Chapter Text
You’re no stranger to silence.
Papá likes the silence, so you try to make as little noise as possible.
But Papá isn’t here right now---and the silence is never truly silent.
Random creaks from around the house. Strange, muffled noises from the windows. Scuttling beneath the floorboards - you can hear it all.
You lay pressed between the narrow gap of the couch and the floor. You mustn’t make a sound when he isn’t home, mustn’t go near the windows either, though you don't truly know why. 'It is for your own protection', he said.
You never know where he goes when he leaves, but sometimes he returns with food. You hope he has food this time too, and that he’s coming back soon.
You hate being left alone like this, enough to have tried sneaking into his backpack to go with him, but he always notices. Too heavy. He says you can go with him when you are older, but when is that? Are you not older now?
A dull thud catches your attention, followed by shuffling.
It’s him.
You know it’s him, but you must wait --- wait for him to call you. You'd been told off the last time you ran up to him, saying it could have been anyone coming in.
The bedroom door creaks open, light footsteps trailing to the middle of the living room until a shadow stretches into view.
“Ven aquí, Mije.”
You rush out from under the couch and lunge at his legs, nuzzling against his shins. He sighs, one hand coming down to rest atop your head. A plastic bag hits the ground next to you, followed by a strong, metallic smell.
“Vamos a comer.”
You awaken to the buzzing of your phone beneath your pillow. You blindly disarm it with one hand, sitting upright to slowly regain your senses.
It’s been a gruelling week thus far, and where most people are finally free for the weekend, you don’t have the same luxury.
On the contrary - as one of three custodians at the downtown mall, the weekend is where the nightmare truly begins, especially when you’ve been assigned the day shift.
“Well, there’s no use prolonging the inevitable.”
You launch into your daily routine; a quick shower, mouthwash, switch into your uniform and grab your bag to go.
Just as you're locking your door, a tightness in your abdomen makes its presence known.
Someone like you can’t afford to have breakfast every week, let alone every day, but you make a mental note to visit the Drop-off after your shift.
You retrieve your bike from the rack downstairs and set off for work. Even on the weekends, the streets are bustling with people, though it’s mostly families and seniors walking around at this hour.
About halfway into your journey, you start to notice the same flyer, copy and pasted over every wall, window and bus stop you pass. You slow to a stop to read one.
‘The Freak Circus of Horrors’
Huh… neat. You’re used to the occasional carnival or halloween attraction cropping up in summer and autumn, but a circus of horrors? At the tail-end of winter? Curious… not that you’d consider going. If you wanted to gawk at a freak, you’d just look in the mirror.
There’s a metallic crash from a nearby alleyway. Nudging your kickstand, you decide to investigate. Peeking behind the wall, you see a circle of teens in tracksuits and puffer jackets. At the centre of their ring is a red clown, standing an entire head taller than those who surround him. His porcelain mask is unreadable, mouth pulled into a thin line. It’s kind of absurd how someone of his stature is getting bullied by children, but you suppose it would damage his reputation if he fought back.
The golden bells of his cap ring out as his attention snaps between his adversaries. One of the teens shove the clown, the rest jeering and snickering at his expense.
“What’s the matter, giggles? We not funny anymore?”
Another tries to tug at his cap and he sharply jerks out of the way, only for someone else to kick him. He staggers, but does not fall.
“Look at his gay-ass cosplay. Bro, what you think this is, comicon?”
You'd never gone to school growing up, but even you know how vicious kids can be. Especially the ones that try to act older than their maturity allows. You should probably step in, before it gets uglier.
The clown spots you first, his golden eyes locking onto you as you approach. The teens are too busy hurling insults to notice.
“Bit early for a shakedown, don’t you think?” All eyes turn to you; some startled, one irritated. Assuming him to be the spine of the group, you look directly into the eyes of the annoyed teen. “Step away from the clown.”
He doesn’t look away, shouldering past one of his boys to get up in your face. He’s a few inches taller than you, which he probably thinks will make a difference.
“Yeah? Or what?” he taunts, stepping on your shoe. You grab him by the strings of his hoodie and drag him down to eye-level. His hood swallows his vision and he blindly grabs for you, squeezing your wrists. Your grip does not falter. His friends ‘ooo’ in the background, which tells you all you need to know.
“Or. I’m gonna embarrass you further.” You sneer into his ear, “Right in front of your friends AND giggles over there." He tries to twist out of your hold, but you hold firm, "Before you swing at me, ask yourself: Do you really wanna be known as the guy who got folded by a janitor?”
