Chapter 5 V. LIAR
V. LIAR
A year before
It took me two weeks to recover from the wounds that were still far from healed, but I had to get back on my feet. If I wanted to eat, I needed to work. Bread crusts and cold leftovers, which Rio stole for me, were not enough.
When I was finally strong enough to stand, the man who owned this place decided he wanted to see me.
I waited outside his office, listening to footsteps echo inside. When the door finally opened, I stood, ready to enter, but he lifted his hand to stop me. He stepped out, locked the door behind him, and slipped the key back onto the chain around his neck.
He tapped me on the shoulder, then offered his hand.
“Rocco,” he said with a quick wink. “Let me show you around.”
His office was on the second floor of the house, which had four floors in total. He led me to the end of the hallway near the staircase, and he motioned for me, “Go ahead,” he said, gesturing down.
As we walked to the floor below, he started to talk.
“The House of Clowns was a ruin once,” he said.
“During the war, La Maddalena was a naval base for the Italian navy. Since this house was close to the port, soldiers used to hide here. It got bombed more than once. Then, on May 2nd, 1945, when the war ended, two local soldiers dressed as clowns stood right out front to cheer for the people. It was the end of the terror. They called it Circo dei Perduti.”
“The Circus of the Lost,” I whispered.
He nodded as we reached the ground floor.
“Later, the ones who lost their homes came here. Nobody knew how to perform, so they started to paint their faces as clowns, and later on, they called it the House of Clowns. In 1960, when those two soldiers died, a pair of brothers rebuilt it. They traveled all over Italy looking for performers. Every year, they came back to La Maddalena and held a show.”
He smiled.
“I took over nine years ago. I used to be like you. I started as a stable boy, taking care of animals. Every year, I moved up a little more, saved what I could, and one day I bought the place.”
I didn’t say anything.
He pushed open a door and glanced down both sides of a long corridor.
“The ground floor is for the working men who set up tents, the cooks, the stable hands.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Be friendly with the cook; he’s the one who decides what you eat.” He gave a short laugh. “The rest of them, just be good, and they’ll be good to you.”
We went up to the first floor.
“Here are the ladies of the night, ticket sellers, and seamstresses,” he said, giving me a wink. “We treat them well because they treat the customers well.”
At the next staircase, he nodded upward. “The second floor is for the clowns. They run the show.”
We didn’t stop there. We climbed again. “The third floor is for performers and fortune tellers,” he said, pointing to the left. “There’s also the animal trainers and the ringmaster, Carlos. You’ll meet him soon.”
When we reached the attic, he paused before opening the door.
“And up here are the freaks,” he said. “This is where you’ll stay.”
He let me step inside first, and just before the door closed behind me, “We perform next month. Make yourself useful, and this place will feel like home.”
Then the door clicked shut, and he was gone.
Present day
The click of the door snapped me back to the present.
Doll stood in front of me, her eyes wide and full of fear.
I saw it. I understood it. I just didn’t care.
Something inside me always twisted toward the things I wasn’t meant to have, and she was one of them.
A want that shouldn’t exist. Except she wasn’t a thing.
She was a person. A person I already knew I wanted to own.
I took a step closer.
She flinched, eyes squeezing shut, hands clamping over her mouth. Her arms were full of scars, pale lines crossing from wrist to elbow, small scratches fading into deeper cuts.
She was broken.
That should’ve made me stop.
It didn’t.
It only made her perfect.
“You are not real,” she whispered to herself, “He is not real, Chiara.” As she slid down the wall to the ground.
Chiara.
I knelt, grabbing her wrists and pulling her up, and as she opened her eyes, her knee met my balls, and I growled in pain.
I doubled over, the breath tearing out of me, a bitter laugh breaking through the pain. For a second, all I could do was stare at her — this trembling thing that had just drawn blood from the monster she thought wasn’t real.
“Cute,” I hissed, dragging in a sharp breath, straightening. “You think that’ll stop me?”
She stumbled back, palms flat against the door, eyes wide. I could see her pulse hammering in her throat as she tried to open the door.
“Stay back,” she hissed.
Brave little Doll.
A laugh slid from my throat. She amused me.
“That tone,” I murmured. “Say it again. I like it when you pretend you still have teeth.”
“So you would hit a woman? How pathetic.” She pushed the words out, trying to stand her ground, even though she trembled in front of me.
“No.” I smiled, letting the corners of my mouth curl while my eyes darkened. “I would have pulled them out while you slept.”
Her breath hitched. She started to shake, her fingers slipping behind her for the handle. The door opened with a soft click, and she turned around and started to run.
I didn’t chase her right away. I listened to her frantic steps pounding down the stairs, then stopping somewhere below. And when I could no longer hear them, I made my way down.
“Oh, Doll,” I called, “come out.”
The kitchen light flickered as I stepped inside. She crouched behind the counter, her palms pressed to her face. Poor thing didn’t realize her reflection shone clear as day in the oven door.
I sighed and rolled my eyes, taking one careful step closer.
“Let’s not make this boring,” I said, my fingers brushing the counter’s edge.
She sprang up. The knife flashed, slicing into my hand before I could react.
“Fuck,” I hissed, yanking the blade from my hand. Blood welled and dripped onto the tile. I met her wide eyes and smiled. “Just a scratch.”
But as she turned, she stumbled on a chair and fell to the floor.
She crawled back on her shaky hands while I walked toward her slowly, my blood dripping onto the tiles.
When she reached the wall, I knelt and pressed the knife to her pretty little face, and said, “Do it again and I will use my blood as lube to fuck you.”
She cried out, tears spilling down her cheeks. “What do you want from me?”
I moved the knife from her face and traced it down to her chest. Her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounded so hard I could feel it through the blade.
“You’ll find out,” I said.
I didn’t move. I just watched her. She didn’t waste a second. She scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the wall where hung a plastic, yellowed old phone, its cord twisted into knots below. Her fingers trembled as she dialed, her breath coming fast.
When she turned her back, I moved into the hallway, pressing flat against the wall just behind her.
For a heartbeat, I thought she was calling the cops. Then I heard her voice crack.
“Rocco?”
A pause.
“Dad?”
Dad? Rocco was her father?
A year before
The attic door slammed behind me, and as I turned, my heart was beating fast in my chest. The narrow staircase was leading higher. I climbed five steps, and as I reached the top, I noticed five small beds, each divided by a short white curtain.
Freaks. That’s what they call them. What they call me too.
But as I looked around, all I saw were people. Maybe a little different, maybe a little unwanted, trying to make this place feel like home. But even here, in the House of Clowns, they were still treated like shit just because they were different.
In the corner, there was a short woman in a red dress sitting in front of a cracked mirror. She brushed the long, soft beard that flowed past her chest.
On the next bed, a woman with blonde curls and a pink ribbon perched on her head was knitting. She had six arms. Two of her hands worked the needles while another pair propped her up, and two more rested beside her.
A man with two heads sat in the corner of the room, with both his faces bent over reading a book. Across from him sat a woman with her legs bound tightly together. For a moment, I thought I saw her skin shimmering faintly under the lamplight as if hiding scales beneath.
People in the world only dared to look under a tent.
I reached the top of the stairs, and their gaze fell on me, scanning me from head to toe.
“You’re not like us,” the woman with the pink ribbon said.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the two-headed man added, lowering his book.
I met their stares and crossed to the empty bed. Sitting down, I felt the wood creak beneath me.
“Maybe,” I said, “ Maybe, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”