Y/n's pov
It’s been almost two weeks since I landed in this strange place. I knew that because of the small notebook I kept on my desk, marking a line each day before bed. Tonight, I drew the twelfth line, closed the book, and sank back into my bed, staring at the ceiling as my mind wandered.
Something has been on my mind for a while now. Since that game of hide-and-seek, Jax hadn’t exactly changed—he was still his usual teasing self, poking fun at everyone, including me. But when it was just the two of us, when no one else was around…he was different. He still teased, but it wasn’t as biting or mean. His sarcasm softened, like he’d let some kind of guard down.
He even started walking me back to my room, every night, lingering a bit longer by the door than he probably needed to. Sometimes he’d even tell me “Goodnight” in a low, almost gentle voice before heading back to his own room. It was weird. Too weird. But not bad-weird. It was… good, in a way I couldn’t explain. There was something about the mix of his usual sharpness with those unexpected softer moments that left me feeling… strange.
I closed my eyes, allowing the weariness of the day to wash over me, and drifted into sleep. But while I was sleeping, something unusual happened. I started dreaming. I vaguely remembered Caine explaining that dreaming in this circus was rare, and when it happened, it often wasn’t a dream at all. I understood now what he meant.
It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.
I opened my eyes, surprised—not because Jax wasn’t there, which was usual since he only woke me like that every three or four days when I slept in too late or didn’t hear him knocking at the door. No, I was shocked because I wasn’t in the circus anymore.
Trigger warning for those who had/have family problems, like an abusive/drunk/drugged parent for example. If you feel uncomfortable with this topic, please skip to the next chapter.
Instead, I found myself in a greasy old apartment, the kind that felt like it had absorbed too much sadness over the years. The air was thick with tension, and I could hear a man yelling at a woman in the other room—two voices that I would rather not recognize. My heart sank as I looked down at my hands and body; I was human again.
A desk stood nearby, cluttered with papers and half-empty bottles, and there, in the midst of the chaos, lay the headset. I reached for it, my breath hitching as I gripped the device tightly. I didn’t want to be reminded of this place, of these memories. I didn’t want to feel anything connected to the horrors that had been part of my past. In a moment of desperation, I broke the headset in half, shattering it against the desk. The action felt liberating, but deep down, I knew I couldn’t escape the reality that had shaped me.
But I wasn’t going to cry. I was fine. I was fine…
The sound of the woman screaming pulled me back to reality, and I flinched at the noise. It was a chilling reminder of who I had left behind. My heart raced as I recognized my parents’ voices too easily, a point where it was terrifying. I knew this was only a dream, a manifestation of my fears, but that knowledge did little to ease the pounding in my chest.
Compelled by instinct, I dashed toward the room where the sounds were coming from. As I pushed open the door, my stomach dropped at the sight before me. My father loomed over my mother, who huddled in the corner, her face buried in her hands as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. The sight was too familiar, a haunting echo of memories I had tried to bury.
“Stop!” I screamed, my voice breaking as I rushed forward, desperation fueling my steps. “You don’t have the right to do this!”
He turned to face me, his eyes blazing with rage. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, y/n! You disrespectful child!”
Before I could react, he hurled a glass in my direction. Time seemed to slow as I watched it soar through the air. The glass shattered into a billion tiny shards, and I felt the sharp sting as pieces embedded themselves into my arms, legs, and all over my body.
I screamed in pain, the sharpness of the glass cutting deeper than any physical wound. I fell to the floor, the agony washing over me like a tidal wave. Tears streamed down my face, not just from the pain but from the overwhelming weight of it all. This didn’t actually happen, I reminded myself, but the feeling was so real, so visceral, as if it could have happened if he hadn’t been arrested three years ago.
I tried to wipe my tears away, but they just kept coming, mixing with the warmth of blood trickling from the wounds. I was trapped in a nightmare of my own making, a twisted reminder of my past.
I just wanted to wake up, to escape back to the circus, to the absurd world of bright colors and characters that made no sense. Anything had to be better than this nightmare.