The boy freezes. You give him a few seconds to mull it over before letting him go. The teen shoves you back with a growl, ripping his hood from his face. The glare he levels you is venomous, but he makes no move to fight you.
“Oy Darren, you good?” one of his friends calls out. ‘Darren’ turns to him and the friend quickly averts his gaze.
“...Come on.” Darren grunts. You make way but he still manages to budge you, his cronies trailing after him in a line. You don’t spare them a second glance, instead redirecting your attention to the clown in the alleyway, who stares back at you with a piercing, yellow gaze.
“You alright?” You take a step towards him and paper crinkles underfoot. Only now do you notice the scattered piles of circus flyers by your feet, the faint breeze tugging at their edges. “Shit, sorry, lemme get those...” you kneel down to salvage as many as you can, before a gloved hand grabs your forearm. How the clown crossed that distance so quickly without making a sound, you’ll never know, but if his hand-waving gestures are anything to go by, he’s telling you to leave them. “Fiiine…” you groan. You suppose the wind will disperse these in due time.
His hand glides from your forearm to your fingertips, gently hoisting you up to your feet. You ignore the tingling sensation he left on your skin and how he casts a shadow over you, instead clearing your throat awkwardly.
“If I were you, I’d stick to public spaces from now on. You lucked out that those kids weren’t armed.” He nods with a smile. For a moment you’re puzzled as to how a mask can change expressions so smoothly, but your phone buzzes in your pocket. Reality hits you like a brick to the head.
“Fuck! Sorry, I gotta go!” you bolt out of the alley, eyes scanning the sidewalk for your bike, only to come up empty. Weird, you could've sworn it was right—
Ah.
The clown jingles beside you, head tilted in question. “It would seem my bike has been “repossessed”.” Odds are, those fuckass teens stole it, but you couldn’t exactly blame them when it wasn’t chained down. Hell, even if it was, you’re sure it still would’ve been stolen. Such is the nature of bikes in the city.
He frowns, dipping his head apologetically. You wave him off, “Eh, don’t feel too bad. I know I didn’t when I stole it.” It takes him a second to register your words, and that baffled face is something you want framed.
With a snicker, you pat his arm. “Remember what I said. Public spaces only, alright? Take care!” With that, you spin on your heel and break into a sprint, booking it all the way to work.
— — —
“Excuse me, what time do you call this?”
Here we go.
You turn to your supervisor, eyes downcast, “Sorry Jen, my bike was stolen, so I had to-”
Jen raises a hand, “No no no, that’s not what I asked you. What time do you call this?”
“...8:05?” Not to toot your own horn, but you just turned a 30 minute walk into a 7 minute sprint. All without sweating through your (hypothetical) uniform. That has to count for something, right?
“Right! And what time do we open?”
“8am. On the dot.”
“Good, so we ARE on the same page.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’d expect this sort of thing from Kenneth, but you? Come on, you know better.”
Given her recent promotion, you understand that she’s trying to assert her authority. But this, in your humble opinion, is a little overkill. Just a little.
“My apologies. It won’t happen again.”
Jennifer huffs, “Since this is your first recorded lateness, I’ll let you off with a warning. But anymore after this and I’ll have to write you up.”
You scoff internally. If those write-ups actually did anything, Kenneth and Mo would’ve been fired ages ago. The turnover rate here was abysmal. From the frequent mismanagement, to the measly pay, to the constant disrespect from everyone around; anyone with a shred of self-respect would look elsewhere. It’s thanks to this reputation that none of you are worried about being fired. Finding a replacement would be more effort than it's worth.
Even so, you simply nod.
Finally appeased, she marches off to do whatever it is that supervisors do in the back office. In turn, you retrieve your cleaning cart and step out into the heart of the mall. Your job wasn’t hard - demeaning, sure, but otherwise pretty tame. There are three floors to monitor, and all you have to do is keep things (relatively) clean. Empty bins, stock bathrooms, clean up after patrons. Rinse, repeat.
You fall into auto-pilot, performing your duties with the efficiency and dedication of a minimum wage worker — which is shorthand for ‘dragging out your tasks to ensure you always look busy’. As you’re collecting coffee cups like Easter eggs, a prickling sensation crawls up your spine, burrowing into the back of your skull.
Discreetly, you scan the scenery to try and pinpoint who is watching you. The crowd only gets thicker as the day wears on, which you’d think makes you harder to track - but no. That sensation of being watched does not let up. This, combined with the noise of the mall and the growling of your stomach, begins to overwhelm you. So you turn to your iPod and headphones for a shred of peace. With some calming tracks at the ready, you relax just enough to resume function, despite the spine chill.
