hi 🥹

the cyan tent loomed. striped in a muted cyan and black… it looked like it was breathing in the evening wind. like the circus was pulsing like a rapid heartbeat. you stood there as you felt like the laughter around you sounded like screams if she listened to it wrong. you felt violated by the recognition. your memories, the ones you cherished while also mourned, was dressed in some little performance and presented in front of an audience. like someone had taken your story… their story… and hung them on a stage. lit in lights… selling tickets to tell the story that you held so dear to your heart. you stood there. everything felt so… wrong. muffled. distant… just wrong. your hands trembled. holding a pen as you started at the waiver form on the clipboard that was offered to you by a person clad in white. it was eerie. as you stared at the letters that blurred and jumbled. your hand on the pen felt so foreign in your own hands. 

your friend was settling onto a bench just outside. ❝ i’ll wait here ❞ they said gently. face masked with concern. ❝ you don’t have to go in if you don’t want to ❞ they reassured you. but you have to. this unbearable feeling. and the sensation that you were being watched… somehow you were hoping for an explanation… maybe evidence that you were not going insane. as you stared at the waiver. you stared and stared. the usual language of one, however… it felt like a contract for something so much darker. like if you were going to sign it, it would possibly be a death warrant. signing meant agreeing to whatever was in there… the pen shook in your hand. ❝ no… i will go inside ❞ you finally mustered. you signed it. your signature came out wrong, wobbly. not yourself. it was like an unfamiliar scrawl. as if someone was trying to forge your own signature. 

handing the clipboard back. you stepped through the canvas, into the dark. the lights were so dim that it was completely dark… hanging figures twisted in ways that made you feel sick in the stomach. you stood there, almost too scared to move your legs. then a scent hit you like a splash of water. familiar. beautiful… unsettling… too impossible to truly forget. it was the faint spice, clove? or was it cinnamon. it was faint beneath the sweetness that was reminiscent of honeysuckle. but then there were other scents that made you nauseous. the air felt sterile… but at the same time, it wasn’t. there was a scent of an attempt to clean with something ammonia based mixed with sanitiser. but it could never truly hide the lingering scent of blood. heavy. sharp. the coppery tang.

was there no end?

though as you stood there. the puppets? moved. the sound of cracking, a forceful movement of joints that made you wince. why did you expect to actually get medical attention in a circus that advertised horror? ❝ come closer, dear patient. don’t be shy ❞ the voice beckoned you closer top the chair illuminated by the red spotlight. then the dissonance of force. the eyes. god the eyes were turning towards you. all glowing cyan. just as the walk way lit up for you to approach. you wanted to turn. to say no. but you moved. approaching the towering figure. this was the closest you gotten to one of the performers. you could see how he looked. how he dressed. the plague mask which made you wonder if it was all for show or that he actually stuffed herbs inside to mask the… foul odour in this darkly lit tent. you were not sure. 

❝ don’t forget to roll up your sleeves, please ❞ the doctor had spoken once more. making hairs jolt up. you were hesitant. your eyes gazed around in the room. unsure if you can stomach what you had eaten. too much was happening at once. you felt like your hands moved. slowly pulling your sleeves up. rolling the fabric up one by one, your hands trembled and shook so hard, you lost count of how much you unroll and rolled it back again. slowly feeling the seat beneath you. sitting there as the gleaming bloodied medical instruments lay on a blue cloth… you were hoping and praying that that was just some fake blood. some prop. until an incense was lit. the scent… it was something you have experienced before… the faint clove and honeysuckle was much stronger. was that…. the azalea that you were smelling? it was masking the other scents. there was almost like a floral scent… something akin to just jasmine… perhaps a hint of something tropical… it calms your nerves more than you like to admit it. 

❝ you wanted to run off, didn’t you? ❞ he asked calmly. almost trying to reassure you. but it was true… you did want to run. but not in the case of running away from this tent… but running away from this entire circus that had done nothing but made you sick. the doctor took your silence as a confirmation but not aware of the many underlying reasons why you wanted to run away. ❝ it’s fine. no one really likes visiting the doctor ❞ he whispered. his gloved hands started to tie down your wrists. ❝ after all, there aren’t any secrets between the doctor and their patient, right? ❞ you started noting at the sharp points of his gloves. was this some type of cosplay? ❝ what… what are you doing? ❞ you were trying to heave through. but the incense was dulling your mind… lulling you to something nostalgic. something that had your heart slowing down. calming down. ❝ it’s part of the procedure. i don’t want you to freak out and run off ❞ he took a small pause. ❝ you could hurt yourself, you know? ❞ he pulled back after securing the ties. ❝ there are dangerous instruments in an office ❞

