Cirque des corbeaux

Chapter 1

The room was huge. Two tall pillars standing resolute on the edge of the sandy arena. A slight glint the only evidence of a wire interconnecting the two. The arena was circular with a curtained entrance the only apparent entry and exit points for the performers. The seats were hidden partially in shadows with the stage brightly lit from the various spotlights around the room. I didn't want to be here. But the decision was non negotiable. We had to put up a strong front. The appearance of the idyllic family. The consequences were the to much to argue with that. Smile but don't make it look forced. Stand straight but not too tense Stand close but don't get to close. In short. There wasn't much I could do. My father resented me. For my inability to read. For my love of music over words. Science and mathematics over literature and politics. To the world my father was the very essence of the perfect human being. Good family. Good name. Wealth beyond your wildest dreams yet still charitable. 

What the public don't know though is the truth. The hidden room under the house. The whips and the hidden bruises and scars. And they will never know. He's taken special measures to ensure that this side of him is never revealed. Whenever I ask him if what these measures are he will just grin satanically and walk away. Leaving me to my own thoughts of just how horrific these measures may be. He hadn't always been this way though. He really was a good man when I was a child, yet after mother died he became harsh and spiteful. Coming home drunk nearly every night and using me as his own personal punchbag. A blow to every insult he threw my way. "Retarded" punch "useless" punch "unwanted" punch "freak" punch. It would go on for hours. Most of the time it was just his fists, but then by the time I was 13 he began to favour other methods of pain. The whip being his favourite with others being starvation and knives. Cutting me deep and true. Sometimes drowning me to the point of death then dragging me out again before I could go unconscious. It was hell at first. Every waking moment when out of his eye line was spent crying. Floods of salty tears cascading down my face, until one day the world grew cold. My heart grew hard and I stopped feeling. No sadness. No joy. Just existing. I was just a hollow shell. Eyes dim. Soul grey, I just lived each day as it came. Eat, sleep, pain, repeat. It had turned into some kind of twisted daily routine.

We walked in our orderly line. Father. Alys. Viktor. Me. Always last. Never remembered. We walked towards our seats at the front. Straight ahead we had the opening to the performers space. How lucky they are that once the show is over they can hide behind a curtain and be themselves. I envy their freedom. I smile. I smile to everyone but if they look closely enough I am sure that they will find my eyes lifeless and blank. But they never do. Of course not. I'm not worth that much attention. Eventually the river or people began to slow to a mere trickle and I began to feel myself relax because less people means less chance than I can screw up. Not long after that everyone let to go and find their seats and I was left to humour myself. Alys and Viktor were busy breathing in every word that my father blessed them by speaking. It's pitiful. After mother died father soon found a young beautiful woman by the name of Alys. Though I should say girl. She only appears to be mere years older than I am. Nine months after the wedding and bam! There's Viktor to grace us with his presence. My father was ecstatic because Viktor was the embodiment of the perfect heir and son. Tall and well built. Sandy blonde hair like Alys and crystalline blue eyes like father and I. Oh and he could read. That was ten years ago. Viktor is ten years old and the best in every class he was in at school, I on the other hand am seventeen and broken. I can read. I can't feel. I can't even do something to earn praise even once from father whilst Viktor seemed to get praised just for existing. I sighed to myself and slid down my seat a little in a manner quite undignified of the son of Van Eck. But to be honest I didn't care. I already knew I was going to be punished when I got home. What's a few more scars anyway after all this time. I rested my chin on the palm of my hand and proceeded to zone out until the show started. 

It was a full half an hour before the show began and it was a good thing to because I was starting to go a little bit crazy. I don't deal well with waiting. The "Cirque Des Corbeaux". Interesting name. I believed that I was French but since I struggled enough with English father did not deem it necessary for me to learn French. The performers walked out onto the sandy arena. There were only four of them and one ringleader. Interesting. There was a tall man with onyx black hair that was long I the top and shaved at the sides. He wore clothes typically worn by merchants such as my father but far less colourful. He worn plain black trousers, with a deep red waistcoat on top of a black shirt and a bow tie of the same colour as the waistcoat to complete the ensemble. And on his hands. A fine pair of leather gloves. He walked with a kind of confidence that you can only possess if you know that you are the best and actually have the skills to back up the claim. To his left was a small girl with deep chocolate skin. Dark hair tied back into a braid that fell gracefully over her shoulder. She wore a leotard of an acrobat which was a royal purple colour with accents of white. When she stepped every single step was toe first and lithe and careful as if she was permanently walking a tightrope. Next to her was a small man probably the same height as me. In fact he looked a lot like me actually. Though his face was less round and was thinner than me. But otherwise change my hair from ginger to black and my eyes from blue to green and I could become that boy. How peculiar. The final performer caused my pulse to jump. He was beautiful. The first thing I noticed was the way his lips were shaped like a bow and his skin was the fan of someone who has spent a lot of time in the sun. He wore green trousers with a pink shirt and blue suspenders. A weird combination but somehow he made it work. On his hat sat a black fedora with a white ribbon running across the base of it. He was armed with two pistols of a light brown colour with glittering silver detailing in the handle. He grinned with a familiar ease and walked with so much energy you could see that he was practically buzzing. I just sat there speechless forgetting to even look at the ringleader. I just stared and stares at this beautiful boy. He must have either noticed or sensed that I was watching him because he locked eyes with me and winked in my direction. Oh saints. I felt a deep blush rush up to my face and was so thankful that the seats of the audience were left in shadows. But he somehow managed to grin even wider, and I knew he saw my blush.