Chapter Three
It was the rattling that finally woke Jerome. The whole caravan was shaking, and a peculiar feeling akin to seasickness threatened Jerome's stomach. For a horrible moment he thought everything had been a fever dream, Bruce rescuing him, the hospital, everything. That he was still stuck in a vicious cycle of not sleeping then passing out from exhaustion. Then he noticed the bandage on his arm, and his breath escaped from him in relief.
He couldn't remember much about the night before, his head was still fuzzy, and he had an intense headache like there was a hatchet lodged in his skull. Jerome groaned weakly, vague memories of stumbling through a hospital and into the park swimming back to him as he clutched his head, there was an empty glass next to his bed, so he must've got up at some point to get a glass of water. Jerome tried to focus on remembering.
Bruce.
Bruce had been at the hospital. And flapping. No, Stop it, Jerome groaned, pain wracking his body.
He was no longer feverish, he was just cotton-headed, confused.
After a few tries, he managed to get to his feet. The caravan was still rattling beneath him, but he was dehydrated and his balance was off. Jerome staggered to the window, grabbing hold of the table next to it to keep his balance. The countryside rushing past the window caught his eye.
Jerome's heart stuttered, and with wide eyes, he pressed his face into the glass. This wasn't possible. He was meant to have more time. He scrambled across to the blinking plastic alarm clock, blinking rapidly to try and force his eyes to focus on the tiny writing under the numbers.
He had to sit down. Jerome felt the floor drop from beneath him and he was suddenly sitting down on the bed. He'd slept for two whole days. The Circus had left Gotham.
He stared blankly down at the clock for a moment, before red hot anger coursed through him. He hurtled the clock through the air to smash against the side of the caravan.
It made him feel slightly better.
Next was the colourful drapes on the walls. He'd always hated the fucking drapes. They tore down easily with a satisfying ripping noises, but it didn't satisfy the boiling rage inside Jerome. He turned on the tables, but they were harder to break. He had to think about how to destroy them.
The legs, he broke the legs first, then the backs. Splinters cut into his hands, but he couldn't feel them.
Eyes set on the bed, Jerome waded through the wreckage to the kitchen drawer. Before he knew it, there was a knife in his hands.
Stabbing the pillows was simple, the skin easily gave way to steel, the soft insides pouring out so sweetly in response to Jerome's efforts.
The duvet was harder. He had to hold it still beneath him so he could tear it open efficiently. Long gashes opening up in its centre. Jerome pushed his hands into the cavity, smiling and twisting his hands amongst the warmth.
Jerome blacked out then. He regained consciousness kneeling in the middle of the caravan. Everything was still, oddly so. His hands were red, the bandage up his left arm stained like he'd been crushing raspberries. He focused on his surroundings. It looked like a bomb had gone off. There were feathers everywhere, some stuck on his arms and in the middle of the floor by the raspberry juice.
There were large splinters of broken wood lying around randomly, as well as nest-like sticks of wicker, and the tables were gone. The colourful cloths that used to garnish the walls were strewn around the floor like fish guts.
Jerome's eyes were drawn back to the raspberry puddle amidst the feathers and debris slightly to the left of him. He crawled over, wincing when he noticed the wood and broken glass stuck into his palms, but he didn't stop.
Lying still in the middle of the bloom, was a little body. A jagged gash ran down its underbelly from tip to tail, and stringy intestines fell around it like anemone petals. Glass eyes stared unseeingly towards the wall ahead of it, and a lipstick red velvet tongue lolled out from its mouth. Jerome tilted his head curiously, there were so many different shades of red, pink and purple, it was beautiful. Too beautiful for in here.
Carefully, Jerome slid his hands under the tiny victim, its head lolling like a small child's. He walked to the door, using his elbow to open it. The early morning sun glared down at them as he walked down the steps towards some trees. He didn't know where he was, just that he couldn't leave this pitiful creature in that hellish place.
There was nobody around, and the caravans were dark and untouched. Jerome vaguely registered that they must have just arrived, and his mother hadn't even returned from whichever lovers bed she was in yet.
Jerome knelt in the dirt, gently lying the small body down next to him. He dug a small hole at the base of the tree, and placed the beautiful black and red creature in the depths. It's glass eyes stared up at the sky.
It was so still, but if Jerome squinted slightly, it almost looked like it was sleeping. Quietly, Jerome scooped dirt on top, the cover falling over body softly. Jerome stood up, brushed off his knees and walked into the trees ahead of him.
