Gotham: Tales

The night air above Haley’s Circus always smelled of cotton candy — it was sold more than anything else, carried everywhere across the grounds, from the colorful tents to the modest trailers. Out to the open fields, where small groups of young performers gathered, lighting little fires and sitting around them after a long day of productive, meticulous, creative work. Jerome never much liked cotton candy — not just because it surrounded him constantly. That sickly-sweet smell had long since become linked in his mind with dead rats, the ones that for some reason kept dying in his mother’s trailer — and it was always his job to throw them out. Who’s else? Like gnats drawn to cups of water just to drown in them, those nasty little things crawled into the trailer and rotted in the summer heat, stinking up the place. He had to toss them out, just like he had to pour out the bug-filled cups. It annoyed him — why couldn’t they just to croak somewhere else? The only comfort was that at least they did die — and somehow, that eased his irritation a little. Jerome didn’t care much for those bonfire gatherings either — the “future colleagues,” as they called themselves, disgusted him with their endless teasing and mean-spirited jokes. “Hey, redhead, where’s your brother?” Grayson asked, tossing a glass bottle of cola from hand to hand. Jerome was ready to roll his eyes. Until he felt the others’ eyes on him. They… made him feel strange. As if he were standing on a stage. And suddenly the urge to curse back turned into something else — An urge to perform? To joke? “Having fun with your mom?” Grayson kept prodding. The group of young performers giggled. Really? They were laughing at that pathetic stupidity? “I doubt it. You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” Jerome spat, trying to stifle a nervous laugh. He didn’t even know why he said it — why he kept the joke going — but something ugly inside him twisted when the others laughed at Grayson’s words. The laughter died out quickly; the kids gasped and glanced at one another, their eyes flashing and finally landing on Grayson. “Jesus, Valeska…” Grayson raised his brows but kept smirking. “Don’t you think that’s… low? Even for you.” Even for you. Jerome stood up, stepping toward him slowly. “Not at all. Moms are like that,” the smile stretched across his face like a snake, ear to ear, yet somehow never reached his eyes. “Mine’s having fun with my brother. Yours is rotting in our trailer.” Grayson flinched. “What the hell are you talking about?” The smiles around them faltered, but every eye stayed locked on Jerome. “You heard me. My mom told me to throw her out. So she wouldn’t stink, get it?” Jerome took a confident, predatory step toward his circus mate. His rival. Who somehow, instinctively, sensed something in Jerome that even Jerome hadn’t noticed yet. A threat. Something… awful. Grayson’s legs twitched against the ground, as if wanting to stand, to step away. To get away. He opened his mouth to reply — but didn’t have time. “There she is!!” Jerome suddenly whipped a dead rat from under his jacket and shoved it into Grayson’s face, pressing the limp body against his cheek. The putrid sweet stench of death and filth hit the boy’s nose instantly, and a violent gag reflex shot up from his stomach. His throat clenched just in time to block the surge. “Holy sh—!!” “Eww!!” The kids screamed, their faces twisting into grotesque grimaces no mirror could ever reflect. Jerome was endlessly fascinated by what the human face could do — and it thrilled him to the core. “Get help!!!” “FREAK!!” Loud, heartfelt curses. Yet still quieter than Jerome Valeska’s laughter. The children thought he was laughing just to drown out their insults. Maybe they were right. …That day. Because the little crowd quickly scattered, leaving him alone — like roaches fleeing from the light. He truly did feel a swarm of emotions then. Triumph — yes. Self-satisfaction — yes. Hurt and sadness — also yes. From the shoves, from the filthy jokes he wished he hadn’t understood, from the mockery and the disgust in their eyes. From their reaction — the fact that none of them laughed with him, though he’d known all along they wouldn’t. The rat prank had come to him on a whim, and he was too full of anger to reject the idea with disgust. Anger at the kids, at his mother, at his brother, at the circus, at people in general. Too much anger for one little boy to hold inside. But it wasn’t all bad. That expression — that reaction — stirred in him a perverse pride. To provoke such emotion… took real talent. Whistling under his breath, Jerome wandered away from the circus, lazily swinging the rat by its tail, not caring if it tore off like a broken toy. A cool breeze rustled through his messy hair, letting him breathe freely. The scent of cotton candy thinned, leaving only the sweetness of decay and the emptiness of the open, uneven field. The circus noise still reached his ears, though distant now, mixing with his tuneful whistle — something he took as much pride in as in the uproar he’d just caused. Lost in thought, he stopped. He sighed, ready to dig a little hole for his nameless rat. He breathed in — …and froze. There was too much of that rotten smell. Too much. A wave of nausea slammed into him. The rat slipped from his hand as he clapped his palms over his mouth. His cheeks puffed out; tears welled in his eyes as he fought the rising bile, darting around the darkness. Something moved nearby — the grass trembled — and Jerome saw a small dark figure standing beyond the bushes. Thoughts whirled, but he barely noticed them, every muscle tightening like that of a startled animal caught by a hunter. “Tsk-tsk-tsk, it’s