An incredible fatigue kept Bessie where she lay. A sense of feeling returned to her fingertips and she twitched them, which was the alarm clock needed to open her eyes. Bright, mustard yellow assaulted her vision, too much to take all at once, and she had to close her eyes to block it. She stirred.
Ready to open her eyes again, she blearily absorbed as much information as her sight could reach. Turning felt like a tall order, her skull sank like a stone on the lumpy cushioning she could feel rippling against her back.
A yellow cover made up the pointed ceiling. A tent? A decent sized one, too. Three Haly's caravans could easily fit if placed side by side.
But her caravan was gone. Haly's was gone.
Jerome.
With a renewed surge spurring her to become aware of her surroundings fast, she summoned the effort to lift her head, but not without a groan, and looked down at her body. Her clothes were correct and unmussed, allaying only one of her fears. Bessie wobbled onto one arm, propping it for leverage, swung her legs off the ratty, dark green couch she was lying on, and succeeded in sitting up.
She wasn't alone.
A man had his back to her, but that hair belonged to no stranger.
Jerome stood before a vanity table, looking at his reflection in a large square mirror bordered by light bulbs, stapling a flap of loose skin back on. Nauseated, Bessie forced herself to look at anything else. The sounds he made she could not escape, though. Something like an airless squeak issued from his wide open mouth as he stamped another silver stitch into his skin. The way he took the pain, though, disturbed Bessie the most. Rather than squeeze his eyes shut to endure it like anyone else would have, he sighed and fluttered his eyes as if it caused him a moment of relief. Or perhaps even a tinge of pleasure.
It was a sight Bessie never wanted to see. A scarred, grotesquely misaligned Jerome. He was something out of a nightmare where somebody had dismantled him with very little mercy and then rebuilt him using devious, artificial parts. The fact that this monster had such a recognizable face was the ultimate insult. Only his beautiful red hair remained of the past, the one thing that did not change.
And also the one thing that reminded her that these two men were connected.
Even his body felt different. It didn't meld with hers the same way she remembered. He was thicker. Stronger. Broader. It had become that of a man, while Bessie's stayed virtually the same, barely giving in to change.
"Ah, my invité d'honneur awakes," said Jerome to the image of Bessie reflected in his mirror. He placed the staple gun—a device that looked much more suited for home renovation than medical aid—on the vanity and tapped his freshest stitch to test its integrity. "How embarrassing, I'm not even ready yet."
He fussily smoothed over the edges of his loose skin as if dabbing on make-up, until he was satisfied. Ready for his debut, he spun on his heel in a grand gesture. His Chesire grin put all of his teeth on display as he spread out his hands presentatively. "Ta-da! Whadd'ya think?"
If anybody was meant to be impressed, he had a better chance of asking one of the derelict assistants he'd brought to Haly's.
"Where is this?" Bessie wondered aloud more to herself than anyone else, speech slurred, scouring the ceiling as though the answer would be there.
Jerome deflated. "Oh, Bess," he replied with a deprecating limp wrist, "so concerned with the hows and the whys. Why can't you just live in the moment?" He returned to preening in the mirror, knowing that his pomp was wasted on her. Glasgow smile scars gave the illusion of an ever-present smile even when he was frowning.
It was hard to ignore the splash of color—a bright red coat with tails and black lapels was draped over the plain wooden chair beside him. A shiny black top hat sat on the seat. A weathered, old-timey, green traveling trunk sat nearby, lid open, revealing the patterned lining peeling with age. What on Earth...?
Bessie blinked hard a few more times to banish her wooziness, to little avail. An overwhelming need to vacate this place took hold. Certain that she could stand on her own, she lifted herself, but that was a mistake. The room spun and the couch caught her before she even knew she fell.
Jerome took a golden brown waistcoat folded on the chair, threw it over his shoulders and fastened the buttons, humming loudly to himself, ignoring Bessie's struggle. Distinguished pose after distinguished pose, he made noises of approval at his reflection.
