Mister Mysterious

Being suicidal is not the same as being depressed. Just because someone is suicidal doesn't mean that they constantly complain about how worthless they feel. Being suicidal doesn't always mean slicing your skin to ribbons just to feel something. Just because you are suicidal does not mean you are hurting. It can mean pure emptiness. You feel nothing and just stop caring. Sometimes, being suicidal is not looking both ways before crossing the road. It could be smoking an entire pack a day because lung cancer isn't that scary anymore. Or even sleeping around with strangers every night because you know no one could love you...

a freak.

I have never thought about killing myself. I have never even wanted to kill myself. I just have been doing more dangerous stunts as of late and have become a bit distant from my friends. As much as they worry about my health and mental state, it's my job to defy death and be ‘insane.’

Let me explain.

I work at Cirque du Freak, in the bright and booming city of Las Vegas. I believe that we are the best side show in town, as do many others. We have, Laura "The Bearded Lady," Evan "Lobster Boy," Cameron "Stretch," Anthony "Creature," Logan "Flipper Boy," Me "Mister Mysterious," and Morgue, but nobody knows his real name. We are a group of misfits lead by the one and only ringmaster, Claud. We celebrate what is means to be a freak and never let each other down. It’s the best job I've ever had and I love everyone who works with me. Sometimes, I do wish people could see the side show the way I see it. It isn’t scary or painful. It’s beautiful and brings joy to us. It gives us a home and a sense of clarity.

You may be wondering why Morgue and I are considered ‘freaks.’ We have all our limbs, we have no disabilities, we aren't very tall or very short, we aren’t strong men, and we don't have three penises. At first glance, we seem completely normal. So how the hell did we get into the freak show? I'll answer your question, even though it is really none of your business. Morgue and I are shock artists. That meant that shocking the audience was our art form. We have swallowed swords, laid on beds of nails, coughed up car keys, and even stabbed parts of our body to see the amazed and disgusted faces of the people around us.

When I first started doing shock art, I had no idea what I was doing. I depended on Morgue to show me what to do and what not to do. He showed me new tricks and always made me feel safe, even when I wasn’t. Evan, “Lobster Boy,” was also there for me. He is always trying to make everyone around him happy. He is such a sweet and considerate guy. He always cheered me up when I was scared or depressed. At the time, all I could think about was scary and/or depressing things. He helped me stay sane in a mad situation.

I was thrown out of my house at sixteen for being gay. I was on the streets begging for food and sleeping under bridges. Life had thrown me a hard curve ball, but I couldn’t keep living in boxes and bathing in rivers for much longer. I had to think about my options and what would be my best choice. So, I settled on Vegas.

I know the idea of Vegas seems random and crazy for a small, dorky, Canadian, like myself. My reasoning for Vegas was that my uncle, Mike, always told me how he wanted to run away to Vegas when he was younger. He thought it was the place of dreams and drunks. He wasn’t wrong either. Uncle Mike was never wrong. Vegas seemed like a place where I would be accepted. It was the place of happiness and opportunities. I didn’t have any idea as to what I would do, but a chance at a warm bed and food sounded nice at the time.

So, I went away from my small home in Canada and hitchhiked to Vegas. I wasn’t ashamed of my sexuality or who I chose to love anymore. I was surrounded by joy and pride everywhere I walked. The only bad part was that I was a Canadian runaway who was under the legal age and unemployed. I needed to earn some money and get an apartment. I needed to start a new life. A new life where I was accepted.

Nobody would take me. I had no job experience, I had only just turned sixteen last month. I was homeless and dirty... and hopeless. That is, until I found them.

I came to the side show because I had no other place to go. Morgue and Evan took me in and loved me right off the bat. The others took time to get used to me, but soon became family. I will always know that Morgue and Evan are my best friends. They took me in and made me one of them. They gave me a home. They were more loving and accepting than the family I had for sixteen years! We are a family of freaks. We look out for each other and love each other. That is all I could ever ask for. Yes, having a guy at my side would be nice, but I gave up on that dream a long time ago. My family of freaks treats me better than any guy ever could.

I have tried dating in the past. You could say I was a hopeless romantic… without the romantic part. I tried online apps, going to clubs and bars, even hitting on guys after shows. Yet, nobody could understand me. Once people found out about my job it was either some creepy fetish or they quickly realized that I…’wasn't their type.’ Nobody cared about me for longer than a night. Nobody could get past the fact that I was a freak. I was some sex object that was too strange for someone to put in the effort and love. That’s all I’ll ever be to people. Nothing more. Nothing less.

