The Arrival
The circus is a freakshow, and not in the literal sense.
My parents love taking me to the circus despite my frequent objections. It isn’t because of the usual irrational fear of clowns. In fact, I love them. I adore their clothes, a circus tent for the human body, bright enough to see from afar. Most of my friends hate the painted face, the forced smiles that we all knew was to hide the fact that most clowns were tormented, depressed and often suicidal. I respect that, where most children hide from it.
No, that wasn’t it. I could never put a finger on why I don’t like the circus, so my parents continue to take me. I unwind the window as I watch the trees rush past, a blur of green and brown mushed together as we move at the speed limit. ‘Stop winding that fucking window,’ my dad says. He says a lot of curse words when he’s been drinking the strong brown stuff from the square, glass bottle.
‘Stop it, Henry, you’ve clearly spent too much time with Jack,’ my mum says in a sharp, frustrated tone. I’ve never met Jack; I don’t think I want to either. He seems like a dick. Regardless, I stop unwinding the window, eager to not upset my dad anymore than I already have. I’m sat behind him, so I can see my mum as she drives. Her long, blonde hair is plaited tightly, pulling her hair back and showing off her cheekbones. She is a very pretty lady; I imagine many men have tried to gain her affections throughout time. Why did she settle for a man who drinks too much and can’t even speak a coherent sentence?
After an hour we pull up onto a muddy field with makeshift car parking spaces. There must be hundreds of cars here. Hundreds of families to enjoy the shows. Idiots. I undo my seat belt and get out of the car, standing straight in dog shit. You would think somebody would pick this up. Dad will kill me if I get this in the car. My trainers are white. Rather, they were. Now they were white with brown smudges that smelled of rotten farts. At least the field is muddy, so I can hide the crap on the shoes. Around me, packs of children are running into the circus, pulling their parents by the hands, desperate to see the animals and to take part in the fun, fixed games. I kiss my teeth.
‘What’s your problem, kid?’ my dad asks me. He gives me a filthy glance, as if I am the shit that is now on my shoe. I glare back at him.
‘I hate the fucking circus, dad. I’ve told you this a trillion times.’
‘Watch your language,’ my mum says as my dad walks towards me. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me behind our large car. His grip tightens like a python; I claw at his arm. He pushes me onto the floor, looks around to check nobody is watching, and kicks me in the ribs. I grunt in agony. A tear drops from my left eye. I turn to look at him as he clutches his fist again before punching me in the same spot that he kicked me. He pulls me up by my hair.
‘You watch your fuckin’ language you little shit. I don’t want to hurt you, but you fuckin’ make me every time you start answering back. Nobody likes a smart arse, kid,’ he says, tapping my cheek with an open palm before standing back up, opening the car boot and giving me a towel. ‘Clean the shit off your ribs. Oh, kid, dry your fuckin’ eyes. Nobody likes a cry-baby, either.’
I hate him. I wish he would die. My mum looks at me, tearing up. She still does nothing, though.
In the circus, I see all sorts of games to try. There’s the one where you must hit the bell by hitting the bottom with the hammer. I have always been good at that one, but today, I won’t be able to try. My ribs are burning. I can feel the skin tenderising and bruising. I could try the skee-ball, that wouldn’t require too much arm movement that could stretch my back at all. My mum gives me ten pounds, each in pound coins for me to have a few games before the circus performances starts. She stays behind me, bickering with my dad about something, probably him beating me.