❝ on your file… ❞ he paused. you sat there. but the doctor was staring at the file silently. pensively as he read what was written down. what ticket taker had quickly jot down between the passing of the form between fool and doctor. ❝ it seems you are suffering from stress induced attack ❞ he finally spoke. tapping the page. ❝ a… a colleague of mine has directed you here, yes? ❞ he turned to you. you were silent. trying to listen, but you were too out of it. finding comfort in the incense that just reminded you to a time. but all you did was nod. parting your lips as you realise it was rude to not respond. ❝ yes ❞ your eyes watched as he tilt his head to the left. ❝ hmmm. don’t worry. i will be very gentle. i am your doctor. and i would examine every fibre of your being to see what is the cause of these… stressful moments, dear patient ❞

his hands moved. touching your wrist. pressing firmly against your pulse to check it. but all you did was lean to it. making the doctor slowly blink beneath. what a strange peculiar reaction. he slowly listened. counting the beats. it was slowly down. he had heard it then. when you stepped in the tent. your heart was thrumming to the roar of a drum. how your eyes darted around the tent like you were waiting for something to drop… for a body to drop. he remembered how your breathing was ragged. you were afraid. you were scared. the rushing of blood all over your body. god… it reminded him of… he paused. he stood there. it reminded him of them. but he was no delusional fool like pierrot… or was he? he leaned in, your fear tasted too much like theirs. and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from you. 

but worth great effort, he pulled away. clearing his throat, psychology was a little outside his field of expertise. ❝ what is troubling you so? ❞ he asked. and you, who sat there, inhaling the incense that made you rock your head a little bit. this just felt like a therapy session… but a session that was much cheaper than you could get. for a ticket, that was at least half the cost of your actual sessions. leaning against the chair. somehow you were a little too scared at the idea of exposing that you believe if you said something along the lines of speaking of the belief you witnessed a murder in the pink tent… that the second performance made you yearn and crave the touch of people you were unsure were alive and well. to the third performance that was a grotesque retelling of something so sacred to your heart… and here you were, in one tent and two more to go.

the tent was quiet. well, as quiet as being surrounded by the sounds of on goers, muffled by the thick canvas. ❝ i keep… having this dream ❞ you spoke quietly. ❝ well.. it is not like a dream…. it is more like a memory ❞ you wanted to place your hands on your lap. ❝ except it had never happened… or maybe it has happened. i don’t know ❞ no, you did know it happened. that newspaper article meant something, right? that you had experienced something… or were you trying to fool yourself. to hopefully make something make sense. your fingers traced along the groove of the chair. ❝ i am sitting with all these people… they look at me… but i know that i have to do this one thing. if i didn’t, they’ll all… ❞ you paused. you couldn’t truly finish your words. your eyes closed your eyes. ❝ one of them… they.. oh… they took initiative. and i don’t scream. i don’t even think about screaming at all. i just let it happen ❞ you slowly opened your eyes. watching as he stared at you. it was nerve wrecking with how you were not sure if he was blinking or showing an expression. 

❝ sometimes… some mornings… some times after naps… i wake up and ache ❞ you whispered. ❝ at your chest? ❞ the doctor had finally spoke. but you shook your head to answer him. ❝ no. not in one place… not like i have been hurt. it’s so much deeper… it’s so raw. like somethings been pulled out of me me and i can still feel where it was clawed out ❞ you let out a shaky breath. you winced when you realised you wanted to reach to your chest. ❝ and… i am so tired ❞ you whispered. the doctor frowned, not like you can see it. ❝ perhaps some melatonin would do good rest ❞ he didn’t have the qualifications to administer actual medication. but you shook your head once more at him. ❝ it is not the sleepy kind of tired… its just tired. like i have been trying to carry something for so very long… and no one notices… no one understands. no one ever saw it happen… it was just a dream they say ❞ you laughed… however, it sounded so exhausting. it was too thin and hollow. a sound that made the doctor choose to listen longer. 

