#freakshows

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Edge woke suddenly, breathing ragged and soul pounding. Were they under fire? He listened for the whistle of incoming mortar shells, but all he heard was snoring. His bed—no, hammock—rocked under him as he sat up, nearly dumping him on the ground. The world seemed to tilt and—

(—the sound of gunfire the screaming of men the screech of metal as the guns overheated whistling in the distance, growing louder and louder until—)

He tumbled out of the hammock, not sure where he was or where he was supposed to be but he knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. Everything was dark, and for a frantic moment, he didn’t know how to find the door. Then he saw the crack of light, and he scrambled across the room and threw himself outside, taking deep, heaving breaths.

At first, the disorientation lingered. He’d expected trenches and barbed wire, only to find himself surrounded by taut canvas tents and colorful trailers. Memory returned to him all at once. Coming home from the war—(skull split and filled with what felt like broken glass)—being unable to find a job—(lying through his teeth, saying he didn’t have these episodes often, really, only sometimes at night or when he heard a loud noise or if someone started screaming or sometimes for no reason at fucking all)—wandering from town to town and job to job, sometimes working for nothing more than a clean(ish) pile of hay to sleep on and a bowl of soup to eat.

The appearance of the traveling circus had seemed like an Angel-given miracle at the time. In some ways, it still was. He had a bed—hammock—to sleep in every night, and three meals every day, even if one of those meals was often cabbage soup. The work was hard but—mostly—honest, though the ring-leader had made it clear there was more money to be had if he was willing to bend his morals just a bit.

Soul still pounding, sweat beaded on his bones, Edge started to wander the carnival. They’d rolled into town late last night and were scheduled to remain for a few more days. He was cold in the ragged undershirt he wore, and the press of the rocky ground through his thinning soles reminded him that he needed to find a cobbler while they were close to town. …though he might need to ask Muffet about the chance for extra money, if he wanted something to pay the cobbler with.

A cool wind kicked up, chilling his bones and carrying the scent of stale popcorn and something musky and animal. It also carried a faint melody. He lifted his head and shut his sockets. He knew the song, he realized. He’d heard it a thousand times as a child...and he’d heard it more than once, huddled in the trenches as some fool tried to drown out the sound of the rats—(a dying friend’s face rats crawling over him clawing and chewing and eating and stars he wasn’t even dead yet)—scurrying in the dark. Between the rats and the mustard gas, he’d grown to appreciate his lack of flesh.

The music made him grow still, soul pounding in a mix of sudden, wrenching homesickness and soul-churning nausea. As if hypnotized—(he had to know where it was coming from had to know if it was real or a hallucination had to know just how close he was to losing his mind)—he ambled down the carnival’s fairway, drawn toward the music. The animal smell grew stronger, and he could hear the horses shifting and snuffling in their stalls as he passed. The canvas tents gave way to a canvas labyrinth, the walls painted with leering images of bearded women, conjoined twins, mermaids, unicorns, and a snarling bone dragon.

“The Last of their Kind!”

“Wonders Untold and Unseen for Eons!”

“Brave the Labyrinth and Come Face to Face with Human Freaks and Grotesques Beyond Imagining!”

The messages were painted on the thick canvas, designed to get the audience excited as the labyrinth led them past the bearded woman (her name was actually Gladys, and she was one of the only humans Edge had ever met that was actually at ease around monsters), the conjoined twins (booked as ‘Siamese’, though as far as Edge could tell, their manager scrubbed them down with coffee grounds each morning to give their skin a more ‘exotic’ look), the world’s fattest man (George, who was really quite friendly and jovial), as well as a dwarf (Luke, who was kind enough to lend Edge a book every now and again), and a ‘wolfman’ (Juan, who would always give the laborers a hand during set-up). Lovely people, all of them. The last ‘exhibit’, though.... Edge still wasn’t sure about him.

The music led him deeper and deeper, and the colorful canvas slowly darkened to pure black. Ahead, faint firelight flickered, and the music beckoned him ever closer, even as his bones started to crawl with unease, his magic prickling. The canvas labyrinth led, at last, to a red curtain. Above, blood-red paint announced that the beast beyond was dangerous and that the faint of heart should turn back here. Stepping through, Edge finally found the source of both the light and the music, and his soul seized.

The clown—another skeleton monster—was swaying in front of the stage. He was still in his full costume, but his makeup was starting to crack and peel. He smelled of alcohol and something sweeter. At his feet rested a lantern. In his hands, he carried an old harmonica—held to his teeth and played with an amateur’s enthusiasm. And, Edge had to confess, a good deal more skill than he’d have expected, what with the lack of lips.

He wasn’t watching the clown, though. Not really. His gaze was fixed on the skeleton on the stage. He tried to remember the clown’s name, but the single golden eyelight glaring back at him was making it hard to think. Chains clinked as the “dragon” shifted.

As far as Edge could tell, the skeleton was no more draconic than Edge himself, but someone had cemented heavy ram’s horns to his head. His long, thick tail and the more animalistic features of his skull were natural, though. He growled at anyone that walked past his trailer—more cage than trailer, really—and Edge had been repeatedly warned not to stray too close. Apparently, he had a habit of reaching through the bars and clawing at anyone that came in reach. Nothing the “dragon” did had given Edge any reason to doubt the claims.

So he was understandably nervous when the clown put away the harmonica and approached the chained “dragon”. “heya, buddy,” he murmured, “how’re you doing tonight, twisted?” Twisted? “lemme get a look at you.”

