Always Mine

The Crimson Carnival: Anna, 11 years ago (Back Then)

Growing up in a family of serial killers is easier than people think. Everything is already decided for me.

My school.

My job.

And tonight, my husband. Hopefully.

All I have to worry about is staying alive and not getting caught.

Recently, my training has been focused on knife work. That includes learning to fight with and against different blades, slicing different meats and organs with various sharp tools, and very soon cutting up a body to properly dispose of it.

I tug on my pink sleeves to cover up the myriad of healing cuts and stab wounds on my arms.

Okay, well, maybe not that soon.

I huff out a breath as I stare out the tinted windows. We have been in the car for almost two hours, but we are almost there. The atmosphere is unchanged, but that is the norm for us.

My gaze shoots to my older brother, who sits next to me in the back seat. At fourteen years old, he sits comfortably in his seat despite his body going through some changes. His jaw is now more defined, his voice deepening. He has gotten taller and muscles bulkier. Yet, he is still at ease in his skin. You’d hardly notice he was going through puberty.

His eyes slide over my way and he quirks a brow at me.

What? The subtle gesture asks me.

I grin at him in response and a small laugh escapes him, making my grin grow wider.

“Anna. Mason. Keep it down back there,” our father scolds. His voice is monotone, the deep tenor reverberating in the small space, but we don’t need him to raise his voice or ask us twice.

We immediately go back to sitting at attention, facing forward. In the rearview mirror, I see my father’s dark green eyes watch us. A hint of a warning in them.

The first part of training as a child is to get rid of fear. So while I don’t necessarily fear my parents, I understand how much of my life is controlled by them and how bad it would be for me to upset them.

As one can imagine, serial killers naturally have little to no emotions, and we show even less. Well, most of them. I feel different in that sense- always having trouble controlling myself or letting my feelings get the better of me.

I’m told Mason was able to master the skill at six years old, while I still struggle at the age of ten. Putting me at a disadvantage, because most of my training starts with learning this one skill. It’s why I’m just now going to my first carnival at such a late age.

A clear mind is a sharp mind- your greatest tool. This mantra I’ve heard so many times I’ve already lost count. I am aware I’m the black sheep of my family, but that’s okay. I know I don’t exactly fit in here, but I don’t fit in anywhere else.

Other kids my age are really something else. I’ve seen them laughing and playing without a care in the world. At this age, they are learning to read and maybe learning how to do division. Stuff that I learned by the age of four.

Me?

I study people’s body language for hours on end, learning how to read between the lines in a conversation and how to get myself out of being caught in a lie. These practical skills are much more useful in my family’s line of work. No time for fun and games. Only meticulous drills to ingrain this knowledge into every cell of my body.

I can smell the change in our surroundings a moment before the sedan pulls onto a bumpy road. The faint smell of dirt, popcorn, fried food and greasy metal filters into the car. The transition from the paved highway to the worn dirt path jostles me from my thoughts. Even though I try to keep my composure, my excitement mingles with my nerves. I feel my stomach doing somersaults as my hands get clammy.

A temporary panic seizes me. If mother or father were to grab my hand and feel the sweat, I would not get to eat for the next few days. Mason sometimes sneaks me food, but the hunger pains were almost made worse for it. At such a big event, I’m sure the punishment would be greater.

My eyes go out of focus as I gaze off into the distance and begin listing off constellations alphabetically. I fill my head with thoughts of the vast starry sky with their diamond eyes shining down, giving me a small escape and comfort. By the time we pull to a complete stop, I am at Circinus and am left with a practiced calm.

I blink and quickly take in my surroundings. We are one of many similar-looking cars parked in front of a chain-link fence. I see a few other people getting out of their vehicles, but I don’t move. Waiting for my father’s signal, we get out of the car simultaneously and I take my place next to mother while Mason hurries to stand by our father. I feel her cool, steady hand on my shoulder as she guides us forward.

Up ahead is a break in the fence with a giant white and black sign with red, bold letters reading “The Crimson Carnival”. We walk through the entrance in unison, and I fight the urge to let a shiver go down my spine- I wouldn’t dare. Not with my mother’s hand on me. It’s not from the dreary late February evening, but from the other thing I know is waiting for me.

A faint mumbling can be heard up ahead and we quietly walk past the empty rides and booths, straight towards the giant red and black tent in the middle of the empty circus. Before we make it to the entrance, my mother’s hand tightens on my shoulder ever so slightly and I pause to look back at her.

Her eyes quickly scan over me in my black velvet dress before she reaches to the top of my head and straightens my matching black bow. When she’s done, I look up at my father and see his stern approval before he nods at mother. She opens up her bag and brings out four painted masks.

I reach out for mine and a swell of pride goes through me. I might have missed out on being here a few years earlier, but I am here now and ready to make my family proud.

Looking down at the white, smooth jester mask in my hands, I admire the craftmanship. Perfect symmetrical blue hearts on the cheeks with intricate gold designs outline the eyes. The coif adorned on the top of the mask is also blue and gold, ending with silent bells.

With the mask securely on my face, the world appears through two small holes. It’s a calculated risk, but we know in the tent we are not allowed to fight or kill once we are on these grounds. A designated safe zone. Even so, I finger the twin blades in my pockets and let the smile hiding behind the mask free.

We turn to the tent again and walk forward as a unit. I make sure my breaths stay even and controlled as we step through the entrance of the vinyl tent and towards what my future holds.

An Angry Heart: Ciaran, Present Day

Blood rolls down, dripping on to the cement floor. The steady plop, plop of it as it pools under the man who is currently hanging on meat hooks from my ceiling. The holes the metal created in the soft flesh of his shoulders only gives some solace to my demon.