❝ maybe i made it all up… maybe it’s just… ❞ you were tearing up. feeling frustrated. feeling angry at it all. ❝ i don’t know. like it was just some metaphor… for something stupid ❞ you wanted to cry. ❝ but it doesn’t feel like a metaphor. it… it feels like the truest thing that ever had happened to me… and somehow it is the most loneliest ❞ you whispered. clutching on the chair. there was some silence between the both of you and the doctor. ❝ does that make any sense? ❞ you asked in a quiet voice. your vision was completely blurry. and somehow you felt like you were talking in circles. you waited for his words. waited for what he may say. somehow you were expecting him to be like the others. the same doctors and therapist. that you had such an overactive imagination. that you were probably making everything up… that it was all dreams. that they were never real. 

that it was never real in the first place. 

but the doctor was quiet. ticket taker had written how you knew too much. the possibility that you were aware of what was truly happening behind closed doors. however, instead of getting an admission that you knew, instead… he was met with a dilemma. how was he supposed to approach this… how was he supposed to separate the feeling that you were someone he knew. he was silent. his hands had reached towards you. and for a moment those cyans had become red. ❝ you know… your fear… it’s just like them ❞ his hands trembled. was this the delusion that pierrot felt? his large hand cupped your cheek. his fingers were cool even through the gloves… it was not unpleasant. ❝ your heart pumping… just like theirs ❞ he leaned in. making your breath hitch there was something wrong with how the doctor was approaching this. 

his hand traced along your jaw, ❝ thump… thump… thump… thump ❞ his hands moved, rose ands fell like a metronome that he had memorised its rhythm. it was right. exactly right… too right. the heart beat that he had remembered with precision of something that he spent a very very long time listening to. while his other hand had held a syringe, it was quick. swift. a movement to prick and get you to calm yourself. ❝ the fear… oh the same fear… you wear it so beautiful, dear patient. i can smell it on you like i smelled it on them ❞ his hands returned back to your cheek. thumb tracing the curve of your cheek to your cheekbone. ❝ and your pupils…. ❞ he leaned closer. ❝ blown wide. just like theirs. looking at you now… i could almost pretend… ❞ his voice cracked. not with some emotion but it was something else. his hand paused. his thumb had stopped moving. 

❝ that you… are them ❞

he pulled away. ❝ but they are dead… no they still belong to us… belong to us who loved them to pieces… all the pieces ❞ he paused. ❝ fufu ❞ he laughed a little bit. ❝ i like you ❞ he spoke. before he had miraculously pulled a ticket. a cyan ticket. a special ticket. you were a little dizzy. watching as he had untied the bounds around your wrist. your gaze was staring at the ticket. there was no looming foreboding. ❝ what is this? ❞ you asked as he handed the ticket. his eyes were back to one of cyans. ❝ ale— ❞ you stared as you opened your mouth. until the white clad fool opened the entrance. almost like it was trying to relay information from someone else. ❝ hmm. i guess we would have to cut our appointments short… but i do hope you use my ticket, my dear dear patient ❞

however one thing remained on his mind… ale— what were you going to say?

——————————————————————————

the tent flap fell behind him like a sigh. the crunch underneath his feet. the path back to his tent was a wound through the dark. harlequin walked like a man dragging a carcass. he kept his head low. his feet pressed deep against the sawdust. each step was a crunch. it was like it was mocking him. his jaw tightened until he felt the ache. the conversation replayed itself with the persistence of a fly in the summer. it echoes across his mind. the conversation with pierrot was different from their usual conversations. he had tried to reason with pierrot. what a stupid funny thing. why was he worried over that silent clown? but the conversation still clings. still remains like smoke. his hand placed upon his mask, feeling how beneath he scrunched his face. letting out a shaky breath as it was a lost cause. he had lost count the many times pierrot had repeated this same cycle… like how he had repeated the same cycle himself. 

the reminder… the same reminder that he… he had killed them. he closed his eyes tightly… he had been the one to hear it. jester and they did not even hear him. that he had eavesdropped. had heard the whole thing between jester… no, amethyst and them. he had remembered how the two promised. he could almost see it, or possibly envision it. amethyst’s smile had slipped. went dark. harlequin had stood out and listened. he had slipped away before anyone even noticed. he told no one what he had heard. he held it like a secret buried deep. when the time came… when they were weakened by a deep wound. a wound that he questioned if they came faster, didn’t let the wound fester and devour your life… he let out a shaky breath. he remembered how you had finally looked over at amethyst. like you were expecting something… then that dreadful word… that stupid promise… he moved. god he moved. 