all right, don’t be afraid.” It was a woman’s voice — high-pitched, very girlish — and that confused Jerome, dulled his fear for a moment, made him forget to breathe. For just a few seconds, the stench of decay seemed to fade. Only for a few seconds. As the small woman slowly approached, Jerome nearly bolted. But when he was ready to run, his legs — no, his whole body — refused to obey. Frozen by his own weakness, he could only hear his heart thundering in his chest. The woman laughed softly. “Such a scaredy-cat.” She was close enough now that he could see her better, lit faintly by the distant glow of the circus. Her long red hair hung down her body, dry ends jutting in all directions. Her pale skin looked marble-like in the half-light, and her eyes — impossible to see clearly — reflected the yellow circus lights like tiny pieces of glass. “What’s your name?” “Oliver Twist. Ha!” He hadn’t meant to laugh. Hadn’t meant to say anything. But something nervous and sticky inside him pushed him to — Perform. “Hm.” Her thin lips stretched into a smile — like a rubber band being pulled. “What are you doing out here, Oliver?” Of course, Jerome couldn’t think of an answer. He tried to move, and when she noticed, she crouched down in front of him, making him nearly lose his balance. “Please, sir. I want some more,” she said. Jerome’s lips twitched into a smile. It was a line from that book about Twist. He hadn’t read it — Jeremiah had, and he loved to brag about it. “What’s that you’ve got there?” She looked down at the rat’s body. Jerome finally unfroze and shifted his weight. “Not my doing, if that’s what you think,” he muttered, surprising himself. “Yes, I can see it wasn’t killed.” Valeska tensed. What did she mean? How could she see that in this darkness? Then it hit him — he was standing right at the edge of the light. Almost literally. The bright glow of Haley’s Circus barely reached him, while behind her was nothing but black. He glanced down, hearing her move. The woman dug a shallow hole, tore up some grass, and placed the dead animal inside. It was hardly worth the effort, but she performed the act with strange, ritualistic reverence — scooping dry earth and gently sprinkling it over the rat before laying a thin tuft of grass on top. “Tell me, Oliver…” Jerome shivered, realizing only now how closely he’d been watching the “ritual,” how the falling earth had entranced him like burning fire or running water. “…why are you alone out here, in the dark?” Jerome didn’t like that question. Maybe because of her soft, coaxing tone. Maybe because he was alone in the darkwith her. “Burying a rat, obviously!” His cheerful tone and cocky stance didn’t betray him, and he was sure his unease stayed well hidden. “You’re very brave.” She said it without sarcasm or praise — just an observing tone. And Jerome’s heart skipped at that calm, measured reply. “No team for such a brave boy?” “Who needs them!” he snapped hotter than he meant to. The woman tilted her head slightly, rising from her crouch but not fully standing. Silence hung between them. Jerome stared right at her — he felt he had to — though he could barely see her. But he felt her eyes sliding over him, and froze again, pretending it was his own choice to stay still. Then, suddenly, the woman pulled something from behind her back. Jerome flinched and let out a faint gasp. His legs took an instinctive step back — but when he saw what she was holding out, they froze again, as if quicksand gripped them. A knife. Not too short, not too long. “Take it, Mr. Twist,” the woman said in the same calm tone, now oddly formal. “If you like to walk alone, it might come in handy.” Jerome trembled, half-ready to flee again. Every instinct screamed don’t take it, that it could be the last mistake of his life. But his hands were already reaching out, as if invisible strings were pulling them forward. Despite the fear, something like celebration filled his chest. He snatched the knife and finally bolted. With the blade clutched tight, he ran toward the circus lights — as if they could scatter the woman like an ordinary shadow, as day scatters nightmares. He didn’t look back, running like a thief chased by hounds. Somehow, he knew she wasn’t following — but still felt hunted. The feeling made his heart pound faster, as if it wanted to jump out and outrun him. When he finally burst into the light, he looked back. The darkness just stared, motionless — no reaching hands, no chasing shadow. Behind him, the circus blared with music and laughter; ahead, absolute silence. He looked at the knife. His hand shook. The gray blade was inlaid with simple open eyes — nothing else remarkable — but a faint buzzing at the edge of his mind scratched at his nerves, as if those eyes were watching him. A flash of realization struck him — that the woman had probably meant to kill him with that knife. But he’d said something — something that made her change her mind. Not just let him go — but leave him a gift. The rest of the evening, Jerome felt cold, drained of any urge to speak. That night, he decided it would be wise to throw the “gift” away — but before he did, he couldn’t resist the urge to swing it around, to throw it at a tree. The air seemed fragile as the knife sliced through it. The dull whistle was its scream — hoarse and short, like an old man’s. The bark cracked slightly around the blade, parting like a dead man’s flesh — bloodless and hollow. By morning, the police had come — a body had been found not far from the circus. Valeska and the other performers knew nothing. Jerome said nothing. He only sniffled, trying to block out the memory of the sweetest rot he had ever smelled in all his small and insignificant life.