The scene began to change, as if he was in a play in the process of switching acts. Though the young man quickly realized it was an old scene being reenacted. The sky brightened from night to day, which he could tell by the lighting up of the tent. He could hear the sounds of the bustling circus around him when seconds ago only midnight crickets chirped. As his startled gray eyes roved in wonder, a figure appeared like a densing fog before him. As it solidified, he jumped from its path, and staring back in humble dread, he made out who it was.

     It was none other than the man he feared most: the showrunner and slavedriver of the circus. He waited for the monster to turn his head towards him. He had never seen his face, despite the comparisons the others made of it with his, for his tormentor’s gaze frightened him too much to meet. Thus, he was relieved when he was utterly ignored, as if he had gone unnoticed, slipping practically right out from under the brute.

     He watched the back of his master as it halted before a cowardly creature. Letting his attention slip around to it, the young man realized the pitiable being was indeed a small child. They were all standing, out of the bustle of the day-life of the circus. Away, deep in the shadows. As the crowd cheered on a performance happening somewhere out of sight, the boy began sniffling. Recognition clouded the young man’s eyes. He realized with a shock that it was his own humble, shivering form before him.

     The watch had taken him back in time. Back to watch himself wavering below the mountainous form of his master. His ears pierced with the sound of the showrunner’s shrill screech. The young man remembered this day. He glared at his child self, knowing what was about to befall him and cursing himself for what he knew he had done. While the others were performing and he was supposed to be behind the scenes, he had snuck from his chores. With a childish mischief, he had fled into the stands with the other circus patrons. He intended to watch the show in secret and enjoy it as the other young boys did, distancing himself from his horrible place within it.

     The showrunner had spied him among the crowd and dragged him from the stands. Onlookers glared at them as if he was a spoiled brat who had simply disobeyed his father’s orders. He was ripped away, despite his protests, and the strangers continued to watch the show as if nothing was wrong. Now they stood there, in the shadows, where anything could go unobserved and unpunished.

     As the showrunner’s angry shouts died down, the young man saw the brute’s hand creep to his side. He had not noticed the movement back when he had stood in the child’s place, ignorant of what was coming. Now, he flinched as he watched the handle of the whip appear. Once it had been drawn, the showrunner lifted it high and let it crack down on the poor boy.

     As his past self braced for the next cutting from the whip, the young man felt himself do the same. He felt the marks once more across his skin. Memories of the pain flooded him, placing him back into the child’s body, despite this time only being an onlooker on the torment. As the child let out a cry and lifted his hands to cover his face, the young man made his move. He could not relive this.

     “NO!” he roared. It was as if this word had shattered some invisible field separating him from the past. The showrunner noticed the young man for the first time, intruding on the act and changing the script. The man ripped the whip from the showrunner’s hand and cracked it down upon the top-hatted brute. As the showrunner fell in surprise, the young man wrapped the whip’s cord around his master’s neck. Even now, he could not bear to look down at the beast’s face. He looked away, but he could feel the showrunner’s thrashing. He could feel his master kicking and clawing at the choking hold around his neck, then feel his attempts at escape weaken.

     As the slave driver’s movements stilled and his form went limp in his assaulter’s arms, the young man tugged the whip tighter. When he finally drew it tight enough that the leather strip ripped into the motionless man’s flesh, he released his hold and stumbled away from the lifeless body. The slave gazed down at his late guardian. The devil who had tormented him, now dead and with a windpipe that even if he were living, not a breath could whisper from. His cruel master could never growl at him again. He would never yell another order or let out another cruel laugh as he tortured his slave.

     As the young man finally looked up at his child self, still standing before him, he expected to see those gray eyes filled with relief. Perhaps even thanks. Instead, he met pupils contracted in terror. The young man was taken aback. He realized what he had done. What the watch could do. Here at his feet lay the man who had tortured him all his life. Who had inspired fear within him that never ceased, even into adulthood as he remained under his master’s control.

     But that was no longer the case. He had freed himself, or so he believed. Yet looking at his child self, the fear remained. Except the child’s fear was no longer of his master, but of the murderer before him. The young man could not understand how he could fear himself, yet as he was stricken there, stuck staring into the eyes of his own frightened face, his heart began to race.