harlequin was faster than amethyst… than jester… he always had been. he had denied jester the promise. he had taken the act… the hatred and the weight of it all onto himself. because it was easier. easier to be a monster by choice. easier to be the villain in a story where everyone else got to grieve with clean hands. he had wanted to scream. he wanted to say so much to pierrot. but he chose not to. he chose not to say any of what was going through his mind. all he could remember was how he smiled. razored… forced. even when he felt bile rising in his stomach… even when he couldn’t see clearly with the tears. he was… a coward.

into his tent, he gazed at himself. at the mirror. fixing himself before his green clad uniform. his green gaze tiredly gazed upon himself. testing his grin, his smile in the mirror. yet, all he could think was pierrot, back in his own tent, folding his grief into shapes… into the form of an unknown human. he thought of jester, who had once never accused him, who had looked at himself and said nothing at all… he thought of then… whose last sights… whose last sensation was his claws and his teeth. and all that ran through his mind, what he had thought, ❛ this is what i deserve. this performance. this monotonous endless… exhausting cycle of being alive ❜. he stared at himself once more, his clawed tips grasped some of the puppets. the crowd was waiting for him. the light was bright. the show must go on… even if he was broken down. 

his steps seemed to echo. quieting the audience’s chatter. he had no fool to truly accompany him. a reason why he was no longer permitted any kind of fool. as the ones that had ever ended in his gras ended up as patchwork things. stitched together… walking reminders, apologies for his grief. but he shook his head. grinning his usual grin. he gazed upon the audience. almost like he was seeking for the next fool, for the one who had made pierrot like this… ❝ good evening, my dear monsters ❞ his hands waved towards the audience. the painted grin never left. his eyes gleamed under the light above him. ❝ oh, do enjoy my show. a story of the circus origins ❞ he chuckled. spoke it dramatically. to whoever believed it or not, it was the freak circus of horrors. yet if you squint enough, his voice wasn’t one of venom… it was more tired. 

until his eyes crinkled, noting the human that pierrot gazed so lovingly. you sat beside your friend, looking hopeful. he wondered why. he turned away, standing centre stage, where familiar puppets were waiting for his command. ❝ far from everything, where god’s eyes cannot reach. the monster lived ❞ he mused. sounding amused by a retelling of the story. it was the same familiar story that he was so used to telling on certain days. yet bitterness always rises in his throat like bile. it was the emptiness… the slow fading signs of hope. ❝ forgotten. hungry… silent ❞ his voice lowered. moving his hands with ease, directing all the puppets to his whims. ❝ until a man appeared, he raised a tent upon the dead earth and made a deal: ❛ work for me, you hideous little creatures, and i will feed you ❜ ❞ he suppressed a frown as he spoke. his voice hardened… remembering that man’s face… the greed was barely concealed. ❝ ❛ how wonderful ❜ thought the monsters… and so they obeyed ❞ his voice trailed slowly. ❝ but the man brought more men… and more… and more… and they laughed at the monsters ❞ he moved his hands with ease, weaving a story with the puppets. ❝ they applauded at their pain ❞ his eyes slowly trailed to the audience.

then his gaze dropped on you. you who was watching the story. watching as you pressed your thumb into the wrist pulse point. knowing you shouldn’t be using your thumb to count your heartbeat. however, that was not the case. you were just feeling the subtle rhythmic thumping against your thumb. you were watching the story. but at the same time you were also in your head. that was the problem… it was always your problem. ❛ just breathe. just sit. you’re fine. you’re fine ❜. your reaction had caught harlequin’s attention. why is it that you were acting in such a way? did you know too much? his eyes narrowed momentarily. only to realised he was silent a second too long. 

❝ ❛ what if i charged others to watch ❜ ❞ he spoke. as he continued to remain his eyes on your form. ❝ and the crowd loved it… but the monster wanted more… always more. so he behave to feed them less and less ❞ he held back a growl. ❝ ❛ this way they’ll be weak. harmless ❜ he laughed while the monsters rotted in their cage. swallowed by the dark ❞ he spoke. his face was dark and grim. but somehow the expression of the supposed one was even worse. you looked like you swallowed a lemon. how you had stopped what you were doing. you who watched and listened… there was now an ache. it started low before it started to spread. like a sense of recognition. ❝ but then, one night came, someone new came ❞ his voice was almost quiet. there was a sense of hope as he spoke. he could hear some one amongst the crowd… a strangled hitch that no one but him had heard. 

