Young Writers Society

Human

Adjective

1. Of pertaining to, characteristics of, or having the nature of people.

2. Consisting of people.

3. Of or relating to the social aspect of people.

4. Sympathetic, humane.

Human. This word was created around 1350-1400 so we could be characterized as something individual. We were no longer “animals” but had our own definition of ourselves as a race. But even with this word so wildly used, especially in today's society, we find ourselves throwing it away. When us “humans” are faced with something different from average we replace that word. Oddball. Freak. Mutant. Deformation. Beast.

Monster.

For a race with the classification of “sympathy” delved into its definition, most lack it towards those different than oneself. Because of how our generation has grown we shun those who are considered freaks. We turn our noses up at the weird, deformed, and even the mentally ill because we think we have the right to condemn them to eternal shame because of something they can’t control. They never asked to be born as a sin against nature itself, they never had a chance to be treated as a true human. I should know.

After all, I was born a monster.

I don't really know who exactly my parents are. I don't remember them. They could be dead for all I know, but that thought doesn't depress me. How can I mourn over someone I've never met and sold me to a freak show? I mean all I've seen is my birth certificate with my name, “Arthur” printed and the sloppy signatures of my mother and father. But then again, how would any woman react when seeing her baby boy had horns and green cracked skin? I guess I was a literal devil child when looked at.

Jokes aside, my skin is a matter people still don't understand. From my neck and down, I have this green cracked layer that makes me look like a snake hybrid. At first, I thought it was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen. After a while, I realized how beautiful it truly was. But people never think of things like me as exactly “beauty.”

Children, adults, teenagers, women, men... they would all gape at me when I was lying there in my cage. A small child deformed to a horrid beast, all skin and bone. Some would poke at me; others would throw things to see if I would react, take pictures to keep on their bedroom walls. As if seeing the face of a young child plagued with malnutrition and abuse full of sorrow and pain would help you sleep at night. One woman sat forever just drawing me as a sketch. I didn’t mind, I loved watching her stare at me as if I was more than just an artifact stashed in the black shadows of a freak show. She came back to give me the finished painting, it was truly a piece of art worthy of the Louvre, but the ringmaster took it from me. I guess things like me can't have nice objects either. He said I didn't deserve to look at myself as anything other than a monstrosity.

How old was I when I realized I had the gift of singing? Honestly, I don’t remember. But it was a God given gift that saved my pitiful life. As the moon would shine across the dark sky, I would hum to myself and let the sound cut through the quiet of the night. The wind would slip through the bars of my cage, chilling me to the bone, but as long as I kept singing, I was warm enough to carry on.

I think it was after I had reached the age of thirteen he caught me singing with one of the clowns after the circus had closed. At first, I was so scared that he was going to be mad or hurt me for it. There was so much fear inside of me, terrified that I could be killed for my disobedience. But I was lucky, there was no anger in his eyes. Only the unbelievable hunger of a power-mongering businessman. Instead of taking my head off, he told me I would be moving onto a new enclosure the next day. He kept to his word, for as the morning sun rose I was moved into my own tent, stuffed into the darkness where no one could see my ugliness but still hear my voice.

Years passed. I learned how to avoid the wretched whip of the ringmaster, how to survive in a merciless world. As another day ended, I hefted myself up to look at the opened curtain, if I was lucky enough someone would leave it pulled back. My eyes lingered to the dark midnight sky that was scattered with shining white stars. As insane as it seemed, I had heard from one of the visitors that those little dots were actually burning balls of gas, millions of miles away from where I sat. It was a hard concept to grasp but it didn’t stop me from imagining.

My amazement was short lived as a dark shadow covered the sliver of light from the opening. “I’m disappointed you didn’t bring that much in,” Mr. Williams tsked as he made his way into the tent, “Don’t tell me you’ve been holding that voice back from customers.”

