They don’t tell you about some things. “Don’t speak to strangers,” they say, but who’s a stranger? When you’re lost, you don’t know the policeman. I never speak to policemen, if I can help it.
I was left at the circus. I was about six years old. I don’t know the whole reason behind everything. It might be a Rapunzel story where my folks sold me to a witch; or maybe the circus just steals kids every now and again; maybe I have some horrible deformity and my parents abandoned me; maybe I had some great talent, and they left me here to get trained.
Thing is, I don’t know. Well, I don’t think I’m deformed. In all truth, I’m somewhat painfully average; I don’t have any wonderful skills that would set me out as a future performer. I’m not so strong and mean as the roustabouts, I’m not so agile as the trapeze artists, I have no cunning like our magicians, so they made me a clown.
I’m not a very good clown either. Can’t juggle or do any flips. When I was smaller, they shot me out of a cannon, but now that I’ve grown, that doesn’t work. I’m not really circus material.
There’s one thing I’m kinda good at, but the ringmaster told me not to do it again. He said he would hush it up, but if I ever did it again, he’d call the police. But he did show me how to hide the body, which was the only thing I really needed to learn. I can hide them from him now, too.
He told me not to do it again, but he never told me why.
Tale Told 