dear, I'm not even the youngest drinker in the hall. Power, and money all make even the law turn blind. Why do you think so much corruption occurs? And I suppose you know this better than anyone," he jabs, his grey eyes slicing into me. "After all, you're no stranger to the fortunes of others, now are you?"

Ah, I missed the old 'you robbed me of my money' look. 

I know I should be irritated but the laugh in my voice was a very persuasive thing, "Are you still mad about that, sweetie? I thought it was universal to the world that I didn't know shit about how or why your Grandpa chose this," I pointed to myself, "beauty instead of that one." I pointed at him.

Grayson fixed his sleeve cuffs, "Only a fool denser than and having the intellectual capacity of osmium—"

"—Osmium?"

"—would keep a grudge so childish." Grayson turned to face me completely, "It's obvious now. This a game by the old man. One last game, as Jamie said." He tapped the base of his thighs, "The goal is to find the reason behind why only you two out of billions choose."

"Avery's hot on it," A small spark of pride came to warm my soul when I spoke of her name. Her smarts and her. And then it flickered out into cold guilt and self-detestation. "...until she got shot." What was I doing? Mingling with him while I should be trying to get home first. Home to them.

You couldn't save her, said something in my head.
You weren't even there with her, said it again.
You're a bad sister, it enjoyed seeing the flames die down.

The worst.
You're—

"You're not at fault."

That woke me up quick, "Sorry?"

Grey eyes refused to look away from ahead, but soft lips spoke nonetheless, "You're not at fault, Arlene." Was it always so hard to breathe? "You couldn't have known. No one could have. And you made the right precautionary choices. Oren was there, Jameson was too. Aver is alive, breathing, and there, waiting for you to be home because of your choice to let your bodyguard stay. So refrain from dwelling into worthless self-repremanding. Get it together. You have more things to worry about than your nonexistent incompetence."

I couldn't say anything to that. 
Nothing to quip. Nothing to jab. Or joke.

This wasn't like me.

You're just a game to him, whispered my own voice into my mind, don't. Don't even.

"Well," I began, my voice too soft for my own liking, "Thank you."

He smiled. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne smiled a soft, genuine, and real smile. This was nice. 

This was distracting.
This was my guard down.

Walls towered up almost immediately. Brick by brick, step by step until I was all alone again. No one but me. And me but no one. 

"We should probably do something about the clown thing. Like, right now."

Grayson offered a curt nod in reply, "I suppose Martin has a plan in mind?"

"Mhm, and I'm fine with being bait."

Pale fingers clenched into tight fists. "No." He held up a hand before continuing, "Self-sacrifice is foolish. He always used to talk to me about it, the old man. Always going on and on about the importance of priority, when to lose a piece, and when to save one. Sacrifice is an inexcusable, inevitable thing."

"Like covering the murder of four kids?" Yikes. Should not have brought that up right now. I expected Grayson to shoot me the dirtiest glare, to break his cool, and maybe even yell at me. I don't know what exactly I expected but him looking confused was not it.

"Murder of four children?"

"You know, the one the media is so quiet about after Mr. Jarob or whatever—cried shit in front of a camera for. The four children who got killed in the bombing that clock?"

Was he so arrogant enough to forget about such a thing? All I got was a cocked head filled with pure perplexity. So he did choose to ignore it. So he did choose to go his merry way away after four young were killed. How could he?

"How could y—"

"Arlene," His voice was calming. Not to him, but to me. Purposefully trying to pacify me. "Arlene. Look to your right, on the dance floor."

I did. Reluctantly I did. I turned around and what I saw made the Sahara desert seem like an ocean compared to my mouth. 

Two pairs of short bodies. Two pairs of smiles. 
Two pairs of legs dancing along the tiles.

"Those four children are alive, Arlene," Grayson whispered so carefully.
"They never have died."

·······•✦•······

This couldn't be right.
No. 

I could not have been wrong. 

I saw them. I saw four bodies. Four innocent children, lying on the floor. Not breathing. Wounded. Cold. Dead. Definitely dead. The bloody pools around them said enough. The doctors checking their pulses, and shaking their heads, said more than enough.

So how?

