“It’s just,” Lottie glanced around the room then leaned forward. “I’ve seen how your father speaks to you sometimes. I know how hard it can be.”
“It’s fine. He’s just really excited about the show and gets tired after his long days, so he gets fussy or whatever.” I sipped my coke, not making eye contact.
She shook her head. “You don’t have to make excuses for him. Not with me. My father beat my mother for years before she got the courage to leave.”
I looked up at her misty eyes and tried to imagine an older version of Lottie fleeing from a man like my father. Rage began to boil in me for her ever having to be part of a life like that—like mine.
“I understand all of that...stuff.” She placed her hand on mine. “Let me be a friend. Someone you can talk to about it or, or I don’t know...spend time with. You wouldn’t even have to talk. I mean we could just sit in complete awkward silence for however long and then just be like ‘cool,’ and move on.” We both laughed.
“It’s really no big deal,” I started.
“But it is,” Lottie interrupted. “I was too little to know what was going on, like really going on and I spent a lot of time with my grandmother, but my mother told me the truth when I was older. It sucks, I get it. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be.”
I thought about what it must look like to someone on the outside. Seeing a son get smacked around by his father, I wonder if she thought I was weak or less of a man for letting him hurt me as he did. “I’m sorry you had to see that part of our family. But it isn’t as bad as it might look.”
She raised a single eyebrow, her lips pursed. “Looks pretty bad to me.” Clicking her tongue she reached for my sleeve. Flinching away, I shoved my hands under the table. When I looked into her eyes all I saw was the glow of worry and care. She was truly concerned. “If you have to hide yourself, even a little bit, it’s bad. You shouldn’t have to conceal yourself from the world.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat never having such an open conversation about my life with anyone, not even my mother and I spoke of the happenings with my father. It just was. It was life. We had become numb to the constant pain he inflicted.
“If you aren’t going to tell anyone or seek professional help then at least let me be here for you. I can’t force you to do anything and I would never go against your wishes of keeping it secret, but you need someone in your corner. I can be that person.”
I felt myself nodding slowly. “Thank you,” I said, replacing my hands on the table as she sat back against the seat. “It would be nice to have a friend in the troupe.” I gave her my best smile watching as her aura shifted from an orange worry to a buoyant blue. “The road can be a lonely place,” I sighed dramatically. Lottie giggled and the sound of her laughter made my heart flutter. “Friends,” I agreed.
“Friends,” she replied, nudging her foot against mine under the table.
That weekend, our show put on a performance like nothing else. We had bought more lights, more fog machines, and more decorations and props to ensure the night was filled with magic. Our resident magician thrilled everyone with disappearing rabbits, card tricks, and falling stars that showered the guests then disappeared as his hypnotism worked through their minds. Our clowns twisted and folded animals of complete imagination, and the dancers and knife throwers exhilarated the audience with dangerous throws and impossible targets.
My mother joined the troupe wanting to feel like she was contributing and amazed by the beauty of the performers. At first, my father refused her request, but after a few troupe members heard she was interested they took her under their wing and taught her leaving my father no choice but to let her have her way—either that or confirm their suspicions that he was abusing her with his control. She started walking along the tightrope, her petite feet comfortable balancing from the many years of ballet as a child. I watched as she smiled with her focused eyes holding their spot at the other end, stepping delicately across the almost nonexistent rope. It wasn’t perfect, but she enjoyed her small moment in the spotlight.
My father spent every penny we had to make the show bigger, brighter, and filled with sparkle to bring in crowds larger than the stadium could contain. People of all ages flocked to our show wanting to see true magic before their very eyes. We hired a man who could mix concoctions to alter the minds of those who drank them and he was able to create a tonic to enhance their psychic awareness to make everything around them real. He soon became one of the most important members of our troupe. My father did anything and everything to make the audience scream with delight—and scream they did.
All it took was a single misstep. A slip of the foot.
Balance unhinged, unable to be straightened.
The audience gasped in unison, holding their breath as they waited to see if she could recover.
But after an eerily silent breath, their screams filled the arena.
They screamed as they watched someone fall for the first time in our show.
They screamed as they heard the body hit the concrete floor with a heavy thud and crack against the hard surface.
They screamed as the blood began to seep from her skull pooling rapidly and soaking her once lovely hair.
It was all I could hear as the world seemed to slow before me.
My father inhaled swiftly, attempting to stifle a scream of his own, as he watched the performer bleed out before him. He froze in place—so did I. The remaining aerialists dropped gracefully from their perches and rushed to the body sprawled across the floor.
My legs felt numb—paralyzed.
“Call an ambulance, she’s still breathing!” someone yelled.
A wave of silence washed over the audience. They stared at broken limbs set at wrong angles and covered their children's eyes. Others left swiftly, unable to bear the scene before them while the rest sat whispering under their breath. A few men moved to help but were pushed back to their seats by the strong men.
My pulse pounded against my eardrums as I saw the auras of everyone before me shift from the exciting rainbow of giddy hues to a dull cloud of grey filled with agony and sadness.
