Page 8 of House of Clowns

I hit the floor hard, the white carpet coarse against my skin as I rolled over, staring blankly at the ceiling. My body hurt, all my muscles shrieking in protest, but none of it mattered against the dull ache inside. I wanted something—anything—to make it stop so badly, but the room was silent, uncaring.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, a sharp vibration that seemed to echo through the room. I twisted my body, groaning, reaching for it, but by the time my fingers brushed the screen, the buzzing had stopped. Christian. His name was still there on the display for a second or two before it flickered off and was replaced by a message.

"Why is Carlo at the House of Clowns with Rocco?"

The words weren't even digested before the phone rang again. My hand shaking, I swiped to answer; the coolness of the screen beneath my fingers was a stark contrast to the burned woundson my skin. Christian's voice exploded through the speaker—in anger and panic.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he yelled, and it was like a sharp blade cutting through the fog in my brain. "You left him there? In that hole with those freaks?"

"Hi," I mumbled, the word barely escaping my lips. I could feel the weight of his frustration, but he had no idea what was happening. He was too far away to know that I lay broken on the floor, locked in my bedroom after my father had beaten me.

He didn't know I'd sat and watched as Carlo got dragged away by strangers while I was detained by clowns, trying to get to him. He knew nothing. Nobody knew anything.

"Are you fucking high?" Christian's voice was raised again, laced with disdain. "This is a new low, even for you."

"Stop," I whimpered, and then the sting of tears hit my eyes again, but he wasn't done.

"It's not enough that you've slept with half my friends. You're now getting high and misplacing our brother?" His voice finally cracked and frustration boiled over. "Jesus, Chiara, pull yourself together."

Hot streams of tears escaped down my cheeks, warming the cold numbness around my face. I sniffed, just trying to keep it together. "Can someone just bring him home?"

Christian laughed cynically, all incredulous. "Oh yeah, sure, I'll ask a bunch of clowns to do that—NO!" His voice caught on a hitch, the anger heavy and alive. "You go get him."

"Look," I choked, "I'm—I'm pretty beaten up right now." My voice came out strained, hardly above a whisper. "I really can't… please…"

There'd been a moment of silence between us, heavy and tense. Then he relented with a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But this is the last fucking time."

"Thank you," I breathed, my voice cracking with exhaustion. There was just dead air and the nothingness that surrounded me. I lay there; it was an eerily quiet room, with only the hum of the air conditioner. It was finally silent, and that was all I wanted. But it wasn't the kind of help I needed. My big brother, Christian—the one who was supposed to be looking out for me—saw only what he wanted to see. He judged me and thought I was nothing but a screw-up, incapable of thinking about anyone but myself.

But then he forgot. He forgot how I played hooky from school to make sure there was food on the table when they came home. How I held it all together while everything else fell apart. But no one saw that. No one wanted to.

SEVEN

JOKER

Amoment before, as I saw her within the maze, something stirred deep inside of me. It was not a very curious thing, but it was just a prime, aching hunger. I had to know her, possess her, find out what lay behind her bruised smile and the way she moved as if something was not quite there. There was a purpose in her walk, the slight swaying of her hips drawing attention but being careful not to let too much linger. It was that hint of secrecy in her eyes, the way her lips curled despite all the bruises on her face, that invited someone to notice her but dared them to come closer.

OK, I'll bite.

Who are you?I wanted to ask.Who are you beneath the sleek, polished surface?The idea of taking her on moonlit walks, secret, quiet, where nobody else would know, went into my head. I'd let her lead, let her walk just ahead of me, watching the graceful sway of her hips, the way her body moved in rhythm with the night.

I shook the thought away, leaned back against the rough wall of the house, and lit the last cigarette from the crumpled pack inmy pocket. Night hung heavy, cloaked in a thick silence where only the far-off hum of circus music weaved a haunting melody through the air. And I slept to the sound, even most of those eerie, hypnotic tunes that followed us all, a shadow we couldn't shake.

Chico was back out from the woods, the footsteps slow across the hard-stomached ground. Victor trailed behind him, like a ghost. As they drew closer, I caught Victor's face scratched up, raw, like he'd been in a fight with something wild. Chico's face was tight, fear written across his face as he guided Victor inside the house. Nobody knew the story that lay behind Victor, but the conjecture was already enough.

Whispers told that he belonged to some secret society or even a cult, with several versions of the story up in the air. Some said he'd escaped, but there was always a price paid, the kind of price where someone had to be sacrificed every year to keep those things from coming for him.

The door creaked shut behind them, and Chico stepped back out, lighting a cigarette as he came to stand beside me. He took a long drag before speaking; his voice was low.

"They tried takin' that girl," he muttered, shaking his head. "She fought 'em off. Scratched him up good."

I looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why'd they go after her?"

He shrugged, and the cigarette dangled from his lips. "Game.Fun. Who knows?

"A game, huh?" I repeated, my gaze drifting into the distance. And then I saw Rocco approaching us, the silhouette of a boy following close behind him. The kid clutched a notebook, whispering something to Rocco, who barely acknowledged him as they approached.

When Rocco reached us, he gave me a quick nod. "You free?" he asked in a gruff voice.

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