Freak Show

three

I open my eyes slowly, my vision bleary and my head pounding. I feel as if there is a little man with a hammer inside of my head, constantly banging his hammer against the base of my skull. I pull myself into a sitting position and see that I'm in a dimly lit room, and the air smells strongly of mildew and a metallic scent that can only be blood. 

There is a figure slumped in the corner, and my first thought is that he's dead, and a chill races up and down my spine. I squint, desperately trying to make out details of the figure. My hands are shackled to the concrete floor on both sides of my body. Scrambling to my knees, I pull on my chains and get as close as they will allow me to go. It's an awkward body position, but it allows me to get a better vantage point as well as stretch out my aching shoulders.

"Hello?" I croak out, and when he doesn't move, I begin to panic, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably, my breathing uncontrolled and reckless. I have never seen a dead body before. Suddenly, he shifts and I gasp. For a moment, I'm terrified, and wonder what kind of creature they locked me up with. What prized 'freak' Manson planned to use to scare me enough to obey.

"Who are you?" asks a boyish voice. I hear him scrambling to back away from me. I think carefully before I respond. Is it smart to be handing out my real name so freely? Particularly to a shadowed stranger? Not answering about who I am could present me as a threat and potentially put me in more danger, and I decide quickly that not much damage can be done from a first name alone. So I answer honestly.

"I'm Rosalie, who are you?" I ask, not quite sure I want an answer. He moves a little. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, and I can make out his face. He has no visible deformities, and he's actually... handsome.

He coughs, and it's a weak, wet sound and I almost lose what little is in my stomach. "Grayson." His name echoes in my brain. It tastes so familiar on my tongue, but I can't identify the source of this nostalgia. 

"What are you?" I ask, wondering why Manson kidnapped him. For some reason, Manson seems to think that I'm an angel, but what does he think Grayson is? And is he right?

"A human." He answers sarcastically, and I wonder how long he's been down here in the damp, moldy basement. The stench in the air must have come from him. There is no telling how long he has been down here, wallowing in his own filth. 

"Oh, really? I'm an angel." I say, rolling my eyes, even though he can't see me. I push myself farther into the darkness, not wanting this boy to see how scared I am. I don't want to show him any signs of weakness or vulnerability. He is still potentially a very large threat. Why else would Manson put me in the same room as him, unless it was to scare me?

"You're her, then. He must be beginning to trust that I'm not crazy." He laughs a humorless laugh, and bursts into another coughing fit.

"What do you mean, I'm her?" I ask, wary.

"The one that they've been waiting for. Manson said you'll be rather spectacular. He says you'll be the new star." He says, a hint of jealousy in his voice. A brief memory of Manson's voice ewchoes in my brain. All the others will be jealous.

"Where are we?" I ask. 

"I'm assuming we're somewhere close to the border of Indiana. I was taken from the northern border of Kentucky, and from what I felt, it seemed that we drove North from there for a ways, although I was heavily intoxicated at the time, so my judgement might not be entirely accurate." He says, his speech slightly slurred and lazy. 

"Did he drug you, too?" I ask, my voice quiet.

He lets out a dark laugh at this. "Didn't have to. It's a damn shame isn't it? Was out with some of my military buddies. Had just gotten home from basic training, and we went out for a few beers when a few turned into too many. You always think you're going to be okay until you aren't, don't ya?" He is silent for a while, but I feel a tenseness in the air that lets me know that he isn't finished talking yet. "I was outside yacking in the bushes when two abnormally muscled men beat the shit out of me and shoved me in the trunk. I woke up down here. I think I've been here for around two weeks now, but it's hard to keep track when it's always pitch black. And I assume they put sedatives in my food. I'm consistently tired and sluggish. But I am in not position to reject food." 

Two. Weeks. He has been here for two weeks. I bite back my fear and wonder why he's so freely offering me such personal information. The answer sucker-punches me in the gut. He doesn't think he's getting out of here. He's decided that it doesn't matter. If this boy who was training to be in the military and has been unable to escape for two weeks, how does a girl like me, who has been to the gym maybe twice in the last year, stand a chance of escape? Hope is a fickle thing. Here one moment and then gone the next, leaving you without any plan. 

"What is Manson going to use you for?"

He seems to really mull this over. "They haven't decided yet, I suppose. I've been down here for weeks. They just leave food every now and then."

"They haven't decided what?"

"What horror they want to make me." he answers bitterly.

"Make?" I ask, and he laughs, actually finding humor in this

"You seem like a smart girl. I'm assuming you've put two and two together enough to realize that you're now property of a Freak Show. Manson doesn't have actually freaks, Rosalie. He makes them." The words roll off his tongue in a way that makes me believe he knows more about this place than he's willing to say. It scares me. 

"Makes them?" I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer. If curiosity killed the cat, it's likely to maliciously murder me.

"He creates his monsters. Morphs and dismantles people into oddities he can exploit for cash." My body stiffens and I can't move, can't breathe. He makes the deformities. He cheats. And I'm next. He told me that if I wouldn't show my wings, he would extract them. So, that's why they moved me. I'm just biding my time before they make me a freak, a monstrosity, a sideshow, an angel.

I stare at him harder, wanting to make out the forms and planes of his face. He has blonde hair that falls into his eyes, and blue, blue, blue eyes. I visibly stiffen. I understand now why Grayson is here. Why I'm here with him. Why Aphrodite is upstairs. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Angels. I have to warn him.

"Grayson-" I say just as the door bangs open and Manson is in the door facing. There are two huge Strongmen behind him. They move around him and grab Grayson, taking him away as he kicks and screams and fights them, but they're stronger than he is.

When they're gone, Manson stares at me,  deep in thought. "Such a beautiful angel family." He sing-songs, crouching next to me. His face to too close to mine, and I want to move, but he has me cornered, and I know if I fight, he'll only make my life more miserable here. His breath smells stagnant, and I force myself not to gag. He leans forward, and grabs my chin. "You're so beautiful I almost want to save you for myself." He says lustfully, pressing his cold, hard lips to mine. I squirm under his grip, begging for him to stop, but he ignores it.

"Don't tell your angel husband or he might divorce you. Tsk tsk, I thought angels were of moral up-standings. But here you are, cheating on your husband." He laughs at him own joke and skips lightly out of the room, the door banging shut and locking behind him.