Mr. Williams, the ringmaster of the entire circus. As a child, I had thought of him as the scariest thing to walk the earth as most normal children feared the boogieman. But now I was 15 and his black beard faded into a rusty silver. There was weariness in his eyes, a weakness that would soon be his fall. In my teenage eyes, he wasn’t much of a threat.

Until you messed up and cost him money.

I tried to not flinch as he unlocked my cage and stepped inside, examining me up and down. Usually, after a day of horrid service, I was found getting punished for not doing my best. Of course, blame one of your main attractions instead of your lack of hygiene in the establishment.

“You're a disgrace to humans,” he sighed, “That someone with such talent of a voice looks like such a monstrosity. Don't you think?” Silent, I kept my head down and counted the cracks in the dull gray rusted floor. “Now I know you have vocal cords, Arthur.” He lifted my chin, tilting his head to the side as he studied my face. “Answer my question.”

“Things like me don't deserve to live,” I finally recited, my voice a monotone ring, “I don't deserve to be around humans.” If I had a dime for every time I had heard those words, I would have enough money to escape this hell hole. He gave a small twisted smile and slapped me hard across the face, his rough calloused hands stinging like leather. My neck snapped to the side from the force of the blow and I tried to not let a single sound escape, biting my lip to the point of blood trickling into my mouth. Frowning he kicked me in the chest to knock me down.

“Now let’s not try to be a tough guy,” he gripped the handle of the whip with his free hand that was always looped around his belt, “Or should I get to extra measures? You remember who the boss is, right?” I felt my chest heave as I kept my face parallel to the floor, cheek stinging against the cold metal.

“You are, sir.” Choking out the words took a lot of effort, my throat was as dry as the winter’s unforgiving air. “You always have been.” Satisfied with my reaction, he let go of my shoulder.

“Never forget it, you creep.” Getting to his feet, he stared down at me. “You're nothing without this circus. Without me, you're better off dead.”

And being so young I believed it. I wasn't worthy of the luxuries of normal people. I wasn't good enough to go around and walk along the paved streets of a big city, as much as I longed it. There were things in this world that I would never see from my cage and I simply accepted it. For a total of nineteen years at that wretched circus, I let myself be examined, beaten, ordered, mocked, and scorned for being something like myself.

That is until the shopper came.

~

“Darling!” a shrill voice rang throughout the halls, “Alfie! Your order is here sweetie!” My head rose from my book and a smirk adorned my lips.

“Coming, mother!” I yelled back as I bookmarked my spot, slapped it close, and got to my feet. Straightening my shirt, I headed back inside the house and up the gleaming oaken stairs, recently polished. While most would have slipped, I managed to keep my balance with one hand glued to the railing. I couldn't help but laugh a little at the thought of how I used to get lost in here, mazes of rooms and hallways that could confuse the idle brain. If it made it any better, lots of mother's guests did as well to my amusement. I never really did mind living in the mansion when I truly thought about it.

After all, who doesn't love luxury? Especially in America.

Humming I reached the front door to see my mom signing some papers the mailman had given her. Next to her was a giant crate that made my excitement grow further. She looked up and beamed when seeing me. For a woman as old as she was her face still radiated with a sense of youth. “Oh Alfred it came two days early!” she handed the clipboard over and hugged me tightly, “Isn't that lovely?”

I gave a polite smile and nodded as I hugged her back. “Yes, it's phenomenal,” I let go and glanced at the mailman, “Thank you, my good sir.” Being all proper and high class might not be my exact style but I did enjoy it when it meant putting on a show. In my opinion, the package really should have been at the house yesterday but it's not my job to judge, is it? I’m already spoiled enough as it is.

Mother chuckled and gave a small bow like thing. “Thank you and if you don't mind,” she pointed to the living room and batted her eyelashes, “Could you take it inside and put it over there for me?” With her short blonde curls that still shined from the surplus of conditioner and big brown eyes, she managed to get her way with most men. I luckily had managed to get her golden hair but I had my father's piercing cerulean blue eyes. Then, of course, there were my stupid wire glasses, which she said made me look “professional”.