How were they in front of me? How were they dancing around, smiling laughing, and going about their happy evenings? As if nothing happened. Not a scratch on them, not a trace of haunted emotions in their eyes.

"But I..." I what? I saw four dead kids? I was mentally insane? If they were here, all a-okay, then... "What was that Jared guy crying about?"

"Jarob, my dear," Grayson corrected. He was being too gentle with me. "And he had to compensate the media for the lack of security in the event, so he made up a—in lack of better wording—sob story, about how he would ensure revenge be upon those who destroyed a piece of his honored heritage. Granted, the clock wasn't worth more than a few million—"

"I'm sorry," I blinked, "So you're telling me, no one is dead?"

"I'm telling you no one is dead."

The silence is a bipolar person. Moments ago I appreciated its warmth and familiarity. Now it became a dense, choking, angry asshole again. Grey eyes try to drown the amber of mine.

"Maybe you really should consider a drink of wine, darling."

"Yeah, no." My eyes find those kids again. Their joyful smiles and dancing stopped, now replaced with boyish grins and mischievous uno games in a corner. I must have been seeing things. Very very very realistic things. But still seeing things. "I'm good."

Ears.

Let's talk about ears. Ears are ear shaped cartilages that allow us to hear every beautiful sensory detail of vibrations in the world. Every little sound and music. Our ears are meant for enjoying little things of nature we cannot touch or see. Just feel. 

What are ears are not meant for is torture.

Because, there is no other way to describe this. There is no other way to describe the ear-piercing, life-changing, brain-wrecking shrill squeal that I had to endure for two seconds of hearing. The woman was on top of him quicker than my hands shooting up to cover my ears.

Hypersensitivity was a much bigger curse than money to me now.

"GRAYSOOON!" The woman practically was squeezing the life out of my guy and how he kept his face completely still and emotionless was the biggest mystery known to mankind for me. 

"Ms. Smallshoe, if you would please abstain from invading my personal space—" Ms. Smallshoe?

"Oh, Gray!" Her voice was too squeaky. Her voice was too high. Too fake. Too loud. "You know you should totally just call me Lila, it's so much more cuter." Ms. Smallshoe—Lila Smallshoe laughed, snuggling closer to the victim Hawthorne.

Gold drank in every nook and cranny of the girl.

And boy... she was almost as beautiful as she was overly obnoxiously, vociferous (I learned that word from Pretty Boy btw). 

Her skin was a soft, smooth, sheet of peach, so clear it felt like she was freshly cleaned out of her mother's womb. She was short in that cute, Sabrina Carpenter way. Her brown hair was practically melted chocolate flowing down all the way below her waist.  Speaking of waists, it was criminal how small hers was. Her skinny arms and slender fingers would have brought the Korean Beauty standard to its knees.

She was every girl's dream, body-wise. Personality? Every person's biggest nightmare. 

Guess perfection was only Hawthorne in a room.

"And who are you?"
The way she eyed me as if memorizing every irregular hip dent, every over-muscled limb, or maybe the more than ugly scars that peaked through the skin of my back. Everything not right with me, everything horrible, wrong, and just not pretty about me. As if I was a mole in her pristine, flawless existence.

The woman shook her shoulders, as if shimming (how to unsee that), into a shrug and rolled her eyes, "Seriously? You're after my Gray-Gray too. God, you women are always so desperate!"

I briefly wondered upon how she would look at me if I slightly broke that perfectly buttoned nose.

Wondered upon. Not act.

"Forget it, Gray." She placed a palm on his suited chest, "They'll always swarm around like little buzzy bees. After all, you're so sweet, like honey!" Can I vomit? Please? "Let's go daaance! After all, we don't mingle with..." She did another up-and-down look at me, "Princesses."

The disgust in her eyes was more than enough to tell me it was my cue to get the fuck out of here. Usually, I would meet that disgust head-on, maybe with a sickeningly sweet smirk of my own, but the whole thing with the clown, the ghost bombing, and Avery took up way too much of my mental stamina to care.

So, one step back. 
I'm not taking 'your' man, girl.

Two steps back.
Goodbye, bitch.

And turn.
Freedom, here I come—

Or so poor, innocent little Arlene thought.