He stayed there till it was dark again, watching the forest come to life as night touched. The bubbling anger hadn't gone completely, it was deep inside him, broiling away for later. Earlier in the day he'd heard people out calling his name, but they didn't find him, and he didn't reply.
They'd taken Bruce away from him. It was their fault.
He wanted them to pay. Everyone that had driven Bruce away. They would all feel the loss he felt. He stared coldly into the darkness, twitching slightly when something flew above him.
He broke into a cold sweat. Panicked images of black shapes swarming around him and closing in filling his vision. He couldn't breathe. Jerome ran back towards the carnival and into the trailer, slamming the door shut behind him. Someone had been inside, cleaned it up slightly. There were still no tables or drapes, but the red stain was still there with the feathers and shards of wood. Jerome caught his breath against the door, before slowly walking towards his bed, and climbing inside.
He slept for three hours, before the first rays of sunlight crept through the glass, and then his eyes refused to close. Jerome lay there, hands oddly clean, a slight dizziness forcing him to ground himself.
He tried to go back to sleep, but the noise that had woke him started up again. A buzzing of voices outside the caravan, the deep booming one of the ringleader breaking the white noise every now and then. His mother was there too, Jerome rolled into his back, suddenly wide awake. They were going to kick him out, in the middle of a random city with no way to get back to Bruce. He couldn't let them. He had to stay here for the rest of the month, so they brought him back to Gotham at the end of the tour. One month. Jerome could fake one month.
Footsteps clanged on the metal steps leading to the caravan door, and Jerome swallowed. They couldn't know.
"Jerome?", Lila called out hesitantly from behind the door, "Jerome can we come in?".
"Y-Yeah", he yelled back gruffly. She peered inside, glancing around the caravan before catching sight of her son. Her eyes welled with tears, and she ran to him, "Oh baby, my Jerome, When Paul told me what had happened, oh I was so scared". Jerome smiled softly, looking relieved. He could act too. "Mum, I was so scared", Jerome screwed up his eyes, forcing them to well.
"What did Mr Cicero tell you?", Jerome said shakily as another shadow came into the caravan, it was the ringleader. He surveyed the empty walls and pillow less bed, then his eyes travelled to the feathers, shards of wood and red stain.
Lila sniffled, "Only that you managed to valiantly defend yourself against a robber! He couldn't give us the details, only his half of the story. When he got there, he was just in time to get shoved aside by a large man, before you ran past him after the sod and into the forest! Baby, what happened?", Jerome let his head fall against his mothers neck to buy him some time. Why would Mr Cicero do that? Lie to save his neck?
He sighed forlornly, "I was sleeping here, when I heard someone in the caravan. At first I thought it was you, but when I heard them tearing the pillows apart, I know it couldn't be". The ringleader watched silently as Jerome continued, "Obviously I got up, you know, to check what was happening, but when I pulled back my curtain-", he chocked off.
Lila rubbed his back, and he had to hide a smile, "Go on, baby", she murmured.
"When I pulled back my curtain he had our black viper in his hands, and he was cutting her open", Jerome shuddered, "I ran at him, and he obviously wasn't expecting me to be there, because he jumped to his feet and ran, still holding the viper-". Jerome broke off, staring at the floor.
It wasn't traumatised enough yet, he dicided, and faked a gag, Lila looked frantically at the ringleader, "Get the washing up bucket!", she yelped, thrusting it under her son as he dry heaved. The ringleader shook his head, "Jerome, that was a very brave thing you did, did you see his face?".
The young man looked up from his bucket, before letting his head drop, "No sir, I lost him in the forest". Lila shushed him, rubbing circles into his back. "Thank you for coming to help us, sir, but I think I need some time to comfort my son. It was a horrible experience, I'm not even sure if he'll be up to performing this week". The ringleader nodded understandingly, "Of course, Miss Valeska, Jerome can take all the time he needs".
Lila rubbed Jerome's back as the Ringleader and crowd retreated. When it was finally quiet outside, she turned on him, "What were you trying to do you little Rat!", she grabbed a fistful of his collar, lips drawn back. Jerome just smiled, silent as his mother shook him, "You could have blown this whole thing! Do you want to go to jail? Do you!".
She dropped his collar in disgust, and Jerome dropped to his hands and knees, still smiling. Lila started to pace the messy floor, "Shit. That was too close. You're goddamn lucky Cicero is a blind, senile old fart who thought he heard two of you", Jerome stopped smiling, still confused. That's was the only thing that didn't make sense. Cicero had always been nice to him, but doing this was putting himself in the firing line. Jerome wouldn't have done it if their positions were reversed.