❝ a human! not with a whip nor the greedy shine in their eyes ❞ he spoke. revealing a new puppet, one he had delicately designed. it took him hours, like he was trying to recreate something he feared that he was losing the image of… in some ways… it was wrong. containing back a frown on his face. reminiscing the memory of them. memory was a strange thing… how the ache of remembering flared… somehow he thought of pierrot’s words… maybe he was thinking… wondering if he answered something different. however, it's too late for regrets. ❝ they came with food… food more than the monsters have seen in so long. ❞ he wanted to just sit and think, to remind himself how their first encounter truly came about. his voice softening… something about his tensed posture slowly uncoils itself… like a strung string slowly… loosening. ❝ ❛ you poor creatures ❜ they had whispered. ❛ what had they done to you? ❜ ❞ he breathed out. it was hard to even replicate any semblance of how they spoke. 

❝ they touched the monsters’ filth stained claws and in that touch… the monsters forgot the ache ❞ his hands loosened a bit. his hands seemed to reach for something that was no longer there… curling around empty air… like he was remembering the warmth. not only the physical warmth… but the warmth of being seen… by simply being loved by someone. ❝ they speak of stories. sang of lullabies no one remembered. and the monsters listened… oh how they listened ❞ he uttered the last part. before his hands clenched. holding on the strings that controlled the puppets. ❝ and in that human’s eyes… it burned… it burned something so… pure… so foolish. it was love ❞ ha paused. well… he wished it was. in the end, he never figured out what they felt towards them. was it love? companionship? he didn’t know. but their smile was always so bright. so damn vibrant.

❝ their little seraph. that’s is what the human must have been. a being that descended down not to smite but to save ❞ his fingers twitched allowing the puppets move with expertise. his eyes flickered over at the one that represented their seraph. they had never believed in such holy things. not until a human knelt in filth and touched them… and now they believed… and he knew… with jester… and some of them… that belief was like hunger. ❝ they asked a monster… asked for a promise to be granted… ❛ live and be free ❜… little did they knew, it was a promise that another overhead ❞ he spoke with a grim look. the weight of a promise as such… made him ask if he ever did live… was he even free? … the answer? he already knew. he didn’t think he would ever be free from the guilt that consumed his every waking moment. ❝ but freedom tastes like hunger when you’ve starved too long… and so when the monster’s seraph aim finally collapsed… arms opened ❞ he quickly directed the arms wide opened. ❝ it was the scent of life and freedom that filled the cages… filled the foul taint in the air ❞ he took in a deep breath. like he was trying to remember what the air had tasted like when it all had happened… when every choice and action he took. 

he let out a shaky breath. ❝ and so the green eyed one… one of the monsters did not wait for their heart to stop. they claimed the first bite ❞ it was not like they were starving. they had not for months. they had managed to regain a semblance of their strength. but the more they ate, the more strength they could gain. yet, all he can remember was being back in those cages… the feeling of their flesh giving away beneath his teeth. not the strength. not the strength they felt eating three human beings… it was the tears, the bile… the guilt. everything wrong. ❝ the others followed ❞ however, he remembered his own hands trembling. he had made that decision when jester could not act. he could remember the tears were streaming down his face so much freely. ❝ it was warmth. it was light… it was blood and salt ❞ his voiced sound amused. though he remembered taking gulps. even when he felt their body grew colder as the night and morning wore on… they had stayed with it until dawn. ❝ their wish, their promise passed through them… until nothing else remained ❞ and in the end… nothing but bones had remained. they did not waste even one thing… nothing. ❝ they devoured their salvation ❞ he tried to hold himself together. ❝ we… they consumed the only one that cared ❞

❝ our little miracle ❞

❝ our little seraphim ❞

❝ their last gift to us… a gift to our… humanity ❞

and somehow the word humanity felt like a curse. like a wound that would never close. 

it was silent for a moment. like he was gathering his emotions. gathering the raw ache that throbbed deep inside him. but the show. ❝ the next morning, the man returned to laugh at their misery ❞ he remembered the aftermath. the taste of their beloved on their tongues… it was so salty… but speaking of the man… his quiet broken tone suddenly was like a blade being drawn. ❝ but the monsters eyes had changed. they were free… they were hungry ❞ they were hungry for revenge. for the cruel world that had resulted them into eating the one they loved. the one they treasured. the word free… seemed more hungry than relieved. he moved his hands in a quick motion. ❝ and thats how the monsters became free ❞ allowing the ringleader puppet to collapse down. he allowed the silence in the tent. ❝ oh, and what happened next, you asked? ❞ he glanced up. his tone was of mockery. as if he owed the audience a happy ending. as if the story was meant to comfort someone. ❝ after that, the monsters… the new humans took their home and began to travel together ❞ he grinned. ❝ searching for a place to build it again and live happily. just as they promised their seraphim ❞

