Circus Monster [UsUk]

Prologue

Stumbling up to the ringmaster, Arthur held out a trembling hand, hoping to be pulled up and led away from the show like when he was young.
The mask concealing his face was becoming difficult to see through as the cutout eyeholes were deemed pointless by the tears that were welling up, clouding his vision. Still, the boy gazed hopefully at his slave driver, childishly putting his trust into this hateful man. He had to, as it was all beginning to hurt unbearably so.

Surely his legs were not meant to bend that way anymore? Not after they'd been snapped off and on again, twisted into grotesque positions that both disgusted and attracted the human eye, pleasing and destroying their aesthetic. And his shoes; Oh God, they were painful too! How many years had he been in the same black Mary-Janes that he'd long outgrown? The blonde couldn't count the years, just like the ringleader couldn't seem to help him, instead throwing him a stern expression, one of contempt and fury that stated plainly that Arthur would be better off continuing the act, for he'd be in so much more pain if he failed to complete it.

If he did not perform, if he did not move his contorted limbs enough for the ever-demanding crowd, then acid would be dripped onto his face at the most agonizing of rates. All the while, Ringmaster would explain concisely just what he'd done wrong and why he was being a bad child. So the boy drew back his arm, his frail body shaking with tears that freely flowed, always covered by the avian mask tied tightly to his head. He did as he was told, playing out his frenzied dance that would create a macabre effect on the audience who had an insatiable palate for dark humor; they all did. He would jerk about for many more minutes until he grew too dizzy to go longer, and was finally escorted to his cage, a grateful smile on his face.

Such a content look could not remain on Arthur's face for long as he found that he was alone this time. No other freaks accompanied the cells beside him, and he had a terrible notion that they weren't in the circus tent, performing with the ringleader.

Gripping the rusted bars, the forsaken creation wept bitterly, for his long-gone companions, for his hazy memory of a family, for his miserable self. He extended an arm between the iron poles, reaching for everything and nothing, never managing to get ahold of the night sky he saw before his hands.