Kicking a broken table leg out of her way, Lila stood above Jerome, hands on her hips as she sneered, "You ever do anything like this again, you're on the streets. Only reason you're not now is because it'd be too suspicious. Clean this up, and then you can go scrounge up enough money to buy me a new snake". She glanced around the caravan once more, looking sickened, before leaving. The door bounced shut behind her, leaving Jerome in silence.
•
Time dragged. Jerome was stuck in a vicious cycle of hardly sleeping at night due to a combination of nightmares and insomnia, then being exhausted to the point of being catatonic during the day. He was short tempered and snappish, starting fights on whims and terrorising circus hands.
He had a special hatred, however, for Dan Lloyd. Every time he saw the man slinking around the circus, his eyes fill with the images of livid purple bruises marring white skin, and a red sheen drenched his brain. He couldn't do it, he told himself, It wasn't like with the snake.
Jerome kept telling himself that.
He began to play tricks on Dan. Moving things in his trailer, swapping the food in his fridge for out of date versions of the same thing, and nasty practical jokes like dead mice in his bed. Dan always knew it was him, no matter if no-one else did or how innocent he looked the next day.
Ultimately, Dan cornered him. Typically, it was dark and after a performance so Jerome was tired; the Lloyd was a coward through and through. Jerome was stumbling towards his caravan, when he was suddenly thrust up against a tent pole by a strong forearm. The air whooshed out of him, leaving him gasping, but he didn't have to look up to tell who it was, "Hey! Dan, what's up?". The circus hand leaned close, his un-brushed teeth smelling foul, "I know it's you, freak. I know what you've been doing".
Jerome widened his eyes comically, "Me? I don't know what you're talking about!". Dan growled, punching Jerome on the gut. Jerome laughed as he wheezed, "Okay, okay tough guy. Don't you like the sleeping companions?", Dan grabbed his throat, "You think it's funny? Think it's smart?".
Jerome's pupils were abruptly ice cold as they bored into Dan's forehead, "Is this how you grabbed Bruce?", he said, voice gravelly. Dan sneered, "Your little, underage boyfriend? Yeah, this is how I pinned him. He went such a pretty shade of purple". Jerome's arm snapped up to grab the one restricting his breathing. Sweat broke out on the bully's forehead as Jerome's too-tight hand slowly removed the restriction from his throat, "You shouldn't have done that, you know", his voice was too light for the weight behind his pupils.
Dan's legs buckled as he tried to ease the pain in his forearm, "Get off me, Freak!". Jerome leaned down, danger emitting in strong waves from his silhouette, "He's the only reason I haven't killed you, you should be grateful". Jerome kicked him viciously, the grunt of pain easing his thirst for retribution slightly, before spitting on him once and walking away.
•
Days began to pass in a daze. They moved from city to city, nothing really making an impression. They weren't the towering, strong skyscrapers of Gotham, so Jerome wasn't interested.
Jerome found himself sleeping less and less often, and there were permanently purple scythes under his sunken eyes. People didn't call him freak to his face anymore, they were too afraid. They would whisper it to each other when they thought he couldn't hear them, Jerome just laughed at them.
They had no idea.
He started to steal and read the newspapers, eyes greedily scanning the pages for any mention of a Wayne. Every time it did, even just a line about a new business venture in the company, he'd careful cut it out and keep the article. He learnt a lot about Bruce in that time, things Bruce hadn't even told him. Jerome wondered why, perhaps Bruce didn't want their friendship to become corrupted by pity, or perhaps he just didn't trust a circus performer.
Jerome also kept the comic strips, and stories about far-off vigilantes, just in case Bruce hadn't seen them. He kept them all in a box near his bed.
His mother never came back in the evenings anymore, she spent her nights in Owen Lloyd or Alphonse Greyson's caravans, scheming about their secret. Jerome had no need to hide anything. He never did move to her bed though, he just slowly sent tendrils of his decor outwards from his corner.
The month was finally almost over, and Jerome had one last day until they returned to Gotham. One day till he could see Bruce. He could go straight to his house, Jerome knew where he lived now after all. He had one last act of retribution to deal out first though. He would wait till he'd seen Bruce. He knew it would steady his hand, so he could do it carefully, and enjoy it. The true culprit for their separation deserved the worst reprisal after all.
The journey was so slow, even though it was only fifty miles, it felt like Jerome waited in his caravan for an eternity. His impatience when they hit traffic only ten miles away was explosive.
Jerome lay down afterwards on his lumpy mattress, running Bruce's playing cards through his fingers. He only closed his eyes for a moment.