That brings us back to the present. I looked over at the sweaty body next to me as I stood up. He had fallen asleep with his mouth wide open and cum on his chest. Pathetic. I had chosen an easy target last night. He was a man hiding his sexuality. He was trapped in a marriage that he didn’t want and couldn’t get out of. Coward. I bent over to pick up a cigarette and a lighter from my jeans on the floor. I quietly lit it and took a drag, careful not to wake the man next to me. He never told me anything about himself aside from his name. He told me nothing of his marriage or anything about his life. He didn’t have to. I already knew. You see, after digging around in people’s insides every night, you learn to read them. One small move of a limb or a glance from across the room can tell a story. That, and the fact that I had watched him put his wedding ring into his pocket before I walked over. He also had a guilty look plastered on his aging face from being in a gay bar past ten. Like I said, pathetic.

I reached into his bedside drawer and pulled out a pad and paper. I thought for a moment, then began writing.


I had a blast last night, thanks for letting me split you in two. ;)
-Jake

I finished writing the note and left it on the bedside desk. Jake wasn't my name. My name didn’t exists anymore. Nobody needed to know my name. Nobody needed to know anything. I recently started making everyone at the freak show call me by my stage name, Mister Mysterious, Or Mister M. for short. I don't think they thought much of it because Morgue dose the same thing.

I… I just couldn’t be surrounded by a name for a normal person. I was a freak. I didn’t deserve a normal name, let alone a normal relationship. I couldn’t tell that sweaty loser who I was. I couldn’t tell any of my victims. That’s what I called the array of men that I have had sex with. My victims. I call them that because victims are people who have suffered over the mistakes of others. The mistake my victims suffer over is me. I am a man who can not love or be loved. I only know how to fuck and swallow swords. They will never know my real name or what my favorite colour is. They will only know the length of my cock and how my long dark hair falls over my face while in the act of sucking them off. They will not know where I work or why I was at that bar or club that night. They will not know of all the other men or even women that have suffered the same fate as them.

Not knowing. Most may think not knowing is best. It might be best considering how people react when they find out more about me. But I believe the unknown to be more petrifying than knowing what is around the corner. The mystery of what someone did or what something is can be exciting, yet also the most heartbreaking fear of all.

I slipped on my boxers, but before I could loop my belt and slip away into nothingness… I heard a knock at the door. The knock was soon followed by a frail and radiant voice.

“Paully! It’s me Julia, your wife!” Shit. I thought Paul would be smart enough to cheat on his wife when she was out of town or something. He should have at least told me so I could be out before dawn. What a dumbfuck!

As I have said before, Paul told me his name. That’s it. He never told me about his wife. He never told me when she would be home, or if she would be home. He just wanted me to keep my mouth shut unless his dick was in it. It’s not like he really needed to tell me anything. I could see pictures of his wife on every inch of the house and could tell she liked traveling. I thought about all the opportunities he has gotten to explore his sexuality. He has probably done this many times before. Once a cheater always a cheater. I just wish he would have remembered his wife this time. If he gets sloppy like this she will find out and it will break her heart. I know it will happen one day, I just hope that day is not today. I don't say this because I care. Our night was no different from all the other times he has cheated. I didn’t feel guilty because I most likely wasn’t the first and I sure as hell won't be the last. He didn’t care about getting to know me, and he didn’t care about hurting his wife. He wanted our night to be quick with no questions asked. Just like every other victim. The only reason I care about getting caught is that I hate it when women cry. That is one of the many reasons I like men. Call me heartless, but you have to be in order to be able to sleep around with no strings attached. You have to have your heart broken in order to keep yourself from falling in love.

As I hurried to put my shirt on I heard another two knocks followed by the twisting of a door knob. I shook Paul and tried to wake him up. He had to deal with his wife so I could get out. I might be able to go out the fire escape but I will still needed a distraction. I shook Paul harder, then gave him a firm smack across the face.

"Paul!” I violently whispered. “Get your ass up! Your wife is banging on the door and I need you to distract her so I can get the hell out! I’ll leave down the fire escape. Just put some cloths on and go deal with this!” As Paul's eyes widened in fear, I crumpled up the note I had left and put it in my back pocket.

“Paul. I hear voices, what’s going-” Before his wife could finish he was in the other room opening the door for her. I finished putting my clothes on and hopped out the window onto the fire escape. I had to be at work in forty-five minutes and I still needed to head back to the bar and get my car.

No time for a shower I guess.

Notes

Mister M.'s Outfit (For the next few chapters)

First, before you say anything, Yes. I know I am referencing both the show, Freak Show, and the American Horror Story season four freak show.