If “professional” meant “outright-weird-and-looks-like-he-has-no-social-life-whatsoever” now, then sure. I looked like a slightly more handsome teenage Woodrow Wilson.

The mailman's cheeks flushed a little and he tipped his hat, causing her to giggle a bit, studying him as if he was a puppy. To her, that’s probably the only reason she was being that nice. He was naive and cute, somehow? The naïve part I could get, but cute? In my opinion, the great large pimple on his nose made him look like a tomato was growing out of his nostril. Now that was a truly terrifying image. “Of course ma'am.” With that, he lifted the crate with his dolly and rolled it inside. Well, it was better than me having to heft it inside, now all I had to do was open it.

I knocked on the side of it and heard a satisfying yelp from inside. This really was what I had been waiting for. I easily pried it open, ignoring my mother flirting with the man. A grin spread across my features when I looked down to see a small girl curled up in the corner of the crate. Just by examining her I knew I had gotten my freak.

Her violet eyes stared up at me, full of fear and her gaze trembling almost as much as her body. Those purple irises had clearly seen things the normal human couldn’t imagine in their most terrifying of nightmares. Her white hair dropped to the bottom of the crate and beyond. With her pale white skin, her red lips resembled the color of crimson, cracked most likely from the long travels with the smallest portions of water. She wore a purple ragged dress, the material almost torn into ribbons of fabric. Every part of her was sharp and narrow from malnutrition, causing a wave of pity to wash over me.

Giving a warm smile I held out a hand. The thought of touching her most likely soiled hand made me want to shiver in disgust, but I needed to act as a friend. “Do you need some help little one?” I asked softly, making sure to not scare her further.

She slowly let her arm rise to take my offer and let me pull her to her feet. “T-thank you, sir,” she stuttered, gaze downcast.

“No need to thank me.” I lifted her up out of the crate by putting my hands under her armpits. “I'm sure any other human being with an ounce worth of decency would have done the same.” I felt like vomiting with how “sticky sweet” I was being but making sure that she felt at home and non-threatened was vital after all. She seemed to be warming up to me and smiled a little back at me.

“Not everyone would sir,” she brushed off her dress, “What should I call you Mr.?” She was definitely polite, that's for sure. Then again with a freak like her, that was usually bound to be the case.

“Oh you can call me Alfred,” I tapped my chin in thought, “Or Mr. Grayson if you don’t mind.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I headed to the stairs, “Follow me to your room then.” I didn’t have to turn around to see the shock on her features. I could almost feel it in her voice.

“W-what do you mean ‘my room’?” she stuttered quietly, but I heard her bare feet squeak against the tile as she took a few steps forward. Most children that were freaks were born into the world being treated as a monstrosity so they probably had never experienced having a room itself. The thought of being in a house as grand as the manor was a fairytale in itself. Not to mention curious of anything that the outside world had since they were mostly in a cage, hidden away. I turned my head about 90 degrees so I could give her a reassuring smile.

“Well, I mean that it will be in your possession of course.” This is what I do with all of my mother’s fortune. I find myself buying the freaks, mutants, disfigured, and the monsters. These creatures are what I obsess in, something different from any human on planet earth. I mean without me half of them would be dead by now in a science lab. I thought I was doing them a favor, that they were my property.

I was the reason that many of these monstrosities had peace, they could entertain me with their talents. It was better than the never-ending humiliation of being danced around on a stage, a puppet on strings. I rescued them from a living hell, I deserved to be their God and to be worshiped. Without me, they would be nothing.

Freaks were meant to be controlled, without their holding places they would rage on the innocent world. It was my job to keep them in a safe home where no one could hurt them, no one could see them but me. I was doing the world and them justice. What I was doing was right in my eyes; it was the job of a saint. That's what my justification and philosophy had been all of my years. That they were less than me and didn't deserve the spoils of humanity. I put them at the same level as the animals that crawl across the face of the earth.

That is until I met the singing devil.