"He's gone, Owen", his mothers sickly sweet crooning woke him. He lay there for a little while, only realising he'd fallen asleep with the cards when all of them but one slid off his chest. It was a joker.
For a second, Jerome had forgotten that anything had ever happened, but it all came crashing back down. Bruce, he needed to go see Bruce now. Just as he was going to reveal himself, Owen spoke, "It's a good job we're back. We need to deal with that street rat before he goes blabbing to someone about our operation". Lila giggled, "I'm sure we can find him, let's do it tomorrow though, after the show. It's getting late, and I have some people I can contact here to do the job".
Jerome's hands started to shake. He'd thought he could leave this until after he'd seen Bruce, but it was looking more and more like he was going to have to deal with it now.
He waited until Owen left. There wasn't a performance tonight, and it was late enough that everyone would be in their caravans asleep. He carefully peeled back the curtains, spying through the gap. Lila wasn't facing him, she was carefully pouring a large bag of white powder into lots of different smaller bags on top of some scales, a small bottle of peppermint essence to conceal the smell sitting next to her. Jerome's blood boiled.
Picking up a bowl, Jerome quietly walked up behind his mother. She didn't notice him approaching, her concentration purely on the task she was doing. With a forceful crack, Jerome brought the cut glass semi-sphere down on her head. She folded with a quiet mewl, the big bag of white powder thrown high into the air before its contents came fluttering down on top of them both. Jerome tried to spit it out and wipe it from under his eyelids with a grimace, the mixture of gritty texture and slow chemical burn preceded the super sharp clarity that forcedly zapped through his system.
Jerome laughed as the colours around him brightened and smiled at him. His smile widened further as he realised his mother was unconscious. This was almost as good as seeing Bruce. He almost felt happy. This had been a good idea. Jerome was still laughing as he picked her up and walked out the door.
A small wood-chopping hatchet lay next to a firewood pile close to a fire barrel. It was pretty, and Jerome picket it up as he walked towards the stump.
Jolly circus music followed Jerome as he carried her up the hill, chasing the moon. His feet were light, and he felt better than he had in months. He ran up the last five meters, the strain of his muscles far away with his worries.
He dropped Lila unceremoniously at the base of a tree near their stump. Jerome liked it here, it was fitting. He liked the circus songs echoing in the air up here. Crowd's laughing, cheering him on. Jerome laughed with them.
The hatchet was glinting beautifully; its handle black as death, but the blade itself a shard of moonlight. Jerome knelt down as his mother stirred. A soft groan escaped her lips as she lifted her head, "Ooh, youchies! That can't feel good. Neither did my head after Owen had finished with me though, to be honest", Jerome trailed the hatchet point along his jawline, fascinated by the way his mother's eyes followed its movements. "You know", Lila totally stilled as the sharp object was pointed at her face, "I never did understand how a mother could stand by and order a man to beat up her own son".
Jerome carefully trailed the weapon down the bridge of his nose, shushing as she whimpered, "Did you know what he did to me? Broke my arm, two ribs, stabbed me and added serious concussion on as an extra bonus", Jerome laughed. He carefully pried apart her jaw with his fingers, and inserted the blade. "Do you know what he said to me? The whole time he was bashing my skull against the concrete?". He leaned in, till his lips were parallel to his mother's ear, "Why so serious?".
Lila's expression went cold, dropping her act. She stated defiantly into her sons face, "Burn in hell", she snarled, words mangled by the blade in her mouth. Jerome grinned, "Ladies first", and pulled the handle sharply to the right.
•
The high was beginning to wear off. Jerome sat up against the opposite side of the tree to his artificially smiling, dead mother. His head started to clear, smile getting smaller and smaller as it did. Ten minutes later, Jerome was staring at his blood-covered hands.
Jerome chuckled softly, "It must be a good feeling, going around killing bad guys", Bruce squirmed, "I don't know. Doesn't that sort of make you as bad as them?".
'What have I done?', Jerome started to tremble. He hadn't intended to kill her, just scare her a little. He began to run. Away from the carnival, away from the glass eyes of his mother and into Gotham. Nobody except the street men were out at this time between late night and early morning, and Jerome got barely a glance as he ran towards Wayne mansion. He needed to see Bruce.
Jerome staggered through the wrought iron gates, trying to take in all the statues and neatly clipped hedges. What Bruce must have thought of him when he saw the dingy place where Jerome slept. He pushed that out of his mind, plowing on towards the front door. All the lights were off, and a tug at the front door handle confirmed its status as locked. A low window to what looked like a library was slightly open, however, and it didn't take much to force it open a little more to allow a lithe body through.