The world began to spin. It felt like a dream.
“Oh my god,” my father said between heavy breaths. He staggered forward but turned to me quickly. “Stay here,” he ordered, then darted into the horde. Pushing his way past them, he fell to his knees beside his wife of twenty years. I didn’t realize I had been walking forward, but as I blinked, the group shifted and allowed me to pass. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I gaped at my mother, broken and shattered—dead—at my feet.
Her eyes were staring straight up. Their once shimmering blue now matte and unmoving. The silky brown hair she used to braid in the summertime now pulled into a tight bun and seeping with fresh crimson as blood spilled from her skull. Her chest was forced down, air pushed into her lungs, as someone attempted CPR until the paramedics arrived, but I knew it was too late. I could no longer see her once pulsing aura where just seconds ago a happy yellow shone. Only a vast emptiness was left.
“What have you done!” I cried, grabbing my hair in tight fists. This was my father’s fault. He had let her perform knowing she didn’t have the abilities the others did, even though she was thrilled to be part of the show. My mother wasn’t made for this—she shouldn’t have died for the show—have died for him.
Looking around frantically to try to make sense of what had happened, my eyes landed on the mass of brown strings on the floor, and I realized the net had failed. The ropes that were supposed to secure it laid loose on the ground. Although most of our performers didn’t need the net, it was there as a precaution—for events like this.
“This is your fault,” I said, and my father turned his head toward me. He held his satin hat; his ebony hair inky and slicked against his head. His eyes bore into mine with a vengeance I had never felt before. A shiver traveled up my spine, but I held my ground, giving him a look of utter defiance and hatr
ed for him and everything he had done.
“What did you say?” he seethed, pushing to stand directly in front of me. I felt his breath on my nose and heard sirens approaching from the distance like a ringing in my ears. My pulse raced as blood pumped furiously through my veins, faster than I’d ever felt it before. I felt my chest rise and fall in rapid, angry breaths, and hot tears pricked my eyes.
“I said, this is your fault,” I growled, and instantly heard the crack as his fist collided with my nose. Fresh, warm blood dripped onto my lip but I didn’t bother wiping it away. Instead, I reeled back and swung hard from the right, making contact with his cheek. Shock rippled through him as he grabbed his face. I took a single step back unsure what monster I had released. I had never hit him, never fought back, but this broke me. My mother was gone, and it was completely his doing.
“How dare you,” he spat, shoving me to the ground. The troupe shrank back unsure of what was happening. One of their own lay dead before them, and now their leader and his successor were throwing fists. I felt his cowboy boot dig into my ribcage. Already bruised and beaten, they bent to his will, immediately sending shocks of pain through my chest and back as they cracked. I heard someone wince as the sound reached them. People were trying to pull him off of me, but he held tight, moving his hands to my throat and applying pressure.
Buckling under his weight, I was unable to move anything but my arms. Wrapping my fingers around his wrists, I pushed against him, hoping he would release his vice so I could breathe. My head felt light and my energy was draining. People were yelling and rushing around me, their auras colliding and melding with each other to create a thin black veil surrounding us. With my last bit of effort, I moved my fingers to his and began attempting to bend them back, grasping for a single breath to continue my fight. Something rammed into my father's skull and he released his hold as he fell. Coughing, I looked and saw one of the strong men holding a clown paddle—he had struck him and saved me.
Quickly, I rolled on top of my father and began throwing my fists into his face. They collided with his nose, his eyes, his cheeks and with each strike, I allowed all of my hatred to release into him. This was the payback I had been waiting to give for a lifetime. Blood from his broken face splattered my fist and with each pullback, warm liquid sprayed my face in tiny pricks. This was for the threats, the bruises, the broken bones, and the fractures.
It was for all the fear and anxiety he created in me.
It was for my mother.
Thick arms pulled me off him. I was much lighter than my father and easier to remove. I didn’t fight them. I wasn’t my father—nor did I ever want to be. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but life without my mother wasn’t life at all, and I had reacted instinctively to the fear of what my father could and would do to me now that she was gone.
The troupe kept us apart. We stood there bleeding as paramedics rushed and attempted to resuscitate my mother. One paused and looked at us, but a troupe member waved them away, saying it was nothing to worry about. We stood there with tears in our eyes as we realized what we had lost, what we had done, what we—together—had shown the troupe. My father wasn’t just the monster anymore, I was too. With the men holding him, my guards released their grip on me.
Lottie stood crying as she watched the entire fight. Her arms wrapped around herself for comfort and she quickly wiped her nose when she saw me. I gave her a pleading look and approached my father. I opened my mouth to say how much I hated him, how I blamed him for everything, and that I wished he were the one dead, but then I felt a strange pull in my mind and closed it.
It was as if a blanket had been lifted. My mind felt free as it reached out and searched for something to latch on to. As if seeing my own aura—which I never had before—black tentacles stretched toward my father who watched me with curious eyes. The strands licked his face and rounded to his ears where they moved in and wrapped around his mind. My father inhaled abruptly. He knew I was in his head and he was scared.
