The Ringmaster's Revenge

The Ringmaster's Revenge: Phase Seven

Phase Seven

27days: 6hours

Until the Ringmaster’s Revenge

Grift

Ten days of rough travel through drab villages and over empty county roads found Grift standing at the corner of two nameless streets in a forgotten end of a bustling town where the orphanage rose up from the city squalor like an old broken tooth.  The yard was as shabbily groomed as he could remember, with its stale muck puddles and overgrown weeds.  And the home itself was a catastrophe.  The foundation beneath the peeling salmon-pink walls was deteriorating so efficiently that one was unable to tell were it ended and the ground began.  The shutters had long since blown off and the outer door dangled on its hinges, snapping in the cold December breeze.  Boards as gray as the sky patched the roof where the sun had melted the tar away and the sounds of howling youth could be heard through the broken windows.

There as no lock on the gate, as if the patrons hoped the orphans would escape, so Grift simply nudged it open a crack and slipped in.  The sun was going down and soon the shade would be waking.  Inside his mind, Grift could already feel it stirring, tossing back and forth under the weight of barbaric dreams. 

Sneaking towards the convenient hole in the wall which served as a window to the boy’s dorm, Grifter peeked in and found the last dregs of students draining out the door clutching scraps of cloth to use as towels.  It was bathing night, a day that came once a month or two which he well remembered as a humiliating experience for all involved.  The boys and girls would be taken into separate chambers, built of the coldest stone blocks, stripped down by the mocking guardians, many of whom had been orphans themselves and sprayed with a hose.  Fights were common in the shower-room, as were other savage acts inflicted on the weak by the cruel. 

Grift shivered.  Once the room was empty he climbed over the sill.  On the tips of his toes he sped towards the bunk which had once been his, crouched, and started to squeeze under it only to suffer a searing slap to his thigh before he’d even reached the loose floorboard.  He struck his head on the broken metal net holding the mattress up, tangling his hair and before he could free it, a hand closed over his ankle and dragged him backwards.  Rubbing his newly bald patch, Grift scowled at the lengthy boy standing over him.  He was about fifteen, with a black eye, yellowed teeth, and a grim smile.

“Hiding from the showers, are you?  We’ll just see about that,” he pouted.  “GET IN THERE!”

Grift tucked his knees against his chest, shook his head, and said, “I want to see the director.”

“Ya aint gonna see the director.  You’re gonna get in the shower.”  The two stared each other down a minute then the older boy’s face relaxed.  He studied the prominent dark curl dangling in the center of Grift’s forehead, from his otherwise straight locks, his tar colored eyes, and slightly fearful frown.  “Number Seven?”

“Number Twelve,” Grift sniffed.

“Hell, Sev.  No one comes back to the orphanage after they’ve gotten out.  What’s wrong with you?”  Twelve grabbed the boy by the arm and yanked him towards the open door.  “Wait till he hears about this.”

Grift let himself be pulled towards the director’s door then waited outside as Twelve popped in to grovel, snivel, and whine at the director, Mr. Bray.  Soon the door opened and Grift was pushed inside.  In front of the man’s soiled desk, he stood submerged in memories.  He’d always been one of Mr. Bray’s favorite pupils, as the inability to speak ensured their private meeting remained private.  The director could tell the boy just about anything, oozing his toxic secrets and perversions, without fear of Grift spreading rumors.  And Grift got a break from the other boys while munching on handfuls of candy and learning more about women’s feet then he’d ever wished to hear.