The Dark Carnival Chapter Two
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It had been a little while now since Blaine had come to this new place and he had yet to sate his darkest urges. He could feel it in his veins, pulsing with each heartbeat, choking him by gripping him from the inside. Something inside of him tried to tell him that it would be alright if he missed during his performance– just a little slip. His skin was crawling; he was jumpy; he was moody; he wasn’t sleeping; he was suspicious and he knew it. The carnival had taken him through two new towns since the darkness inside of him had gotten to bare its claws and he could feel it trying to get out. It was harder to convince himself to make 'normal choices,' even though he knew that keeping his secret meant not upsetting the people he traveled with or arousing suspicion.
So he went out, packing his knives on his person, hidden on his body in various places. It didn’t happen the first time he went out, or even the second or the third. He was beginning to panic, so he slipped into a bar and ordered himself a drink. The bartender told him something comforting about it making him feel better, because he did look a bit of a mess, but it really didn’t help. There was only one liquid that could calm this thirst, even if he wouldn't actually be drinking it, and he'd need a lot more of it than what would fit in a shot glass. His hand trembled as he brought the glass to his lips, the warmth in his belly did relax his muscles but not his mind.
He was on his way out when he felt an uninvited hand rest itself on the swell of his back, sliding down to his butt. Blinking with an innocence that wasn’t faked, he turned to see– well, a very handsome man. A college boy, he surmised from the football paraphernalia in sight. The man seemed to rely heavily on that skill to get him what he wanted. Right now, what he wanted seemed to be Blaine and Blaine had no problem with that because his inner monster wanted a fight and that uninvited and strong hand on his body was more than enough reason to pursue one.
And before he knew it, he was stumbling out of the bar and into the back alley, his life a mash of tongues, lips, teeth, and hands. His back hit the building with a soft but powerful sound of impact, his leg lifted by a stranger’s hands and wrapped around a hip. In his head, he could see the scene like it was yesterday. Flashes, vivid as reality but fogged by trauma, passed across his closed eyelids. When his hand was taken and slammed against the wall, he imagined it was much louder than it really was. Like a bone broken, echoing in the night. The groping grip on his waist felt like punches. It was hard to breathe, and not because he had someone else’s tongue so far down his throat that it was probably blocking his windpipe.
Colors swirled like the skirts of parade dancers as he felt the knife he’d produced from one of his many hiding spots slid into the man’s gut like butter. Suddenly he could breathe again, but it felt like he was choking on something– blood or water, it was unknown. Panic washed over him and adrenaline filled him to the point that his fingers shook as the blade made several more plunges into the man’s torso. He could feel the man fighting, with what little coherency he had left to fight with, and that just completed the picture. Blaine didn’t know what he was doing anymore, but it felt right to watch all of those colors blur into one; a deep crimson. It coated his hands, the man that had fallen onto his back at some point, they alley beneath them, and Blaine’s own clothing. He sat there, straddling his latest victim as the last breath of air bubbled out of the man’s body. The attempt to escape ended, and Blaine could feel life leave the man. He swore he could feel it in every inch as each part of the man’s body stilled completely. And as his body stilled, so did everything inside of Blaine. He could finally close his eyes in peace. He had finally been granted a twisted sense of relief by giving in to the darkness and the painful memories that had brought it to life.
If the reality of what he’d done wasn’t so clear to him, he would have curled up beside the newly deceased and taken a much-needed nap right there on the alley floor. But his brothers were in town, his family would still hear of this and be blamed, so he had something to protect. Dazed, he managed to push the body into the trash, where he found a jacket someone must have left behind at the bar. That covered… well, some of the blood stains on his clothing, and it allowed him to get his car and back it into the alley. The body was wrapped in plastic and shoved in his trunk, where he pulled big bottles of bleach out and poured them over the stains he’d left on the alley floor and on the wall he’d been leaning against. He almost nodded off repeatedly as he drove away, suddenly content enough to sleep, but he couldn’t let himself. Not yet. He crossed state lines before he stopped, found a place that looked like people would never go snooping, and left the body so that he could go home, clean up, and get some sleep.
At home, he found himself washing his knives for hours, despite how tired he was. The way they glistened transfixed him, and he couldn’t get enough of the way his heartbeat quickened as he slid his soft fingertips along the equally soft metal. They were beautiful, and he could swear that they almost seemed to sing to him. A song of gratitude, perhaps. Or love. He didn’t know, but he enjoyed it all the same.
And he slept that night with their wooden home in his bed, beside him with his arm slung over them.