Your lunch break couldn’t come fast enough. As you enter the staff room, you’re spooked by Kenneth, who thought it'd be funny to hide behind the door. “Hey, have you heard? We’ve got a circus of horrors in town!”
“Hard to miss the flyers. I think they’ll have overrun the mall by closing.” You pray that saving the clown will spare you the trouble of hunting flyers like butterflies. “I’m guessing you’re going?”
“Yep! You wanna come? I managed to get a free ticket from a chill guy.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a pink ticket.
“Nah, I’m good. Do tell me how it goes though.”
Kenneth salutes, “Sure thing! Hopefully it’s better than that haunted house from last year.”
You grab your wallet from your locker and head out. Even after the lunch rush, the food court is still teeming with people. Multiple tables look like plates haven’t been invented yet, but that’s a problem for future-you.
The crowd thins out the further you walk, until you're on the west side of the mall, standing face-to-screen with your best friend: the Vending Machine. Very few people come this way, since most of the shops down here have closed, which makes it a great spot to vibe.
You pay the machine in coins and select the sparkling guava drink. Your friend whirrs in response, but due to his old age, has forgotten to release your drink. Again.
“Damnit old man, whyyy…”
You glance over your shoulders - not a soul (nor supervisor) in sight. You glance up at the nearby security camera - no visible signs of life. Seeing no witnesses, you give the vending machine a hearty kick.
A heavy THUNK echoes from the bottom, and you’re stoked to see one more bottle than you paid for.
As you stand back up, that eerie prickling returns, and you whirl around instantly.
There, frozen mid-step on the staircase, was the clown from earlier. Wide eyes tell you he was not expecting your sudden turn—and likewise, you were not expecting to see him twice in the same day.
The two of you stand awkwardly for a minute, mirroring shock and apprehension, before you hold one of your bottles up to him.
“Here, take this to your grave.” He snaps out of his trance and cautiously approaches, tilting his head at the drink. You manually place it in his hands and steer him towards the stairs to sit down. He watches you with rapt attention as you twist off the cap and chug your bottle, only breathing once its contents are drained. He doesn’t move for a while, so you turn to him.
“Not thirsty?” The clown shakes his head.
“Damn, now how am I supposed to bribe you?” He looks confused, “You know, for the whole ‘damaging public property’ to accidentally steal a free drink? Then again, you don’t seem to talk much as it is…”
The clown pointedly looks down at the drink in his hand, then back at you. One hand pinches the corner of his smile and zips across. These lips are sealed. Cool, at least the clown won't snitch on you.
Getting a better look at your mute companion, you realise the black markings around his eyes are asymmetrical; one side stretches down past his toothy grin, and the other takes the shape of a teardrop.
“Hmm, you don’t look like a mime.” Indeed, he confirms that he isn’t a mime. Maybe clowns have never been allowed to talk?
The clown gingerly takes your hand and turns your palm upwards. With a clawed finger, he lightly traces a shape into your palm. By the fifth stroke, you finally realise he’s writing out something. “Waitwaitwait! Start again please. I’m dumb.” He shakes his head, probably disappointed with your snail’s wit, and restarts his spelling.
P… I… that’s either an F or an E… Double R or K… OT…
His hand comes up to rest on his chest. You squint as you try to sound out the word.
“Pie-rot?” His shoulders shake, one hand covering his mouth, and the heat rushes to your face. With a half-hearted pout, you correct yourself, “I knew it was Pif-k-kot.”
Oh you got his ass. He throws his head back in a silent cackle, hand flying from his mouth to his forehead. You're quite proud of yourself; maybe you should ask him about signing up to pursue a career as a class clown?
When he finally recovers, he looks around - not dissimilar to how you did before you did something illegal. Then, he leans in close, a conspiratorial hand shielding his mouth.
“It’s Pierrot, my dear.”
His voice is little more than a whisper in the wind, but it had you weak in the knees for some unexplainable reason.
“Pierrot…” What a pretty name. The moment his name leaves your mouth, those golden irises behind the mask seem to morph into hearts — or maybe it was your imagination?
Seeing as he introduced himself, you decide to return the favour by tracing your name into his palm. You don’t expect him to break the rules for you twice, so you sound it out for him.
“It’s nice to meet you, ‘Pierrot, my dear’.”