The corridors were seemingly endless. Jerome staggered up a staircase, trying not to smear his red hands on any of the expensive wallpaper. One of the doors was slightly open down the corridor off the staircase, and Jerome quietly made his way towards it.
The hinges were silent as the door swung inwards, and the moonlight streaming in through the window lit up the beds inhabitant. Jerome felt the fight drain out of him when he found Bruce's face amongst the covers. It had all been worth it.
He slowly walked towards Bruce, legs like solid weights as he neared the bedside. He carefully sat down on the bed, but Bruce's eyes fluttered anyway. Jerome smiled as the blue eyes opened completely, taking him in. There were a few seconds of nothingness, before a quiet rustling came from beneath the sheets as Bruce lifted an arm. Jerome just smiled as the younger boy placed his hand on his arm.
"You're real", Bruce muttered incredulously, his voice husky with sleep. Jerome couldn't help it, he reached forward and pulled Bruce into his arms. The younger boy said nothing, but just clung on tightly. Hands entwined in Jerome's shirt.
"J-Jerome", Bruce stuttered, but Jerome wasn't listening, he was too busy trying to make his sleep-starved, drug addled brain come up with a smart, almost apologetic comment that would make the unexplained month apart okay. It was only when Bruce started to try and pull Jerome off him when he realised what was all over him, "So much blood- Are you hurt? Jerome!".
Jerome pulled back slowly, watching as Bruce's eyes travelled down his front, confusion colouring his face when he couldn't find the source. "Did someone attack you?", Bruce was scrambling out of bed towards the phone on his bad side table, "No!", Jerome yelled, grabbing his hand, and cleared his throat, "No, it's okay, don't worry. I'm back, see!". Jerome tried to ignore the shock on Bruce's face, and the half-dried, bloody handprints he was leaving on his shirt.
Bruce's eyebrows scrunched together, "I don't understand. Nobody attacked you?". Jerome laughed, "It's okay, I had to. She was going to ruin everything", Bruce pulled back slightly, "What are you talking about?", he whispered, an almost afraid look directed towards older boy, "What did you do?".
Jerome hated that. Bruce said he wasn't afraid, he almost swore it. Bruce wasn't allowed to lie, Jerome was the liar. Equilibrium must be achieved, if Bruce was going to lie, Jerome had to tell the truth, "Mother wanted to kill you, it was the cocaine", he said slowly, "She never tried it, but she would travel round the country with the circus, selling it to low-lives on street corners. She was obsessed with the money, never cared about anyone else". Bruce wasn't looking at Jerome now, but his lower lip was quivering slightly, the older boy forced himself to continue, "She thought you saw, the night you came into the trailer, she thought you knew about her secret. Peppermint oil to hide the smell".
Bruce swallowed, "What did you do?", his voice was hoarse, and Jerome realised how perilous his situation was. He tried to think of something, to take it back, to laugh it off.
Doesn't that sort of make you as bad as them?
Jerome opened his mouth but his words got stuck in his throat. Bruce was staring at his hands. "I did it for you", Jerome whispered. Bruce huddled back into the headboard, his knees clutched to his chest. Jerome reached for him, "Bruce-", but broke off the action when he noticed the wet splashes on the white duvet.
That's not allowed. Bruce wasn't allowed to reject him after everything Jerome had sacrificed for him! He let his hand fall to the bed, leaving a red smear on the cotton. That was it. Everything has come to nothing. Bruce didn't want to know him. Didn't want to know the murdering, lonely stalker who left him. Jerome got to his feet, glancing at the shaking boy at the top of his bed, silver trails down his cheeks.
Jerome felt empty when he left the room. Just cold and empty as he walked down the stairs and down the door. It was only when he got to the wrought iron gates that the anger began to bubble up inside him. Bruce was wrong. To protect people you couldn't always keep your hands clean. You had to kill the bad guy to protect the innocent.
Angry hysterics rose up from his anger, it was a huge joke. He couldn't stop now, not when Bruce's passion for clean streets and justice had bled through his skin and was inside him.
Life gave him someone so perfect, someone who was interesting and made him want to know them, but they were so wrong. Jerome walked back to the circus, the blood on his hands drying flakily in the darkness.
•
Bruce sat there for what felt like hours, until he couldn't cry anymore, and the tears dried stiff on his cheeks. What had he done? Jerome had been a hero, he'd protected him, taught him to be brave, to be like him. But in return Bruce had only caused him pain.
He thought of the bruises and broken bones Jerome had taken for him, the suffering Bruce had put him through. Jerome had to give up everything in he end.
Bruce made him kill his mother. Peppermint oil.