Page 4 of Carnival Mayhem

"Pass the remote." I hold out my hand, knowing he'll give me grief about it.

"What, you don't want to watch Monster Trucks?" He smirks but tosses it over anyway.

The familiar drone of some crime documentary fills our trailer as we fall into our post-show routine. It's comfortable, this space we've carved out together. Safe. Even if sometimes the air feels thick with things we never say.

I grab a slice of pizza, cold but still good. The documentary drones on about serial killers—our usual evening entertainment. Colt knows I prefer the analytical side of crime, while he'd rather watch things blow up. But he never complains, just adds his commentary between bites and sips.

"Think they'll ever catch this one?" he asks, gesturing at the screen with his beer.

"They always make mistakes eventually." I lean back, letting my shoulders relax. "Everyone does."

I watch Colt's chest rise and fall as he drifts into a light doze, the TV casting flickering shadows across his face. The documentary's narrator drones on about DNA evidence, but my mind wanders to our performance tonight.

My fingers tap against the beer bottle as I catalog the day's successes: four perfect run-throughs during practice and a flawless performance. The crowd's energy fed into our routine, their gasps and applause hitting all the right beats. Even Tyson's praise felt earned tonight.

Colt shifts in his sleep, and I notice his shoulder position. Whether he admits it or not, he'll need ice on that tomorrow. That's part of my job as his partner—keeping him in peak condition. We can't afford injuries in this line of work, not with the things Tyson has us doing both in and out of the ring.

Today was good. It was the kind of day that reminded me why I chose this life, why I stay: the control, the precision, the perfect execution of carefully laid plans. And having a partner like Colt—someone who matches my dedication, who understands the importance of every detail—makes it all work seamlessly.

The documentary switches to commercials, and I turn down the volume. No need to wake him. He's earned his rest, and I prefer these quiet moments anyway. They give me time to think, plan, and maintain my world's careful order.

3

FLORA

As I scrub last night's dishes, the kitchen clock ticks past seven a.m. My fingers prune in the tepid water while the scent of bacon wafts through the air—breakfast for everyone but me. My foster mother Janet bustles around, plating food for her precious boys.

"Did you iron Tommy's uniform?" She doesn't look at me.

"Yes." The same answer I give every morning.

The calendar on the wall mocks me with its red circle around today's date: December 1st, my eighteenth birthday. Not that anyone here remembers or cares. But I remember—oh, how I remember. This birthday means freedom—no more mandatory placement, no more state oversight, no more...them.

Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs as Tommy and Jake storm into the kitchen, shoving past me to grab their plates. Jake's hand lingers too long on my hip as he passes. I step away, my stomach churning.

"Move it, freak." Tommy elbows me aside.

The mail slot creaks and flutters. Janet sighs dramatically. "Get that, will you?"

I dry my hands and retrieve the stack of envelopes. Bills, ads, and then—something different. A bright red flyer catchesmy eye. Gold lettering sparkles across the top: "CHRISTMAS AT THE CARNIVAL - Magic, Mystery, and Masquerade!"

My heart skips as I read further. The traveling carnival is setting up on the outskirts of Easthollow. They're hiring. Looking for new performers, vendors, anything.

"What's taking so long?" Janet snaps.

I stuff the carnival flyer into my pocket before returning to the kitchen with the rest of the mail. But my mind is already racing with possibilities. A way out. A fresh start. Something entirely different from this hell I've been trapped in.

Seven years of abuse and survival have led to this moment. I'm eighteen now. Adult. Free. And the universe just handed me my ticket to escape.

As I climb the stairs, I clutch the flyer in my pocket, heart racing with newfound hope. The worn carpet muffles my footsteps, but not the heavier ones behind me.

A hand grabs my arm and spins me around. Tommy towers over me, his face twisted in that familiar sneer that makes my blood run cold.

"What's this?" He snatches the paper from my pocket. My stomach drops as his eyes scan the carnival advertisement.

"Give it back." My voice comes out smaller than intended.

He backs me against the wall, one hand pressed beside my head. The hallway shrinks, memories flooding back—being cornered like this before, the pain, the helplessness. The smell of his cologne makes me nauseous.

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