[week 25 day 2]
Come one, come all! Children in for half price! A show like this comes only once in a blue moon!
The announcer's shouting at the top of his lungs, the sounds reverberating in your skull, while the crowd pulls you forward, just a writhing mass of people, unable to stop. It makes you choke a little, gasp for air, the press of them, hot, and just too fucking close.
Come on, this is not a show to miss, bring your children, bring your entire family!
You’re shoved through the gate like a herd of cattle, but once through the crowd disperses a little and you take your time making your way up there. There’s only one place to go, just a single raised stage, the area around it just bare dirt, packed down hard from thousands of feet.
You stand back and just stare up for a moment, feeling the crowd mirror your movements, looking up at stage. You’re silent, so they’re silent, and all you can hear is the shrieking laughter, and the dull thud of unforgiving metal against soft, vulnerable flesh.
You don’t need to see the R inscribed on the breast of the uniform to know who it is. The laughter continues, and now you can hear the cries of pain as well, ineffectually trying to be held back, and you look up, and see the boy, his body broken, teeth sinking into his lip, tearing into flesh. And he should be dead, you can see where the crowbar had broken his spine, the way it smashed through a cheek, the sharp end of it tearing through his throat. And the laughter continues, mocking, challenging, ringing through the air.
But he still hangs on, taking punishing blow after punishing blow. And you want to scream at the boy, you want to tell him to just let go, because he’s not going to come, that he should just let go now, that he just needs to stop fighting now, because he’s lost.
But he doesn’t and you know he won’t. Your eyes scan through the crowd, and you watch them stare back at you. Help him! You scream at them. Do something, save him! The crowd looks back at you with dark, soft eyes, a single entity, placid and stupid.
You hear the crunch as the crowbar smashes a kneecap, and the boy screams at that, and you can’t take it anymore. If no one’s going to save him, then you’ll fucking save him. You climb up on stage, and shove the clown away, going to the broken body, cradling the body’s bloody form on your lap.
Shhh. It’s okay, it’s over.
The boy struggles slightly, his broken hands running over your chest, leaving behind trails of red. No, he moans, I’m waiting for him, please, it needs to be him.
And you shake your head. He’s not going to come for us. You whisper at him, stroking at his ruined cheek, fingers sinking into torn open flesh, dragging over slick bone.
And the boy cries, sobs, and you shush him. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You press the muzzle of your pistol against his temple. Shhh, babybird. Shhhh. Everything’s going to be alright.
The bang screams through the silence, and the boy jerks, and then is still, and your press a kiss against his cold forehead, holding him close.
It’s over now.
[Jason’s eyes flutter open, and he just stares up, not seeing the darkness before him, his green eyes almost soft, and very sad.]