The second his skin even brusquely pressed upon the sides of my form, the upper sides—the VERY sensitive ribcage sides—of my body, I had to stop time, go buy cement, and cement my feet to the ground to stop myself from leaping some-feet into the air like a kangaroo.

And then the arse had to pull me against his rock-hard chest. Holding me close to him like a child would hold a stuffed toy, showing it off.

Gold shot towards silver, The fuck are you doing, Hawthorne?!

Silver ignored gold. "I'm afraid, Ms. Smallshoe," I wanted to die. He tightened his hold on the one spot I wished he wouldn't. Why is it always me? "I must decline. After all, I'm already spoken for." The woman was too stunned to speak.

"Ms. Arlene Amira Grambs is my date for the night. I would much like a private dance with her."

·······•✦•······

WHAT HAPPENED TO CHESS PIECE?!

I believe it was my turn to be pissed off, and Lilly's turn to be flabbergasted.

"Wait, her?" Ah yes, to be stuck between two rich kids who both want me dead. Although one, I'm very confused about. "Gray-Gray—" take a cringe-worthy break for this one, "—what about me? I mean, come on! She's being so dramatic and like, totally not worth it." Lillith smiled, trying to get closer to Grayson, making her uh... assets, get closer to me.

I was very uncomfortable.

"Yeah," I dragged the 'eah' as much as I wanted to drag Pretty Boy to hell for putting me in this position, "I'm overdramatic, ADHD, and totally not worth your time." I lied through my teeth.

What demon possessed Grayson to hold me closer, only Satan knows.

"Oh, I believe you are much more, Doll." That stupid royal shit-eating grin on his face made me realize just how much fun he had using the 'doll' tag on me right now. "Come along, darling, let's share this dance."

"Oh hell no—" His fingers pressed the flesh over my ribcage again and I had to bit back a less-than-graceful yelp. By the time the white dots blurred out, Grayson was already taking me by hand towards the dance floor. Ms.Smallbrain—sorry, Smallshoe, looked just about as murderous as the clown above my head.

The clown above my—

Gone. It was gone in a flash. Grayson, thank the almighty, let go of that weakness-prone part of me. No thanks to the almighty, he chose to wrap a firm and steady arm around my waist.

"What the hell," I smiled brightly at him, my facial muscles turning into Achilles to keep that curve from flattening, "is fucking wrong with you?"

"If you would require a list, my dear," Grayson pressed up against my side, "I could provide you with one."

"Fuck you, Hawthorne."

"Right back at you, Grambs."

The floor was packed with couples, young and old. But at the sound of Grayson's overly polished, thousand-buck shoe, clacking against the shiny tiles, the hall went quiet. The pairs watched our every move for but a moment longer before scattering away. 

The floor was empty.
The only people on the floor... were me and him.

I met his eyes. They told me to smile at him. To look at him as if I would look at my two angels. 
I did. 

I let a soft, gentle, and slow smile fall upon my face. I let my eyelids go heavy and halve as he turned me around to face him. His own expression matching mine. He pulled me closer. His one arm snaked around my waist, as the other held my hand up and out. One step, two, and three before we were dancing.

A forbidden fairytale-like light shone upon us from the chandelier. He was close. He couldn't say a word—not even whisper—without it sounding like a thousand times more prominent in the hushed music of the hall. So I spoke to him without a word said.

Squeeze. Release.
'Ever heard of the song Hot 'n' Cold? Should be your theme song, Pretty Boy.'

A step to the right, a gliding spin.
Squeeze. Release.
'Hillarious, Doll.'

The music started to grow. The notes started to play faster.
Squeeze. Release.
'Why are you like this? I mean is the dancing really necessary? There are other ways to torture people, ya know. More efficient ways.'

Each string of the violin felt sharper. A blur of motion, our legs were. 
Squeeze. Release.
'We are the star cast of this event, my dear.' His hands grabbed my waist. When the ground left my feet, I could've sworn my breath tightened as my grip on his shoulders did. His voice was laced with something not quite promise but not any less exhilarating.'It is only fair we do our part and give them a sight to remember.'