The world was not quiet here. Though muffled and distant, there were definite sounds of the outside bleeding through the canvas, but they were too chaotic to pull apart. It seemed like many piled on top of one another until they created an unintelligible hum. This was not a Haly's-mandated tent. At home they were white. These were not the circus grounds.
Bessie's legs were taking a long while to return, but her vocal chords were plenty functional. If only she knew what to say. She eyed the tent's only escape, which was just a closed slit in the tarp blocking the outside. She peered at Jerome's mirrored self. His eyes were on her as if daring her to try. Left to the mercy of his unpredictability, Bessie succumbed to obedience and wilted, feigning that the thought never even crossed her mind.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she said, still unable to understand his miraculous reappearance.
"Thought, or hoped?" said Jerome with a wiggle of his eyebrows. He took a long, thick black ribbon on the table, looped it over his neck, and began tying it at his throat. "Bygones are bygones, Bessie-Boo. We're starting fresh, you and I!"
"But—"
"Ah, ah! Not a moment to lose!" he trilled. He knotted the ribbon into a string-tie style, like a bow-tie but with two long tails. He whirled and jauntily light-footed over to Bessie to a song only playing in his head.
Bessie shrank, wishing nothing more than for the ground between them to crack and swallow him whole. This had all the makings of her many nightmares, but sadly none of the sudden, sweat-drenched awakenings. Jerome swiped for her hand, caught it, and held it aloft, lifting her like she was to be his dance partner, but did not carry her off into a waltz. Instead he pulled her towards the tent's opening.
Bessie put up some resistance, as much as her sleepy body could muster, trying to delay more surprises. "You-you still haven't told me where we are," she sputtered, as if that would somehow stop him. Some part of her even hoped his ego could be reached and would indulge in some long, grand tale here in the tent. Whatever he was excited for beyond that flap could not bode well for Bessie.
"Do you ask mommy and daddy what your presents are before Christmas, too?" he said brightly, looking over his shoulder. "Stop being such a worry-wart, you slay me! Ha ha ha ha ha, oo hoo hoo!"
That laugh was like pins in her eardrums and she winced. Jerome dragged her past the chair, noticing her eyeline fall on the coat in passing.
"Saving that for something real important later on," he explained with a wink, adding dismissively when she appeared puzzled, "I've been very busy since we last saw each other, long story. I'll make it a bestseller series someday. Come, come, move those teeny-tiny feet of yours, we're burning moonlight!"
Sweeping the tarp flap aside, Jerome yanked her through it first, then followed her out. Bessie's feet pattered from the momentum, but her breath was stolen long before. Her mouth slackened.
Thousands of stringed light bulbs illuminated a full, working carnival. An active Tilt-A-Whirl rotated its many arms. A dazzling Ferris Wheel rose above it all, sparkling from its patterned light show, carrying on a windmill motion. Way ahead, a colorful sign boasted bumper cars. Goofy music from a bright carousel blasted from speakers concealed within the machinery. Bessie'e eyes lingered just a little longer on that one.
A hazy blue spotlight burned her eyes before it moved on. Several of them were roving over the carnival, as if this event were an attraction. Lines and lines of prize game kiosks created a path ahead of her, acting like the entry to a fun, whimsical night. The place was eccentric, lively. Beautiful even.
But the screams.
So unlike anything Bessie heard in a carnival before. Not a single up-tempo scream of joy. These ones chilled her blood...
As if on cue, breaking the spell of the attention-grabbing colors, grittier details began to emerge. All of the carnival guests were dressed in the punk-like apparel of Jerome's assistants, and were just as gleeful.
"How do you say voilà in Slovenian?" said Jerome.
Bessie stared, horrified. Her hands rose in a slow ascent until they shielded her mouth. The Balloon Darts kiosk held squirming, unwilling human targets. They flinched as cackling punks aimed pointy darts straight for the balloon in the poor, frightened target's mouth. Jerome's followers seemed to have deliberately bad aim. The Whack-A-Mole game lacked what anybody would call proper mischievous rodents. Followers smashed their mallets over the wailing heads of real people who were being forced to poke their heads out of the holes.
"Jerome, stop this, please stop this," whimpered Bessie, but it was an act in futility.