“No,” he said in a whisper. “W-what are you doing?” Everyone turned to me as a sly smile crept to my face.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I sneered. I felt his memories and his power. His ability was within reach and I could wrap myself around it. Letting the inky darkness absorb the edges of his power, I glared into his panicked eyes. Testing the pliancey of his ability, I eased it out of its cozy hiding place. It shifted easily so I jerked harder. My father winced as I pulled, and ripped it from his mind. The scream that escaped him caused his back to fold and he fell to his knees not even trying to slow himself or brace his landing. Drawing the tendrils back to my mind, I felt his power, the hunger it eased inside me, and the ecstatic thrill it sent down my spine.
“You...you,” my father stuttered.
“Yes, me.” I inhaled deeply, feeling the new rush flowing through my veins. It was as if his ability was powering me up—as if my batteries were finally full. Looking at my father standing between two muscular men I saw—for the first time—a sense of pride shiver across his face.
VI
My mother’s funeral was a few days later. I could only convince my father to delay the tour by a week and even that pushed his temper. It was held at a local funeral home with the members of the troupe. Her body was to be cremated and shipped to her parents back in Iowa—now that she was gone, my father didn’t want anything to do with her. It was no use arguing with him about it, at least she’d be safe with her family.
We quickly learned that my father could no longer manipulate others—losing his ability made him angrier than ever. I attended the funeral with a black eye and busted lip, but no one commented or looked at me.
I survived the short service without any tears, but afterward, in the comfort of the trailer, I allowed myself to mourn. My father was out drinking at the local bar so I was free to toss myself in the small attic bedroom, pull the curtain closed, and weep.
A soft knock sounded at the door but I refused to acknowledge it. The door creaked open and I heard a familiar voice.
“Jacob?” Lottie called. I held my breath and laid still. The last thing I wanted was for her to see me this way.
“Jacob, I know you’re in here.”
I heard her climb the ladder up to my bed. She slowly pulled back the thick plaid curtains and looked at me with wide, wet eyes.
“I want to be alone,” I said, rolling over to face the wall.
“Let me be here for you,” she offered, setting her hand on my shoulder. Her warmth radiated through my thin t-shirt and rolled onto my back. Letting my head fall to look at her, she winced as she saw my face. “If anything, let me get you some ice. You look like you’re about to turn into a zombie and wander off at any second.”
I let her get an ice pack out of the freezer and place it over my eye. Crawling onto the bed, she laid next to me and pulled the curtain closed behind her. We laid there together in silence as she let me cry for my mother. Slowly, I felt myself drifting off to sleep with Lottie’s head resting on my shoulder. Her soft breath blew against my collarbone and her aura faded into an almost nonexistent comforting midnight blue of sleep.
Every passing day became easier with life and the circus. My father kept his distance as if he were afraid of my new ability. I still wasn’t sure how to control it, but I was not about to let my father find out and use it for himself. The power made me feel like a new person—like I could conquer the world—but I needed to know how to use it.
Since the fight, I no longer feared my father. I did what I wanted, said what I needed, and finally began enjoying the circus around me. I learned card tricks from the magician, who had started bringing around his little toddling boy. Baby Daniel would be the next biggest star when his father’s time was up. I could see it in the way he watched his father—moving his hands and making things appear. Using magic as though it were real.
The tiger cubs grew and soon we obtained two full-grown lions that the zoo was going to rehome to a small farm in
Africa. It took all our money, but my father outbid the farmer to take the big cats for himself. Miss Tink—Lottie—cared for them with as much love as she did her tigers and allowed me to help her feed them. Soon, they began to trust me as they did her. The trapeze artists and aerialists continued their air acrobatics and flew high above me. Every day, I ensured the net was secured. There would be no more accidents like the one that took my mother. Still, each time they let go and soared my heart rate quickened until they firmly stuck their next landing.
I could still read everyone’s auras, but now I also felt their energy wrapping around me like living, breathing things. The warm comfort of happiness and love, the electric buzz of nerves and excitement, the tremors of fear and worry, and the heat of anger and passion—it surrounded me, reaching out as if I were a beacon to its power.
I soon realized I had stolen my father’s power. The night we fought, I reached in and took it for my own. He wanted it back but he couldn’t beat me now—without his power he was weak. Instead, he found other ways to make my life miserable as he tried to turn the troupe against me. Spreading rumors and twisting my words, he attempted to bash the name I was beginning to create for myself. Thankfully, the troupe didn’t believe him. They weren’t swayed by his drunken desperation.
Eventually, he gave up and slowly our relationship dissolved completely. My father’s presence at rehearsals and events was only for show. He slurred and stumbled through each night and the troupe began to notice his lengthening absence more and more.
“Just you tonight?” Lottie asked one evening, but she didn’t need to hear my response, she knew.
Rise of the Ringmaster Page 3