Just as you’re getting to know each-other, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You huff, reluctantly pulling yourself to your feet. “Duty calls.”
Your companion visibly deflates, but nods.
“I guess I’ll see you around?” Pierrot beckons you closer. As you lean in, he plucks something behind your ear and holds it out to you; a red ticket.
“Oh… I thought they were pink?” He shakes his head.
Damn, you’ll have to let Kenneth know. “Good to know, thanks!” You’re not sure when you’ll actually have time to go, given your full schedule, but hey: it’s the thought that counts. You wave goodbye to him before rushing back inside, steeling yourself for the aftermath of the food court and bathrooms.
— — —
Note to self: buy some nose plugs.
Not only was the second half of your shift dragging on longer than you wanted, but the hunger pangs were becoming more aggressive. Usually you could grin and bear it, but the bloody aroma of the women’s bathroom had only exacerbated matters.
You heave a sigh of relief when your phone buzzes for the last time, signalling the end of your shift. The cleaning cart carries you to staff room and almost mow down your coworker in the process.
Kenneth squawks, “Whoa! Hey! Where’s the fire chief?”
“Under my ass. We gotta run before Jen ropes us into some other bullshit.”
“Ahh… gotcha.” Kenneth nods sagely. As you’re gathering your things and clocking out, you remember what Pierrot had told you.
“Oh! By the way, your ticket’s fake.”
“Huh?”
“I met one of the performers earlier and he gave me this one.” You hand him the red one.
Kenneth holds them both up to the light, squinting. “I dunno, they both look pretty similar, ignoring the colour. What if one’s a priority ticket and the other’s just standard?”
You shrug, “Better safe than sorry, right? I got mine from an actual clown, after all. Who did you say gave you yours?”
Kenneth pauses, humming thoughtfully. “Damn, guess I’ll have to buy one after all.”
He tries to hand the red ticket back to you, but you refuse. “Keep it.”
“You’re sure?” You nod, “Alright, thanks!”
Just as the two of you are walking out, Jen materialises on the other side of the staff room door. Her eyes land on you first.
“You, with me. Now.”
What cosmic entity did you piss off in the last few hours to deserve this? Why couldn’t she have pointed at big strong Kenneth instead of your sorry ass?
For what it's worth, Kenneth apologises for holding you up, but you can hardly blame him. With a heavy heart (and emptier stomach), you resign yourself to your fate, following after your supervisor.
She leads you to an outer wall of the mall, not far from where you’d been sitting with Pierrot during your break. When you round the corner, you’re met with a bold, colourful mural of a cutesy cartoon character devouring the guts of another.
Huh. “I think it’s a Banksy.” You blurt it out without thinking.
Jen raises a brow, before shaking her head.
“Whatever, just have this removed before tomorrow.”
“Wh- Why can’t the night shift do it?”
“Because he phoned in sick earlier and I only have the three of you!” She barks, “Besides, it should only take you a few minutes. Think of it as making up for the time you missed this morning.”
Your fist tightens around your bag strap. Even in the dimming light, you can tell the graffiti has most definitely dried, which means half an hour minimum of scrubbing, and an extra half hour rinsing it off.
She’s already walking away, probably going home, and you’re struck with the bone-deep desire to c̵̛̬õ̸̬ǹ̷̦s̸̤̅ǘ̶͍m̴̗̈e̸̗̓.
You sink your teeth into your knuckles, leveraging the pain to ground yourself. It takes a few minutes of deep breathing exercises to calm you down, but you manage.
Right.
First thing’s first, locate the cleaning supplies.
Second, set up the power washer.
Third, start scrubbing.
Any other day, this side quest wouldn’t have irked you.
It just had to be today that fate decided to give you the middle finger. You take out your frustrations on the wall, scrubbing until your fingers are simultaneously freezing AND burning.
About half an hour in, the sun has set completely, leaving only the waning street lamps for light. Not that it’s a huge problem, you can still see quite clearly, and your persistence has completely removed the lower half of the graffiti. The last few bits are far out of your reach, so you have to run back inside to retrieve the step-ladder.
It creaks beneath your weight, but that doesn’t deter you from standing haphazardly at the top to complete your mission. Repositioning the ladder is a waste of time, if you just reach your arm far enough-
Brrring Brrring
Multiple things happen at once. You register the step-ladder disappearing from beneath your feet, followed by a rush of wind and a blur of red.
A worried face crowds your vision, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. Not when your eyes have zeroed in on a crimson liquid leaking down his forehead.
Blood.