He reached out, hand upraised, and the dragon strained at his chains, trying to reach him. Edge stepped forward, ready to call him back, but the dragon just pushed his skull into the clown’s hand and sighed heavily. The clown smiled—a real smile—and said, “there you are. how are you feeling?”

He scratched along his mandible and coronal suture, hands sliding down to the collar around his neck. The dragon groaned, and the clown shifted the metal collar up, revealing that several vertebrae had been worn smooth. Gold magic gathered around the vertebrae, the healing matrix never allowed to fully take shape. The clown winced, stepping even closer and sitting down so the dragon could crawl into his lap. He ran his hands over his spine and ribs and down his tail, massaging the bone. He paid careful attention to the areas that had been worn away by the heavy collar and manacles. With a sigh, the dragon started purring, fingers flexing like a kitten’s paw.

“you can come closer; he won’t hurt you,” the clown said. He never looked up, so Edge didn’t realize that he was speaking to him until he turned his head and met Edge’s eyelight. “or do you just want to stand there, catching flies?”

“...Catching—?”

The clown smiled and mimed shutting his mouth with his hand. Edge blushed and lifted his chin, trying to hide his embarrassment. “In my experience, he’s been less than friendly.”

“yeah?” the clown asked, eyelights gleaming with a kind of bitter amusement. “to be fair, people aren’t usually very friendly to him either, are they?”

“Hmph.” Edge sidled slowly closer, trying not to move suddenly. His eyelights rarely strayed from the drowsing dragon, but he stole occasional glances at the clown.

“so what’re you doing up so late, soldier?”

(—the crack of gunfire the whistle of incoming mortars the screams of dying men and monsters—)

“Couldn’t sleep. Some asshat was snoring.”

The clown smiled wryly. “yeah. little jim’s got a deviated septum. enough to make me grateful we don’t have the squishy bits.” Edge just grunted in acknowledgement, still watching the dragon. He came no closer, sure the beast wouldn’t be as well behaved if he did. “you could sleep in my trailer with me. gotta share with the props, but there aren’t any fleshy people about, so there’s no snoring.”

He blinked. “...Are you propositioning me?”

“could be.” The clown’s eyelights still held that bittersweet glimmer. “if you’re interested. life’s hard, soldier. sometimes you take comfort where you can find it. but only if you’re interested. otherwise, it’s just a quiet place to sleep.”

As if to confirm, the dragon sighed and pressed closer to the clown, still purring steadily. “...Twisted?” Edge asked, and that single gold eyelight flicked over to look at him. The dragon rumbled unhappily, but settled back down when the clown continued to massage his worn bones.

“it’s his name. twist or twisted. he wasn’t always....” The clown fell silent, then started scratching along the cracks in his skull. “there was an accident. he hasn’t been the same since.” He swallowed hard. “chaining him up. treating him like...like an animal only made it worse.” He looked up at Edge, the bitterness in his grin becoming more prevalent. “sorry. did i ruin the magic for you? did you think miss muffet managed to wrangle a real live dragon for her little carnival?”

Edge was quiet for a moment. “Who was he to you?”

The clown shook his head and turned his attention back to the skeleton in his lap. “he’s a friend. always has been. always will be,” he said it fiercely, like a challenge.

Edge nodded and sat down a few feet away. “Tell me about him,” he said.

“why?” the clown asked, glaring. “you don’t care. you don’t know him and you don’t know me; what does it matter to you?”

Edge raised a brow-bone. “What happened to taking comfort where you can?” The clown blinked and blushed, looking away. To gentle the chastisement, Edge added. “I may not know either of you, but I do know what it’s like to watch your friends come undone. War doesn’t just leave the scars you can see.” He touched his scarred socket, remembering the bayonet and the soldier that carried it. Remembered the mix of blood and magic on his hands and the blinding pain. “Sometimes people break in ways you can’t see at first.”

(Going home to his family. Being met with strange looks and confusion when a loud sound brought on one of his episodes. Feeling so, so alone among them. Isolated. Freakish.)

The clown was silent. He scratched along Twist’s mandible, then leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, the gesture paternal, protective. “gotta go now, twisted. gotta get some sleep.” More quietly, he said, “one day i’ll find a place for us, then you won’t have to sleep in these chains. promise.” Twist looked up at him and, surprising Edge, he hooked his littlest finger around the clown’s. Orange tears welled in the clown’s sockets, but he pushed them back before they could fall. “yeah, buddy. like that. i promise.”

Twist nodded and pulled away, stretching. There was some clean straw on the stage, covered by a blanket. He settled there and closed his sockets to sleep. Edge and the clown stood, and they exited the labyrinth. “rus,” the clown said suddenly, as they walked through the sleeping carnival. He held out his hand, and Edge realized it must be his name.

“Edge,” he said, bracing himself when he took Rus’ hand. The clown was pretty well known for his pranks.

“so? you coming back to my trailer, or what?”

“That depends. What are your intentions?”

Rus laughed. “don’t worry, soldier-boy. your virtue’s safe with me—unless you don’t want it to be.” He winked, and Edge rolled his eyelights. “i wouldn’t mind your company, though, and you wouldn’t have to put up with little jim’s snoring.”

Edge was quiet for a few seconds as they walked toward the trailers. “It’s not Jim’s snoring keeping me awake,” he finally said. Rus eyed him, waiting for him to elaborate. Edge didn’t.

When they reached the trailers and Edge started to walk away, Rus caught his arm. “soldier.” Edge looked at him, brow-bone upraised. “remember what i said. life’s hard. if you ever need a warm bed or a quiet place to sleep or a listening ear…you know where to find me.”