The metallic scent of blood laced with the sweat from fear and pain is like a balm for my angry heart. I am always angry when I am away from her, but there are rules to follow and a job to do.

Soft guttural whimpers escape his throat as the hooks continue to tear through the tendons and muscles. I missed his lungs, but only just barely. I didn’t actually want him to die.

Not yet.

The sound of my feet echoes back to me as I walk away from the bloody mess of a man, wiping my hands as I go back to my tool table to pick out another fun toy and return my used ones. The sconces on the wall in my vault flicker with flames as they cast shadows in the dark, damp room.

The man’s name is Greg Little, and he is a trained serial killer. A killer who decided to stray away from the traditions he is meant to follow. So here he hangs now, facing punishment.

To him and the rest of my flock, I am the judge, jury, and executioner. My word and rule are absolute. Should anyone dare to go against me, they will find themselves either dead or in Greg’s position, just depending on my temperament.

Unfortunately for Greg, he caught me in a bad mood. The last two months have been nothing but meetings and monitoring rituals- this time of the year being busier than normal for me.

It is getting more painful as days stretch into another week. My body and heart scream at me to return to the dark-haired woman who owns me wholly. We just have a little bit longer to go. For now, we will just take pleasure in making others suffer with us.

Behind me, I hear Greg’s breath hitch as he comes to. I give him a few more minutes to fully awaken before we get started again. We are at the tipping point where his unconscious periods will last longer than his conscious ones. The exhaustion from the prolonged pain finally catching up to him.

Luckily for me, it usually takes a while to get to this point, thanks to the training my little killers go through at a young age.

First thing they learn after reading, math and other basics is how to control their emotions. Unnecessary, overly emotional ones are cut from the flesh, then we beat the fear and aversion to pain out of them until they are numb to both. Until they show us nothing and otherwise become nothing.

Then comes basic athletic skills and manipulation of others through emotions and words. Learning what different tools you can use for killing and dismembering. It’s a necessity to be able to use what can be found around you to get out of any situation you may find yourself in as well as well as learning how to take pride and enjoyment in your work.

All of our kills look like what people would call “freak accidents”. Never anything that would draw too much attention to them, therefore us. It’s how we have continued for so long. This is a way to express their artistic skills and show off what each of them can do. As long as you don’t get greedy, don’t stay to watch and keep things clean, my people are free to develop whatever trademarks and figure out what prey they like to hunt.

This is how everyone stays safe and keeps my protection. They think we keep them safe from just human law alone, but they have no idea what all the real demons out there would sell for a chance at their tainted souls. Because of me and my family, they can focus on what is really important- worshipping us and growing our followers.

Power from their devotion is how we remain powerful. Fear of what they cannot see, yet they continue to have blind faith that we are doing our job. That’s what keeps me strong. Humans aren’t able to see me unless I want to be seen. They actually don’t want to see me. My presence is a death sentence. A curse. It foretells an unfortunate ending for you.

There is only one girl who has ever seen me and interacted with me. A human girl who is now grown up. Her seeing me didn’t end in physical pain, but the damage that was done from it spread between us both. It is a pain that is branded on my soul, just as she is. Even if I want to, I’ll never forget.

Greg’s raspy breaths turn to moans as he fully wakes up.

“Please, please, please, please…” he begs repeatedly.

I turn to face him and I tsk. “You should know better than to beg.”

His head seems to hang lower with my admonishing. “I’ll do better. I was being selfish and stupid, but I know better,” he rasps, still a desperate plea.

“Hm. I know you’ll do better,” I mutter.

Turning back to my tools, I pick out the black jagged blade. It’s shorter than a machete but bigger than a butcher’s knife. The jagged edges are all different and gnarly in appearance. It was made from Periayer- a cursed metal mined deep from the depths of Hell. I pick it up and watch the dark metal glint in the dim lighting.

“M-m-my l-lord?”

“There’s not much that is asked of you. Not really when you compare to what is given. The rules are so simple to follow: learn the ways, attend the meetings, stick to the rules- don’t get greedy and, above all else, don’t kill other Shadow members. Yet, someone got greedy, didn’t they?” I purr.

Greg says nothing, but his breaths come quicker as he begins to hyperventilate. His eyes trained on the blade in my hand.

I move closer to him until I can smell a mixture of his sweat, urine, and blood that permeates the space.

“Do you know what’s so special about this blade?” I whisper.

He shakes his head no, wincing as the movement causes the hooks to dig further into his back.

“This blade doesn’t just cut the flesh.” I run the tip of the blade around to the back of his tricep. I apply pressure until I feel it push into the soft skin. He lets out a low grunt, but I keep going, sawing the skin and muscle away from the bone with the jagged knife ever so slowly. Blood splatters over me and him before a steady stream forms and begins pooling at my feet, joining the rest of the drying blood puddle.

When I’m halfway up the muscle, he finally lets out a terrible scream. His body shakes from the pain, his face paling and a cold sweat breaks out over his clammy skin. I don’t stop though. I happily continue until the muscle is cut messily from the bone.

The freed flesh drops, and with a sickening splat, lands right into the bloody puddle. Greg and I both get splashed, but I don’t mind and it looks like neither does he. He is no longer screaming. Only weak, mournful wails fall from his bruised and cut lips.

“Now, the great thing about this blade is that it cuts not only your physical body, but deep into your soul. Every time I cut off a piece of you, a piece of your soul gets cut away as well.” I flash him an evil grin. “Now let’s see how much more of you I can cut away before I stitch you up and send you back to the herd as the little obedient sheep you are.”