the simple applause rang. the cheers were loud amongst them. it was a beautiful craft, a beautiful story. but you sat there amongst the crowd. you watched the show… listened to the story. every line, every beat… every visual imagery… it was like a mirror tilted, held up to yourself. showing you a life you experienced… through a rather… dark allegory. it felt like being seen by something… like they were opening a book written in a language that was yours and everyone else. you could feel your hands were shaking. your lungs felt so small that breathing was difficult. the blood rushing through your body. this story was not just familiar. it was theirs, mapped into some origin, like some kind of myth. the displacement of it all was vertiginous. though there was something else… a hope. maybe? perhaps? was it them? your eyes shone with unshed tears as you were tugged out by your friend… your eyes never leaving the performer… whose eyes also lingered on you. yet… it was not the familiar eyes… it was cold… it was broken. 

it was of a man who wanted to cry. a man who did not want to reveal his weakness and vulnerabilities so loudly and openly. and no matter how many times he told this story. the ache… the pain will never truly fade. as it is etched in his skin… in his teeth… in his tastebuds. like something that would never fade. oh, minha pombinho. oh, how he longs to truly reunite with you… but he knew his time was yet to come. they would be furious. well… if there was ever such thing as an afterlife.  

just as both of you two left, feeling the evening air hit them like a bucket of cold water. you could not truly breathe. or perhaps you were hyperventilating. you were unsure. the circus lights were too bright. everything smeared into swiped lights. sounds and the chatter blurred into a loud roar. the ground felt like it was tilting. you couldn’t help but stumble sideways. your hand caught onto your friend’s sleeve. ❝ was that too much for you also? ❞ your friend asked, concerned etched on their features. as you were too busy feeling fabric against your palm. your heart felt like a trapped animal… ❛ what is happening? i don’t know what to do. i don’t know what to do ❜ it was an endless loop. there was no exit. like you were constantly running. there was no comfort. only the knowledge that this circus was holding too much secrets and somewhat swallowed their life whole and spat it back as entertainment. and no one understood. 

you had bent over. finally letting go of your friend’s sleeve. hands on your knees. fighting the urge not to vomit. the world swam in a multitude of bright lights. shadows, it was everywhere. they were long. it seemed to twitch and fray. ❝ oh. visitor, are you okay? ❞ the man clad in blue stood, his arms placed behind his back. ticket taker. his voice was smooth, practiced… the kind of voice that knew how to control the moment. ❝ oh, uh. my friend here has been feeling unwell ❞ your friend had answered for you even though you tried to respond but to no avail. you grunted as you tried to speak. ❝ i am fine ❞ you managed out. the words came out unconvincing. you watched ticket taker tilt his head. ❝ no. you’re not. you have not been find since the first performance ❞ he spoke. 

you were silent. the lights seem to flicker. making your hands jolt to grab your friend again. ❝ go to the cyan’s tent ❞ ticket taker said. his words were not a suggestion anymore. they had a weight that seemed to drag you down under. ❝ the doctor… would love to help your case ❞  ticket taker turned to leave. his footsteps were a measured rhythm. he was gone. swallowed by the crowd. and you stood there with your friend. shaking so hard that your teeth chattered. this uncertainty is killing you. and your friend who stood there, started sensing something… perhaps you were right. this circus had a lot… that they were yet to truly know. 

——————————————————————————

the sun had disappeared over the horizon, leaving the tent submerged in darkness. the only light source that flickered from the torch that was strategically placed outside the tent. the flickering flame seemed to dance, reaching to the skies like it can be one with the sun that had long had set. his purple eyes narrow, at how it sways. how it wavers. it snaps and crackles like sparks of open and loud defiance. the wind assisted the flame, fanning it. adding the air it needs to continue to light, to continue to live. the breeze being so gracious to open the flaps of the canvas, to allow air to circulate. the air felt like a heavy warm blanket. even with the breeze, it did so little to cool him and the slumbering others. however, it was something he was used to. but he remains awake amongst the others that he had called and deemed family. why? to think. to look over every nook and cranny of any issues will arise during their possible escape. amethyst laid awake, subjected to his racing mind of possibilities, to conflicts to the possible failures… 

his eyes clenched, feeling restless. as the familiar scents and sounds only dulled the headache that want to linger. the scent of night blooming blossoms pumped out scent to attract insects. coffee beans that had been left, forgotten, roasting in clay pots and pans over fires that had long fizzled out. tobacco and sweat permeated the air, leaving the rancid scent of chewed tobacco and sweat over workers and slaves. the cicadas screamed through the night. ringing through the night, making it a common sound of the tropical landscape. it could be almost maddening… the whine of mosquitoes not far but he did not pay it any mind. the birds that seem natural in it’s habitat. a guttural rumble that was reminiscent to a roar, to the screaming kraws’ across fields and rivers. it was truly a symphony of the natural world around them… and it was at most, the most familiar he had gotten in this hellscape that stunk of humans. it was an orchestra of dissonance. 