"Relaaax," drawled Jerome, appearing by her side and reaching around an arm to rub hers vigorously, buddy-like. "No one's going to get hurt."
A disembodied shriek pierced the air.
"...Bad. HAHAHA!"
He pushed Bessie forward and she bent from the force. She squeezed her hands together, staying hunched as if that would somehow make her invisible. It felt as though the carnival had teeth. Everything was a threat.
"Please," she fretted, afraid to look beyond those initial kiosks for more dreadful surprises. Jerome nudged his knee none-too-nicely at the back of her thighs, spurring her to get moving. "There's no reason, you don't have to do this."
"Seriously, were you always this much of a wet blanket?" admonished Jerome as if she were merely complaining about some sand in her shoe. "Lighten up. It's not all cotton candy and lilacs, you know. That was your favorite flower, wasn't it? Lilacs?"
He was right. It was lilacs. In the past she would sometimes tell the story of how a young boy gifted her with a sprig of lilac after one of her earliest shows, like he was presenting her a bouquet of roses. Touched, Bessie accepted, and ever since then, lilacs had been her favorite.
The fact that he still remembered that about her proved that this boy was indeed him, but Bessie didn't want a reason to be reminded. Jerome's two entities were almost completely separated in her mind. They had nothing in common, dealing with one was not the same as dealing with the other. Knowing, or even having been, a part of his past didn't bring any significant advantage. Not one with a good enough grip, at least.
"I mean whose favorite flower is ever lilacs anyway?"
Jerome pushed Bessie ahead again when she slowed too much for his liking. It didn't hurt, but Bessie was almost about to cry from the forcefulness of it all, being corralled into something she did not want to do. How much did he hate her for what she did back at the rusted carousel? If he came back for her even after all this time, there was clearly some sort of closure he needed.
A wall of striped tents acted as some sort of border to the carnival. A square, raised platform that perhaps normally would have held a small music band was placed in front of them. The platform wasn't even that high, it was just a dais that required three steps up, but Bessie seized as if it were electrified. He was going to make an example of her for all to see. He was going to finish what he couldn't at the rusted carousel.
"There he is!" screeched a tinny, female voice behind them.
A cacophony of noise followed. Jerome was suddenly swarmed as a wave of bodies descended. A cry was forced out of Bessie as she got manhandled aside as everybody clambered to the real prize. They offered praises amid Jerome's unheeded shouts for them to piss off.
Time slowed. A thought struck Bessie—she was no longer in Jerome's range of sight.
She spared one last careful look at him. His head was turned away as he fought against the tide of people converging on his other side. All it took was a second. Bessie's body did all the work with nary a thought in her mind. She flipped up her zip-up's hood to hide her very noticeable hair and turned her back on him. Praying that nobody in the crowd knew who she was or why she was there, she slinked and weaved through the crush of bodies, side-winding through a forest of leather and fish-netted arms. Slow and steady, she warned herself, to not garner attention or trip an alarm of suspicion. The frenzy acted like a smoke-screen that hid her.
She did not feel any safer the further away she got, she only felt more scared. She feared that hand resurfacing from the depths to reel her back in.
For once his followers were working to her benefit, and it was crucial that they continued to make Jerome reap the cons of his celebrity so that she could have a fighting chance. The crowd thinned. The spinning Tilt-A-Whirl popped over some heads.
Somehow, some way, Bessie gave Jerome the slip.
This was not the time for victory, though. It was now or never. She turned a sharp left to find a shadowed corner near some dark, empty, unused food stations, wary to keep her stride loose and unhurried despite the whirlwinds sparring inside of her. The last thing she needed was someone on Jerome's side noticing a rather uncharacteristically timid-looking person wandering the place.
A dirty baseball cap was caught at the base of an unused hot dog cart, sitting on a pile of rotten, wind-tossed leaves. Bessie wasted no time in placing it firmly on her head, tucking every bit of hair she could shove underneath.
A sharply loud, explosive crack shattered the night and Bessie flinched, ducking her head into her collar out of reflex. She couldn't help looking back. Jerome had a smoking gun pointed in the air, yelling at everybody to disperse. Bessie had no time left, he was going to look for her. A disguise was the only way.
