I guess you could read this without reading the first installment, but a lot of character references to the first may go over your head. If you want to just read Bessie as an already established past figure of Jerome's life from the circus and another hapless victim, go ahead, but if you'd like to be shown more about her and how she is tied to him, I would recommend reading my other story, The Rusted Carousel, first.
I've never written a sequel before. I definitely don't want to disappoint, sequels always make the stakes higher. Hopefully I can deliver.

I had promised this ages ago, and since I got my new job I'm a little pressed for time, but I wanted everyone who was a fan of the last one to know that I meant what I said when I suggested a sequel, and some people were pretty keen on it.

Bessie's parents forbade her from watching anything on the news involving him, because they knew how much it would upset her. Nevertheless, she could not help herself sometimes. She needed to check on him. Keep tabs on his whereabouts.

They were right, though. Every time a news flash sprung up it left her with a heavy feeling, like she'd swallowed a rock. The sensation would stay in there for days after, until time dulled it.

He called his little band of roving convicts The Maniax, and just like how he planned with Bessie to be a potential sidekick, he appointed himself leader, craving the spotlight at all times.

I just want to see the old you again, Bessie pined privately. All that hidden abuse and dismantling of his psyche, until it became so fragile it shattered in the most reckless way, can't have been easy for him. Now that he had time to reflect, to bask in the devastation he caused, maybe the outlet was making him see clearly now. Maybe there was a possibility that he could return to his old self now that the burst pipe had time to empty.

Not that any of that excused Jerome's reign of terror. What he'd done to her. What he'd done to other people. He would have to pay severely for what he'd done. But Bessie felt helpless just cutting him off, especially because she'd been a part of his life for so long. In truth she knew she had to accept the possibility of never meeting him again for her own safety, and of that she was willing to compromise with. To do absolutely nothing, though, she simply felt like the worst kind of quitter—the one who said she'd always be there and then when the time came she was gone. Parts of her psyche were telling her that she wasn't doing enough. Maybe there was still something she could offer to the police to aid their capture. Distance was key, though. Her personal involvement created a conflict of interest, she would not know what was best for Jerome. She would have to leave the rest to medical professionals. This was her compromise.

That is, if Jerome could ever reach the point of turning himself in, or the police making that decision for him.

Because Bessie survived, her tragedy was minimized and she was forgotten in the news where her ordeal was reported on briefly. Mr. Haly told them all not to speak to the media and to redirect reporters to him, and so, he fielded all of the media. Which suited everybody just fine, tight-knit as they were. Bessie did not envy his ordeal. That was months ago. Life was somewhat normal now.

The gas leak attack from the Jack-in-the-box caused Bessie to hallucinate for days after. Fergus Belcher had discovered her convulsing on the floor of the practice tent. He swore with every single reiteration that it took him many seconds to figure it was Bessie. Her mild features were stretched beyond recognition. Her brows were raised so high that he feared her skin would rip right off her forehead. Her eyelids had retracted into her skull sockets, leaving nothing but great bulging eyes. Bessie rarely showed all of her teeth when smiling, but her manic, wrinkled grin put every single one on full display, even down to the molars and wisdom teeth in the back. Foamy drool spilled from the corners, and sometimes flecks spewed from her mouth, pushed by forced laughter. Fergus said that he would never forget the sounds she made. Her grin, mangled and twisted as it was, appeared to be gleeful, but the sounds coming from her were ones of fear and crying, like she didn't want to. Like some evil force was making her do so.

Bessie couldn't recall much of this. She woke up in the hospital, and when she discovered that hospitals employed security personnel, it was difficult to convince her to leave when the time came to check out. Jerome knew practically everything about her—where she lived, where she traveled, and all identifiable traits inbetween. Once she even suffered a panic attack when a female news anchor, who happened to be ginger, appeared in her peripheral on the 5 o'clock news.

Spacing out became a regular occurrence. Bessie would frequently lapse into a thousand yard stare, retreating into her mind, removing herself from the world. Mr. Haly couldn't risk the liability. Bessie insisted she could still walk her tightrope, but she was now forbidden from performing without a safety net for the foreseeable future.

Bessie did not hear from Jerome ever again after the Jack-in-the-box. Some of that lapse was owed to his incarceration, but when he escaped, Bessie did not have a restful night's sleep since, and to her, it was a waiting game. Still, he sent no letters, no gifts, and no warnings as to where he was. Gotham seemed to be his permanent playground, but Bessie had no peace in that knowledge. No matter where Haly's took her in the country, no place on Earth would be far enough.

Not even a year had passed since the rusted carousel incident.

The Strunas had just finished dinner on a quiet, autumn night. Bessie flopped onto her couch-bed, watching the tiny, blocky TV placed in one of the kitchen cabinets. Some televised gala was on. Bessie wasn't terribly interested, but she was too listless at the moment to bother changing the channel because of her full stomach. Letting her meal digest, she would summon the energy to switch channels later. Until then, she watched the TV because it was merely there. Mrs. Struna washed dishes beside, while Mr Struna wiped down the narrow dining table, popping it back up into the wall when he was done.

Bessie reclined, hearing the TV, but not quite listening. Her new tightrope pointe shoes came in that morning. The others had since worn out. Tomorrow morning at practice she would have to break them in.

And then, the face that haunted her nightmares for almost a year edged onto the television screen. The transition had been so quick that Bessie seized as though Jerome materialized then and there in her caravan, and the shock kept her from discerning the difference for a long extension.

Jerome was talking, gesturing grandly, dressed to the nines in a black suit topped with a bow-tie, commanding the stage he found for himself.

With a gun held playfully in his grasp.

Bessie heard nothing he was saying. Just the mere image arrested her attention, and the world fell away. Her heart thumped in maddening rhythm. Though she was sitting in her own home, several states separated from Gotham, her blind fear was telling her to run.

"Elisabeta?" said her father, Lovro, noticing her change. He followed Bessie's eye line. He immediately stopped wiping his fingers on the rag in his hands. "Magda," he said warningly.

Mrs Struna looked and immediately dropped the plate she held back into the soapy water. She looked fearfully at her daughter's reaction. "Lovro, get the remote," she said in the thick Slovene accent she shared with her husband.

Bessie was at the mercy of the cameras filming the event, she could not leave, she could not turn her back on such a thing now.

Another man, similarly dressed, darkly handsome, joined Jerome on stage. This other man was intervening and speaking privately to Jerome. He did not have a face that belonged to any of Jerome's Maniax.

Bessie could not prepare herself for what happened next, not even in her wildest imaginings.

The other man produced a knife from his side and jammed it forcefully into Jerome's neck.

Bessie shrieked, clapping her hands to her mouth, her panicked whimpers escaping.

Her parents scrambled, yelling at each other to find the remote to turn it off. They drowned out the TV, but the images Bessie saw were louder than sound.

Jerome faltered, wide-eyed, lowering slowly onto the stage, a lack of understanding in his eyes.

And inside, all Bessie could feel was a terrible, terrible confliction. Yes, the monster was gone.

But so was the Jerome she knew before. And now there was no chance for him to come back.