then… the familiar soapy scent tickled his nose. his eyes jolt open. a shadow loomed over at the entrance. wary. his gaze turned towards the one that stood at the flap. looking exhausted. your eyes were red rimmed… almost hollowed by the nightmare that must have plagued your mind. the remnants of dried tear tracks that traced down paths down your cheek. a sheen of dried sweat that made your usual glow, more clammy. oh, how your shoulders curled forward. arms tightly wrapped around your body, like you were holding yourself together. your hands were stiff. his eyes narrowed… your hands scrubbed raw. a habit that their cyan eyed friend had noted. your hands were intensely red… blotchy. your fingertips were pruned, possibly from constant cleaning. your knuckles were cracked.. the back of your hand was chapped. stopping just at the wrist. 

❝ caretaker ❞ his voice had clarity that had you wince. his clawed hands reached out, beckoning you closer. you stood there, you had woken up in cold sweat. remembering the viscous thick sensation of blood on your hands. hallucinations. it always felt so fresh in your hands. it never dried out. it does not fade. it was a reminder of lives that you had taken. even for the good for them. the blood is always pungent. even when no one could even smell it. but to you, it might as well be there. you could always seem to smell it in the dark of the night, when there was nothing for you to do. nothing for your hands to work to forget. even pressing your palms together in a gesture that once was a prayer, a wish… now felt stained and tainted. because of this, sometimes sleep was an impossible feat. the mental deterioration that eats away at your consciousness. 

but you followed at his wordless command. your steps slow. sluggish. like you were trying to learn how to walk even when you did find yourself walking towards the most dangerous part of this place… however, it was not dangerous. it was safety. it was the lull of a lullaby that rocked you. a need to be in their presence, to remind yourself that what you did was for them. ❝ did you have a nightmare? ❞ he asked, once you were already seated by his cage. you could only nod. tired, you were mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. ❝ i am so tired, amethyst… ❞ your voice croaked. sounding raw. and his gaze upon your form that had been trembling. persistent. your arms still wrapped around your body tightly. pressing tightly against your torso. flat against yourself to warm… to hide… to absorb the taint that was mentally tattooed on your hands. 

amethyst remained quiet. you were too trusting of them. always walking into the jaws of those who wouldn’t hesitate to snap your neck… yet, he believed he may have gotten too soft himself. he had no words of advice. humans and monsters were so different… yet at the same time, they can be alike. that was always something he had a hard time coming to terms with. ❝ there was, once… a group of performers. they… were not very good at being performers. they were large and terrifying. they had big teeth and claws so sharp… however, even as performers, they lived in a dark place. ❞ he paused. mentally cringing at his lack of story telling skills. ❝ under the rule of a tyrant who used them like fools. and they followed orders. even then, they were sad, cold… and constantly starving. but they did what they were told as they were shackled down, weak at the mercy of the their owner ❞ his mouth pressed in a thin line. and he can see you were typically not enjoying this story. this narrative he was allowing you to envision. 

❝ but suddenly a royal appeared. the royal was not supposed to be there. they are usually not supposed to be amongst the darkness and harsh conditions of the performer’s living quarters. royals had better, important things to do than to be amongst the monstrous performers ❞ he spoke. grazing his claw along your shoulder. ❝ but the royal was lost. so the royal try to befriend the performers… and to the performers… the royal was bright. it was not like the brightness of the sun, where you have to squint. it was bright and… gentle. like the morning light of dawn, where everything looks softer and kinder ❞ his finger stroked your hair. feeling you slowly relaxed at the introduction of another character. ❝ the royal befriended them, lowly performers. they would constantly escape their opulent home to spend time with them ❞ his eyes gentled as he could see your eyelids grow heavy. ❝ the performers realised they deserve better… the royal… they saved them by noticing them, feeding them…talking to them… not like the heroic stories ❞

