rough hand closes around the edge of the burlap sack. My heart drops to my stomach as the familiar dread swirls within the familiar anger…but there is something new. Horror. She cannot see my face. I cannot let her—and I cannot stop it. I don't deserve her pity, but I cannot stand to lose it. I close my eyes, unwilling to see any of their horrified, delighted faces—and especially not hers.

The burlap sack is ripped from my face. I feel the fresh, cool air against my dirty skin and inhale it deeply through my nose. Things are thrown at me, and laughter escapes from their eager mouths. I am devoured by their cruel pleasure, as I am devoured each time, and will be tomorrow as well. Tears spring to my eyes of their own accord, and the hatred of everything begins to focus on the hand that holds my hair. How dare he! How can he subject her to my face, after she has offered me the one gift I have never received or even dreamt of…compassion? How can he take that from me as well?

I bite down furiously at my teeth, and my fingers strain in the agony of her sympathy and their cruelty. I hate Lombardi more than I hate light. I hate him more than I hate myself. I want to tear off his fingers and gouge out his eyes, so I can find peace. I hate him.

At last, after nearly a minute being exposed to their terrible glares, he lets me go. My hand instinctively goes to the right side of my face, where I shield it from them all. I hate him. I reach blindly for my sack, grasping it within my fingers. I hate him! My monkey lay forgotten at the edge of my cage. I hope she dies, and I hope he burns in Hell for making me hate her. I hate him!

There are two spots of light in my blackness. But they are not coloured white. They are fiery red.

Silver coins land noisily about me. One hits my elbow; another bounces off the top of my head. I don't care. I cannot concentrate. My eyes are on their feet as they turn, gleefully, to leave. I can see her, in her ballet stockings and shoes, but I will not look at her face. I cannot bear to see the change that I know is there—after that one look of compassion, both infernal and heavenly, I cannot now see it gone.

I hate Lombardi. More than anything in the world.

And he is in my cage, with his back to me.

There is no one else at all.

Rage, trembling rage, gives power to my fingers as he kneels to collect his traitor's commission. I hate this suffering. My hands tighten around the coil of rope that lies uselessly about the cage door. I can escape now, while he does not watch. I can disappear into the night, and easily take his gold with him.

But Lombardi will continue, with only the loss of a circus exhibit.

Silently, I pull the rope from the bars and twist it twice around my wrists. I will escape. But not without rectifying a timeless calamity.

Lombardi's large forme is still bent at the middle as he lusts after his money. The two holes of light that I despise so much aid me now. I do not make a sound, but my body trembles with anticipation and the chill of the night air on my sweat-ridden skin. I clench and unclench my hands around the rope as I approach him. There is no circus, and there are no crowds; there is only the rope, and he, and his mortality.

I hate you.

The adrenaline pulses through my veins as I effortlessly slip the rope around his thick, bearded neck. His forme straightens and bends backward as I pull, breathing through clenched teeth. I hate you! He has tortured this Demon for too long; I marvel at myself as his terrified gasps rape the clear air. Why have I never thought to do this before? It is such a perfect solution to my elongated agony. But I have thought to do this before, I realise. Perhaps I have merely lacked the courage.

Never. Courage has always been readily at hand. I have lacked the motivation.

I draw in steady breaths as he struggles for even one. His hands claw desperately at his neck, and I grin beneath my burlap sack. I did not think he would struggle, though it seems so natural that he would. He struggles against me? Against me! So this is what it feels like, then. This is what power feels like—for the first time in my life, I am the authority. I am privy to exploit a victim's life like I have never been before. My mind spins around one conclusion in fascination as his death becomes imminent in my grasp: I have always had the power. I have nearly needed the inspiration.

It is her look of compassion that fuels my anger long enough to thoroughly sever his life's breath. Memories of the cruel words, the beatings—and her sorrowful gaze of sympathy. I have tasted compassion, and I cannot think right because of it. I can only think to kill the beast before me, who is more of a monster than even myself.

One last jerk on the rope, and Lombardi's struggles cease. His heavy body is lifeless against the lasso around his neck, and I let him drop.

Next to his dead forme is my cloth monkey. I stoop to retrieve it, and finger it soundlessly—the echoes of death still permeate the still atmosphere of the tent. It is not so much different than life, really. Life is sometimes far worse a punishment than death. But not anymore. I smile a little at the lifeless face of the toy, and the large, popping eyes of the lifeless face of my Gypsy master.

And then, up into the horrified face of the girl.

I pause, and the realization of what I have just done cackles into my horrified conscience. I have killed a man, and she knows it. She watched me strangle him, with those sympathetic eyes, and she watched him die within his exhibit's cage. My body is frozen, and we stare at one another wordlessly.

I can kill her, too.

Her eyes are nearly wider than her mouth in her shock, and I realise I cannot. The sympathy has not fled her at all, a miraculous paradox of human nature. She has seen my face, but she is not disgusted—she is not afraid. I have never felt such astonishment in my life. I have tasted compassion, and I cannot think right because of it. I only know that I cannot ever lose that, or I will die.

Slowly she approaches my cage.

The door is open. I can escape.

I step forward, over the bearded mass of death and sin. We are only inches apart. She does not recoil.

The curtain swings back, and I look over her shoulder. A Gypsy man. My heart constricts in fear as I glance at Lombardi's dead body and back into his eyes. "Murder!" he screams, beckoning for help. "Murder!"

A hand grabs my wrist. It is the girl. I gape in shock and uncertainty, for I have never been touched by compassion before. The girl does not give me even a moment to hesitate in my disbelief. She pulls me out of the cage, and there is only my hand in hers, and I do not have time to reconsider a thing. We tear through the back curtain of the tent, leaving the dead Gypsy behind us. There is nothing, but the two spots of light, and the loud drafts of our heaving breath, and her hand leading me along.