She crouched and scuttled behind the counter inside one of the abandoned kiosks, but the second she entered she knew it had been a bad idea. The entrance was the exit, she essentially cornered herself. She was not alone, either.
What looked to be a passed out member of Jerome's mob was lying behind the counter. Bessie snatched the navy blue bandanna off his head and tied it over her nose and mouth. Her superstitions about stealing from the dead made her hands stony as she reached over for the spike-studded leather jacket, but the rise and fall of the man's chest was all the proof of life she needed before she heaved him on his side and pulled his arms out of the sleeves.
Bessie did not want to leave the safety of the hiding spot. Closing the jacket over her torso, her heart thumped sickeningly, but she had to leave immediately. Somebody was bound to look behind here. Entrusting all of her confidence into the power of the disguise, she stood straight and walked out with what she hoped was an air of belonging to the mob.
Being out there was like being a sitting duck. No exit signs really told her where to go, so she could only keep going until she found a border and then stay with it until a hole in the wall allowed her to leave. Jerome's followers were returning to wherever their whims took them. In a blessed stroke of luck, pathways had been constructed wide, thus would not easily overcrowd. Bessie would not have to weave or rub arms with anybody, allowing her to blend in.
Jerome emerged, stalking around the corner where Bessie found the hat, and her heart stopped. He was retracing their steps. His eyes were on the hunt as he scanned for some sort of clue as to where Bessie went.
She immediately looked at the ground, shoved her hands in the leather jacket's pockets to hide her fingers curling in fear, and kept walking. The only way to go, though, was through his line of sight.
Courage, she wished herself, and took the plunge.
Did he notice her? Bessie could only rely on her peripheral, it was doubly important to not initiate eye-contact. She could not differentiate between her imagination or reality as to whether he stared at her just a second too long as she passed, as if there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
He moved on.
Bessie felt floaty from relief. He hadn't seen her.
She kept walking.
In the ten seconds that passed following, Bessie could feel every crawling microsecond. Her back tingled from the feeling of being so unprotected.
Two burly men on either side bumped her rather harshly in passing as they overtook her speed, impatient at her slowness. It wouldn't have been a good idea to show weakness by easing the throb in her arms, so Bessie ignored it. The two men got about fifteen feet ahead before they stopped.
Then, they doubled back—sights set on Bessie.
Bessie realized too late who they were targeting and before she had the chance to redirect, they both linked their arms with hers and dragged her backwards, letting loose all sorts of horrid cackles.
"No!" cried Bessie, thrashing. She threw her heels onto the gritty asphalt to try and make some sort of anchor, but she may as well have been a pillow. "Please! Please!" The Tilt-A-Whirl got further and further away. The crowd began to thicken and they clapped in an ominous rhythm, taunting her as they made a procession behind.
Bessie was roughly shoved onto the platform she had left, joining none other than Jerome. A sunny spotlight flashed on them both and stayed there, illuminating Bessie for all to see. The crowd created a mosh pit of sorts in front of the dais, pumping their fists in the air.
Jerome was smiling. Placing his hands behind his back, he goose-stepped to Bessie and bent at the waist to meet her eye. "Did you really think I wouldn't know?" he said in a low tone.
He brought his fingers under her chin and raised it a bare inch for a better look. "I'd recognize those baby greens anywhere," he said with a dark tenderness. In a flash he tugged the scarf down, exposing Bessie's face. "You can grow an inch taller. You can dye your hair. I'll always find you. In a crowd, in a mob, anywhere." He pinched her cheek, baby-talking. "I've got every detail of this wittle face perfectly mapped in my mind, yes I do!"
Bessie jerked, rubbing the sting away.
"You caught me at a good time, so I'll decide your punishment for that little stunt later. Right now, though, we've got a show to put on. Don't we, Stratosphere?"
A/N: The song 'Ladies and Gentleman' by Saliva might have inspired the title of this chapter and Jerome's attitude here a little bit.
TrustInTheForce- Welcome, welcome! And thank you! Makes me so giddy to know you're having a good time!