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Chapter 8

The Road

M y feet crunch the sandy pavement as I walk—step after step—down the quiet streets of this shithole town. It’s the dead of night, almost as dark as my soul. The pulsating muscle behind my rib cage bears no resemblance to what it was 24 hours ago. It's not even the same as it was before I met her. What lies beneath my flesh and bones is a new flavor of hate. One I haven’t tasted yet, and fuck, am I thrumming with excitement to take a bite. I need to put some distance between me and my latest work, though. The few people I see as I stalk these streets all look like dinner to me. In a cartoon, their heads would turn into steaks. My mouth and dick both start to salivate at the fun possibilities my mind is conjuring up.

I begin replaying all the things in my life that got me here as I veer off down a dirt road that goes into some woods. The twisted branches grow dense and block out what little light the moon provides. The temperature shifts dramatically the deeper inside I go, cooling down my hot skin. A place like this is home to a man like me. I watch the movie I have created of my parents’ deaths in slow motion. Then, how I was swaddled in my mothers warm flesh and taken. I remember the scraps I was given to eat, barely enough to sustain life but somehow I pushed through. I developed survival skills before I could speak in full sentences.

Then, I skim through the countless memories of people I fucked, murdered, murdered while fucking, fucked after they were murdered, and so on. I remember—each time feeling the tickle of guilt inside me—that this person was someone else's baby. The anger I felt at the fact that I’m just repeating the cycle. A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. Not anymore, sir . Not anymore.

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. Could have been an hour, could’ve been eight hours. All I know is that I am paying just enough attention to the world around me to keep on moving along the narrow dirt road. Warm-colored lights kiss the earth in front of me, and I feel drawn to it. The tree trunks are catching the glow as well, defining the bark’s design in each one. I raise my head and blink a few times to make sure what I’m seeing is real.

Tents made of tight fabric with dirty cream and red wine stripes. Round lights that look like the same color as fire. Rides, facades, popcorn stands… What the fuck…

A circus? Out here? Still open in the middle of the night? All of that seems wrong, which pulls me harder towards it. There’s something not right about this place. The air is blessed with faint screams sprinkled in between music and laughter.

The sign out front, spiked into the ground reads: Cirque’s Du Grotesque .

Alright, I’m game. Let’s get fucking weird.