Your instincts are howling. Thrashing. Clawing at the walls of your mind.
You don’t dare breathe. Any more of that intoxicating scent and you’ll lose it. Instead, you shift focus to your saviour’s voice.
He’s muttering your name, asking you something. Slowly but surely, you manage to regain your composure.
“Pierrot… why are you bleeding?” He goes still, like a deer in headlights.
“A-ah, you needn’t worry about me, my dear. It’s just a scratch-” He flinches when you grab both sides of his head, turning it this way and that.
You scoff, “Yeah, ‘just a scratch’ my ass. Come.” You sit up and he helps you to your feet, hovering as if you’ll topple over at the slightest breeze. It’s sweet of him, but you doubt he’d be so willing to help if he’d known just how close he was to having his throat ripped out.
You begin walking towards the mall, but Pierrot’s shadow vanishes from your peripheral. Turning around, you see him picking something up from the stairs, likely abandoned when he ran to catch you.
He walks it over to you and your mouth drops. “Is that..?” Your hands drift towards the handles, and he lets you take it.
Scratched paint, stars on the spokes, the same tinny bell that had jumpscared you earlier—yep. This is your bike.
“How did you..?” Pierrot offers no explanation, just a shrug and a smile (and a head injury for his efforts). You stare at him, baffled that he went out of his way to track it down. Or rather, that he was willing to track down the teens from earlier to steal it back.
“You really didn’t have to do that, but... thanks.” Pierrot sways on his feet, giddy at your gratitude. “Follow me, we’ve got a medkit in the staff room.”
He matches your pace easily, following you through the now-deserted mall. You doubt the security guards will mind, but to your surprise, you don’t encounter anyone.
You seat him on a bench, fiddling around with the medkit. Pierrot refuses to remove the mask, but thankfully the damage seems to be limited to a cut near his hairline. He doesn’t react to the antiseptic wipe, but he seems to lean into the damp cloth as you wipe away the blood, the warmth of his face distracting you from the smell.
Once he’s all cleaned up, you finally breathe a sigh of relief.
“You’re sure you’re okay though? No dizziness, headaches, or memory loss?” He shakes his head. “Alright, good.”
Pierrot rises from his seat, reminding you how miserably short you are. “Once again, I appreciate your hospitality, my dear. I’ll be sure to make it up to you when you come to the circus.”
“Psht, please. You already got my bike back, I’d say we’re even. And besides, I had no idea if or when I’ll be able to visit, so I gave my ticket to my coworker-”
Pierrot’s face drops, and you sense you’ve said something wrong.
“You… gave it away?” It almost sounds like an accusation.
“W-well, you said the tickets weren’t pink, so I thought he got scammed. And I didn’t want it to go to waste, so I thought…” You’d thought he was just generally handing out tickets anyway, but clearly you were wrong. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”
Pierrot waves a hand, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “No need for apologies, you were just... looking out for your coworker.”
His hand scrunches into a ball, and when it opens, there’s another red ticked pinched between his fingers. He lightly grabs your wrist and places the ticket in your palm.
“Here’s another, but this ticket is for you, my dear. Promise me you’ll use it?”
You nod, “I promise. Tomorrow should be my day off, so maybe I’ll give you a visit then?”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.” Pierrot is positively beaming. And he’s still holding your hand.
So unassuming.
So touchy.
You wonder if he tastes as sweet as he-
You jerk back, swiftly pocketing the ticket and pretending to check the time.
“Shoot, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got somewhere to be.”
There's a look of something on his face, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. “No worries, I understand.” You hurry out with your bike and Pierrot in tow, coming to a stop at the front of the mall.
“It’s quite dark out.” He mutters.
“Don’t worry, I know the city like the back of my hand. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” You give him a quick wave before kicking off the pavement, disappearing into the night.
The wind yowls in your ears as you pedal for dear life, weaving through cars and around pedestrians, desperation eating you inside out.
The Drop-off is too far. You'll have to settle for an emergency hunt.
The noise of the evening traffic fades out completely once you breach the border of the local wildlife reserve. You abandon your bike in a nearby bush and slink into the forest, body melting and distorting more and more as the hunger breaks free of your chains.
— — —
You never wanted to hurt anyone. Not people, and certainly not animals. Every creature has a family. Someone who’ll miss them. The desire to live. Who are you to steal that away?
A monster.
A mature red deer twitches between your teeth, its neck mangled and bloody.
No amount of apologies will bring it back. No prayers will clean the blood from your hands.
All you can do is ensure that nothing is left behind.