When the boy arrived humbly at his master’s side, the man did not even turn to look at him. Rather, he grumbled under his breath for the boy to retrieve a “prop” sword.

     The boy came hobbling back with one of the swordsman’s blades, cautiously gripping the awkward weapon. Any caring guardian would frown upon a young child wielding such a dangerous object, but not the showrunner. If anything, the child’s safety meant only to him the upkeep of a tool with which he could use. The boy, oblivious, handed the blade over, his own hand gripping the hilt. When the showrunner turned his head to the tip in his face, his eyes grew wide. The boy obediently stood, holding out the prop, but the showrunner’s face twisted into a vicious snarl.

     “How dare you point that blade at me!” He snatched the sword from the boy's hands. The boy tried to apologize, but his master’s rage grew. As the little boy shrunk back in fear and remorse, the ringmaster thrust the sword back out at him, the sharp tip gleaming inches from his chest. The boy shook, half expecting the brutish villain to stab the glinting blade straight through his heart.

     While the weapon stayed positioned where it was, hovering with mercy a breath from him, the boy knew the fury of his master was about to run him through. As they stood there, the man quivering with rage and the boy from fear, the rest of the circus troupe held back. The members nearest shrunk into the shadows, hiding their eyes (which undoubtedly remained fixed on the entertaining scene). The rest went on as if nothing unusual was occurring, and in reality, it wasn’t. The showrunner had outbursts often, and the boy was ever the target on which he unleashed them. No one ever felt remorse for the orphan boy. When he had been taken in and the bulk of the master’s rage was focused no longer on them, the fellow circus members could enjoy the show: like performers sitting down to watch their own act.

     “Take it,” the showrunner growled. The boy stood there, shaking. Confusion crossed his face. His mind was so preoccupied with dread that the simple words fell upon it without comprehension. “Take it!” The showrunner screeched, this time his rage finally reaching into his voice. The boy took a wary step back and lifted his little hands. The showrunner’s own hands, ruff and wide, preoccupied the entire handle. Thus, the boy gripped the sharp blade with tender fingers. His master remained unchanged.

     The boy latched on a little tighter, sliding the sword from the showrunner’s grip. In a breath, the monster tightened his fingers around the slipping handle and twisted it, the boy’s hands still clinging to the end. The razor edge dug into the boy’s palms before he could release the blade. After slitting into the boy's hands, the showrunner let the sword drop to the ground. It hit something solid, ringing out with a clang that rattled with the boy’s scream.

     The poor orphan stooped to his knees, staring down at his upturned palms. The deep cuts left from the twisted blade bled a growing stream of red. Cupped in his hands, the blood soon turned into a pool overflowing and dripping crimson drops to the floor. He bit back tears, but as his pain and humiliation spiked, a couple found themselves sliding down his face. He whimpered as the showrunner studied him silently. The young boy sat there in the dirt, failing to hold out on crying, his master looking all the more pleased when he began to wail. At last, when he had apparently been punished enough, the showrunner threw a collection of old rags to his slave.

     “You should truly be more careful around sharp objects. Clean up this bloody mess. Oh, and fetch a fresh blade. This one’s soiled.” The showrunner kicked the sword so that it slid to greet the crippled form. As the boy looked from his hands to the blade beside his feet, he gasped. Edged in his blood and looking somehow even more ominous, the dangerous weapon seemed to laugh at the poor boy. He wished nothing more than to pick it up. To level it with his cruel master’s chest. To run him through and drench it with the blood of his enemy as well as his own.

     His dark thoughts continued as he bandaged his hands. His hatred washed over him with his whimpers. He wrapped his hands around the sword’s handle, tenderly and then tight. Despite his desires, he turned his back on the sneering showrunner. He started to step away, the blade dripping a violent red trail, as if hoping to lead him back. Nevertheless, he carried on with his master’s commands. Even knowing only evil, even given a chance to find power when only ever being powerless, he was just a boy. A boy who knew he could not turn the tables with just a blade. If there was a way to win freedom, it was not this. Not yet.

     As this realization washed over him, and he escaped from the repressing gaze of his master, he dropped the bloodied blade. He made sure no one had heard the heavy metal clang, then fell to his knees beside it. He finally let his pain break free. Not just from his bandaged hands, but the torment that he endlessly endured. The shackling treatment from the circus troupe, the treacherous tasks that he had to perform every day (if he could make it through the evening without collapsing from exhaustion or fear), and the tyranny of the showrunner: a mock father who in all truth could be defined as the opposite.