The Funambulist

Chapter 8: The Taming (part 2)

A/N: lmao i'm trash!!!

I'm so SO sorry for being two months late. I've been caught up with a lot of things to prep for my senior year of high school, but I won't bore you guys with all the details. You guys are champs for being so patient with me all the time wow I adore every single one of you.

ALSO um okay so I'm almost at 10K reads??? That's crazy. As a gift, here's a 10K word chapter <3 This one is a little wild, so fasten your seat belts.

Dedicated to pencocoonix for being a lovely and talented human being. I love u!!

(PS: I was nominated for 'Most Original Story' and 'Best Title' in the PTXFanficAwards !! A vote would be very much appreciated ^^)

Scott awoke with the sun, face cast with hues of orange and yellow as he blinked away the heavy crust between his eyelids, face numb with a feeling of inexplicable defeat. His fingers twitched, temple straining as he searched through his memory for an explanation for the pain; the ache in his body stemmed from a source far beyond his comprehension, eyes lolling as they tried to focus upon the blandness of the white curtains lining the ceiling above him. Scott could hardly see a thing beyond his narrow passage of vision, likely due to the veil of uncertainty draped over his face. His skin felt tighter by its presence, pores woven together with thread of ice, so the boy simply remained silent, heart clenching painfully with each strenuous beat as he could do nothing but wait.

With shaky fingers, he ran his palm along the side of his face to find the source of his discomfort, hand jolting back at the sting of what seemed to be a freezing bag of ice water upon his head. Scott felt a pang of anxiety as he brought the bag forward to inspect it, reddening thumb pressing deep into the surface and watching as the fragments of ice clung to each other for dear life. He fought to remember even a snippet of the events leading up to his state, but to his great displeasure, he found nothing but cruel, empty noise. The last thing he could grasp consisted of a series of broken pieces of a conversation, yet Scott had no explanation as to why they sat so heavily around the walls of his heart; ever since what happened years ago, he had the tendency to subconsciously repress even the simplest memories, for living with the weight of the reminder of his life without Mitch was chipping him away to nothing. It was a bit dramatic and outlandish, but what more could one expect from a thirteen year old boy in the face of grief? Many dealt with the pain of loss through speech or journal entries, but Scott didn't go that way. He simply dismissed his unwanted memories to some hidden chamber of his mind, tugging every ounce his himself down along with it.

"You're awake."

He jolted in his bed, head tilting to the side to peer at none other than Kirstin. She had a small smile on her face, eyes dimmed with nothing short of sadness as she gazed at him like he was some puzzle piece that she had yet to foster. "Sorry – I didn't mean to scare you." she continued, hands reaching to the sides of her chair to pull herself closer to his cot. "How are you feeling, Scooter? You really freaked us out for a second there."

"I'm fine. Where am I?"

"You're... in a circus tent. The first aid tent, to be more specific."

He continued blinking. "How did you get here?"

"Avi gave me a call and told me everything. He found my number through your cell phone. You hit your head, but nothing major. Just a little bit of swelling. No concussion, thankfully."

He remained silent, eyes squeezed tight in effort to recall anything, anything that could possibly lead to an answer to his current predicament. Scott felt fine physically despite the bump on his head and the heat of blood pushing against his lips; yet something with far more magnitude made his body feel dirty, as if he didn't quite belong in this vessel of his. It definitely had something to do with the unfamiliar tang to his lips – the dried skin tasted like thick copper, texture overwhelmingly rough around a scab-type creation that had begun forming along the curvature of the pink flesh. Yet he couldn't quite place the source, sweeping his tongue harder across his own mouth in attempt to decode it.