My feet met the ground again, but for some reason that thrill in my heart didn't calm down. Not even as he pinned my world around. Not even as the sounds around me swelled. Not even as a flash of motion zoomed past and above me.

It was like we were the only two in the world. Me and a Hawthorne, dancing around. 

We were on the edge of a knife, just ready to fall over. Our steps hurried, and the instruments hurried. The world was spinning faster and faster. Electric air was the only one I could breathe in. 

The wide-eyed, crazed, practically sparkling grins on our faces said enough. I was lost. So incredibly lost.

I didn't even notice that our dance ended.
When the room turned hotter.
When the curtains started to blaze.

When the chandelier fell.

·······•✦•······

I was nine years old when I was born.
I was given no name.

I had only one. 

The man in front of me was as old as time. He called himself nothing. They called him L'Imperatore. I called him father. On good days.

On today? I called him the Ringmaster.

I've never been to a circus. I've been raised in one.

The man in front of me knelt. His eyes were mine. His face was mine. He was me.
And that was my worst and best dream.

"You are special, Mia Rosa. So so special." He held the gun at my head, "It would be such a waste. Such such a waste if you do not become more than what you are."

The gun had seventeen rounds. The bullets were of nine-millimeters. The nozzle was against my head. He was smiling, his hands were covered in red.

"Again, my dolly. Again."

My fingers held the gun. I stood up. They were begging me not to. 
The four people on the ground, swimming in red.

There were four men. All twice my size and three times my strength. And yet I was the one who had their lives in the palm of my hand.

"Go on." He patted my back, as if sending me off to go play on the grounds. As if waving goodbye for a fun day in the park.

Was I supposed to have fun piercing holes in those bodies? Should I?

I can't. I think I failed again.

But I still do. I pierce holes into flesh again and again and again. But why won't they still? Why won't they sleep? Bad people need to sleep too, right?  Bad people need to sleep so we can have fun and play.

No. That's not it. 

Bad people need to sleep so the Ringmaster can sell their parts away.
Tools to be reused.

But there was one thing.
His hand rested on my shoulder, pushing the gun slowly away with the other.

"You have no name," he whispered for the hundredth time, "You have no home. You have just a stage, my dear doll. You are what they say. You will be that today." He smiled as red painted our shoes.

"The Deadly Doll kills not a soul... but makes them wish she did anyway."

·······•✦•······

I woke up to find myself in my own body.
A stranger's body.

He was nowhere to be seen.
No one was nowhere to be seen.
The flames were an old companion lost.

The shards of glass digging into my skin, coaxing bleeding sap from it, did something to ground me. Until they did nothing at all.

"Oh, you ludicrous thing." The sneer on my face was not the most dangerous thing about me. The clown in front of me split its face in half, trying not to laugh. He was blonde. He was bony. He was tall and he was The Mime. 

I remember hell. Where there was no fire. Where there was no tailed, long-horned demon. No. I remember hell on earth. 

And I was Satan.

Every muscle in my body screamed in agony as I got to my feet. And yet, my lips were sealed shut. Only parting at the last second to let out a manic sound. 

A laugh. A sob. A yell. 

I remember now. I remember so so well. All those years backstage. 

I remember only because I was forced to.
To think I could have been someone else.

"You really," I spit out the glass in my mouth, circling the Mime. "really thought it was a good idea to let me rogue? Is that what he thinks?" The earth was shaking. That was my fault.

Everything always was.

I hadn't missed that face. "Tell, me," The clown creeped his hands into his pockets. His striped shirt, black pants, and sloppy blonde hair. I wanted to rip him to shreds. "why the hell did you come back for me, Arthur?"

I didn't get a reply. All I got was a blade in my stomach.
Or I would have if I had not blocked it back with my single heel. 

The struggle in his hands measured nowhere near his excitement. A swift twist of his body, his legs collided with mine with a painful kick. The air in my lungs left me only to come storming back in as I matched his very own move.

Only strong enough to produce the sound of cracking. 
Or shattering.
The shattering of every bone in his side.

His body slammed into the wall, several feet away from me. His head hung low only to jerk up with a grin that would not leave my sleep with me. Seconds in and he sprung back, dashing right up to my face. The knife was in the air one moment. The other it was on the