he closed his eyes. trying to vision it. ❝ ❛ come with me ❜ the royal had said. and just like that. speaking of the warmth of the sun, delicious fruit that would drop from trees. oceans they could have fun at… so they left. escape from the grasp of the tyrant in the dead of night ❞ he whispered. ❝ and the world they have seen before was… much brighter. a sky of endless possibilities. they travelled together, the royal abandoning their duties. they walked through forests. crossed rivers. played amongst the sand. they slept in beautiful meadows full of flowers. i do not know what they were travelling towards… maybe they didn’t know it either. they were not cold anymore. they were not forgotten… they were happy …and they lived happily forever ❞ he simply cringed at his rather mediocre tellings. it had so many gaps in its story. cliche turns. questions of why would a prince or princess ever leave luxurious lifestyle to live a life of travel. 

though his purple gaze watched your eyes closed. your body slumped against the metal. his knuckle trace along your cheek. he hated humans. it was not a casual dislike or a preference. it was hatred that buried deep into the ground. roots so strong that could never be weeded out. he hated their noise, their cruelty that was dressed up as civilisations and empires. he hated how they burnt things… burnt so many things. casting him and his family as the monster in their stories. but here you were. his hatred did not erode away. it only created a pocket… a bubble to separate you to the cruel humans. since hatred of this magnitude did not subsides. you… he had found himself beginning grow fond of your presence. that your presence was now a home for him and the others. this human was not fire. ithey were sunlight through the cracks. 

as he continued to trace their features, combing their hair. he traced every curve of what you were. from your upper lip, to the bridge of your nose. like sculpting you into his memory. he could see the way your eyelashes cast shadows. and he could see the way your breathing was steady. in and out. he continued to trace. the line of your jaw. along your neck… his hands that could squeeze, strangle… easily killing a human… had trembled lightly. his hand cups your cheek. and then… you smiled. in your sleep. not any big smile or grin. just something small… happening while his hands held you like you were a treasured being. he was reluctant. but he slowly pulled his hand from your face. and so he sat in the dark. listening to the breathing of his brethren… focusing and zoning to yours. he could not sleep. perhaps he chose not to sleep. 

he just watches you. and then he finally thinks. ❛ you. you are the fire that i was not supposed to love… no. calling you a fire is an insult. you are the sun. and i want to be where you are… i love you. i will always love you in the morning when you come through the entrance. i will always love you in the evening when you are getting tired. i will love you when you laugh… so graceless and crass… but a sound i will treasure… i will protect you… your sleep… your crooked little smile… i love you… i will protect you… always ❜

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he was seated in his tent. his hands holding a brush, brushing his long purple locks. the scent of the coppery tang was strong, another one. another human. life that flickered away. the familiar scent of you continue to bloom in his personal tent. he stared at his pale masked form. his mind once again, disobedient, wanders. wondering if you would be happy with what they were doing? you have been long gone now that he feared that he may have forgotten what you had wanted. what you cared for. he let out a shaky breath. no. you would be happy for them. you would have wanted them to be happy and healthy. you would have wanted nothing but for them to ❛ lived happily forever ❜. the brush slowly moves through his hair. the tent was quiet, except for the sound of his brushing.  

as he thinks of your memory. he thinks of it constantly. treasuring and guarding it. like it was something truly sacred. like something that could be stolen by disgusting humans that was willing to desecrate your beloved memory. he… does get a little fidgety whenever someone mentions of you. how he goes very still. but smile it through. he does not correct anyone. he cannot. because if he were to correct them, it would mean he would admit of his belief that he knew you better. somehow know you better the rest. so he choose to be quiet. to keep the moments between you and him as knowledge buried deep in his private and sacred mind. however, he will always listen. he will listen with the intensity of a scholar ready to sort through the errors. the other monsters who had figured out about your gentle soul… hearing the misinterpretations, like they were speaking of some story than you. 

they were getting it wrong. they were getting it all wrong. and he had snapped. he had hurt monsters and humans alike… the monsters who speak carelessly… who reduced you as a character in a story than someone who had lived and breathed… the humans that managed to retain themselves… making jokes of their beloved. it was not only him that acted like a guard, a sentinel of the memory of you. he knew you would have not wanted this. you would have just told them to ignore them. oh… reminding how you were a human. 

but jester was not a human. he can never be a human. he can only guard and protect your memory with the tools he had. and his tools were his calculative sharp mind, his claws… his teeth. and soon the brush stills.

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