psycho | larry

3. What Goes Up, Must Come Down

Silence. A low buzz whispered in his ear, spreading through his skull until hazy spots blurred his vision. He blinked once, twice. Thump, thump. His racing heart shook violently in his chest, fighting to break free from its confinements. A thin glaze of sweat soaked his skin, moistening the goosebumps that lived below. He swallowed harshly, the thick trail of saliva getting stuck in his throat. The congregation that engulfed him rushed around the tent, mouths opened in screams as they searched for a way out of this nightmare. Wake up, wake up. His eyes cast downward, landing on his rigid hands, body fighting to move. One finger, two fingers, make a fist. His fingers curled around his cell phone, tightly gripping the device. Move, look up.   His feet stuck to the floor, a gummy sap keeping him attached to the wooden stands. He attempted to lift them, his body feeling as if it could melt into the cracks and seams of the old bench. One shot, two shots, three shots. The sound lived within him, rattling against his pained eardrums. Blood. Beside him lay a body, a growing pool of crimson liquid spanning out against the seats. The body's clothes, once elegant with glistening Halloween cheer, adorned dirty footprints, its lone existence becoming nothing more than an obstacle in the way of vast survival. Fall. A hand wrapped around his cold skin, pulling his mind and body back into the voice of reality. The screams were louder than the thoughts within his head. Deafening. Wrapping around his body like a sweater that is too tight around the neck, closing in on him until he is unable to escape its choking bounds. Horror tightened around his bones, shaking him as his eyes brushed across the frightened crowd. He watched as friends and strangers alike trampled each other, fighting to be the first ones out of the terror inside in order to end the chilling night with their lives.  Parents tightened their grasp on their trembling children, stale food and toys littering the ground. Crushed popcorn buckets became a man-made pathway through the enclosure, stuffed animals breathing in the dirt, collecting blood within their fur. It seeped into them, the breaths of past lives swimming within their stuffing. The chained-up dog whimpered, cowering against the stands as people rushed by. Her sad eyes darted around, howling loudly for her owners, almost as if she knew what terror had unfolded. A flock of decoratively dressed clowns emerged from the shadows, spreading out into the swarm of frightened guests, swiping sharp knives against their necks until thick blood adorned their costumes.

"Louis!" His body was shaken, wide eyes shifting to the man beside him. He felt himself nodding in acknowledgment. He noticed the nun costume first, once pristine, now disheveled. Niall. "Louis! Move! " Niall screamed, forcing Louis' body out of the emptying stands and into the bloody mob that circled the pavilion. His ankle fought against the seats, eliciting a whimper from his bitten lips. His attention was scattered, eyes attempting to take in the chaos that engulfed the circus. A field previously full of life was now littered with what once was. One shot, two shots. 3, 4, 5. His red-speckled sneakers, once clean white, kicked up the sand, launching himself and Niall onto the grand stage, where Harry, Liam, and Nick now stood, ready to flee the uproar around them.

"Through here, we can get out through here," Harry wheezed, his throat scratching and fighting with every word. He gestured into the obscurity behind the crimson curtains, hoping that whatever lived within the darkness could help them escape the night with their lives.

Their enemy, however, happened to be two steps ahead, and their hasty departure was intercepted, as two more clowns emerged from within, a sawed-off shotgun aimed directly at Harry. "Going somewhere?"

With the new obstacle in their path, the group devastatingly split, separating from all they have ever known. A shrill cry filled the air as Louis rushed off to the side, pulling himself- and his heart- away from trying to save his dickhead of an ex-boyfriend that he is absolutely still in love with from his untimely death. His body moved slowly, feet lethargically scraping against the ground. He had always feared this would happen. Nightmare after nightmare of him trying to run away, but he could not. His body fought against his terror, throat begging for him to let in a gulp of fresh air. Slam. He fell forward, crashing into the striped fabric that caged him in. His hand caught against a rip in the tent, one of which the person, now laying dead within the soil, had begun to create. A shaky hand reached into his back pocket, pulling out his worn, leather wallet, a package that held a tool for his survival. His weak fingers grasped the multi-tool pocket knife that had belonged to his late father, yanking out the knife feature. The sharp blade slashed the thin surface, forcing the hole to grow until it was large enough for him to slip through. 'Thanks, dad,' he thought as he emerged into the biting October air. The chill attacked him, but he realized that such pain was worth his survival. Frantically, he examined his surroundings, hoping to locate the path that will lead him far away from this hell. Much to his horror, the bodies of those who once explored the joy of the circus lay still across the dirt, blood painting the ground like a Jackson Pollock. It was as if someone had delicately placed them, purposely arranging each individual to complete a puzzle, a performance, a massacre. Attempting to conceal his location, he adjusted his body to merge within the curves of the wind-swept fabric, holding his breath as two children rushed by, a low, maniacal laugh signifying that a vicious clown was not far behind.