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​It was starting to storm. Lighting streaked across the dark, almost purple sky, painfully blinding Jonny for a split second. There was something ironic about that and Jonny laughed, though he couldn’t say why. The thunder drowned out his laughter though, so Cam hadn’t heard. Cam was there ahead of him in the field, next to a short girl in ratty overalls; dark like Jonny, but wild like Cam. Harsh winds tore at them and the knee-high grass in ever changing directions as the two appeared to argue about something. Jonny asked them what was wrong and they shut up simultaneously, stopping to look not at Jonny, but slightly to his side. Their faces went greenish-white, eyes much too wide. The girl’s jaw was stunned slack while Cam’s clenched in rage—a very specific rage that Jonny knew only ever surfaced to mask fear. Something was behind Jonny.

There was that dark, sweet smell again; the death smell. Not like rotting flesh or blood or shit or anything like real death smells. It was more of a presence, like, what would death smell like if it were a person coming up behind you? Jonny knew it was death’s scent, as easily as he knew Cam’s—which was a mix of coffee, that warm, almost burnt smell skin takes from the sun, and cigarettes. Jonny could also smell Cam, though he didn’t need to because he could see Cam right there in front of him, still frozen with that furious terror of his, staring at death.

Death had never scared Cam before, though.

Jonny turned and saw a smartly dressed man, probably handsome to some, though Jonny always thought there was something gross about slicked back hair, especially when it ended in little curls. The older man’s eyes were too dark and rimmed with gold and Jonny knew that meant he had magic, just like the old witch. The man cocked his head to the side and smiled sideways at Jonny, emphasizing a prominent dimple in one cheek. His chin had a very prominent dimple too, which for some reason Jonny also found gross. The man made Jonny’s skin crawl, and not just because death was following him.

Cam was yelling something, but Jonny couldn’t hear. Jonny also heard the old witch say something about darkness and hand before a lake, but there was no lake and it made no sense, so maybe it was stand when you’re awake, or land before you wake, or—none of it made sense. Everything was muffled, like Jonny was underwater, and suddenly it hit him. The magic man was drowning out their voices to protect himself. Jonny was scared then too. He turned to Cam and grabbed his friend by the hand, but Cam disappeared the second Jonny touched him. The man’s laughter was deep and rumbling, just like the thunder. The girl was also gone and Jonny was alone.

Jonny tried to run, but his legs felt like lead weights and he fell into the grass just as the man grabbed him by his hair, hoisting him back to his feet--

Darkness and then light. Those annoying, floating color shapes that Jonny was perfectly used to, accept whenever he woke from dreaming and basically lost his sight all over again. He blinked hard, repeatedly, trying to recover what he already knew wasn’t coming back. He bit his lip, fighting off the usual tears of frustration.

Take deep breaths…

This was one of those “real” dreams, too; courtesy of the Third Eye, not that he knew what it meant. He knew it was a real dream though, because Cam looked like Cam and not just Jonny’s idea of what Cam looked like. There was something different about him that, upon waking from the real dreams, Jonny was never able to put his finger on. It irritated him to no end, the fact that he didn’t see Cam the way his eyes would see him if they weren’t fucked up.

He reached a hand towards the opposite side of the bed, knowing he’d find Cam there. Jonny had been having the real dreams a lot lately and Cam knew how hard it was on him. Sometime in the night, Cam had crawled into Jonny’s bed, just in case he was needed. Jonny honestly didn’t know what he would do without Cam.

Jonny touched Cam’s face, forcing himself to get used to seeing the way he’d been seeing for the past five years all over again. He figured it was those stupid dreams that had kept him from ever fully adjusting.

But then, as vivid as the real dreams were, he still couldn’t remember what Cam looked like! What was so different? What could he possibly be missing?

He followed the contours of Cam’s face: high brows, smooth forehead, sharp, but not too sharp nose, slight bags under his eyelids that Jonny figured were permanent and not just there because Cam was an insomniac. His skin was soft and kind of dry, hair feathery and kind of curly as it got long enough to hang in his eyes. His cheekbones were also sharp and together with his chin made a nice triangle. Maybe it was the lips… Jonny had always tried not to linger too long running his fingers over Cam’s lips, being he didn’t want to make the face-touching thing any more awkward than it already was. But, that was more Jonny’s insecurities showing than Cam’s. Truth is, Cam likely wouldn’t give two shits if Jonny stripped him naked and performed a full physical examination on him while he slept. But, Jonny would always worry about being a nuisance or a burden or just plain creepy, even though he knew Cam better. His desperation overcame those insecurities this time around, however, and he tentatively ran his forefinger from corner to corner of Cam’s mouth. Cam’s lips weren’t large like Jonny’s, but not necessarily small. The lower lip was much fuller than the upper, but the upper lip had a nice, sharp cupid’s peak to balance things out. His lips were also a bit chapped.

None of this was a surprise to Jonny. There was still nothing he hadn’t noticed before; nothing at all that would add to Jonny’s mental picture of his best friend.

And now Cam was awake. He hadn’t moved or anything, but Jonny knew he was awake in the same way he knew the sun was up or that the lights were still off.

Maybe it was the colors…

“Cam? What color is your hair again?”

“Brown, Jonny. It’s fucking brown,” Cam grumbled sleepily, but Jonny could hear the smile in his voice. He also felt the smile against his fingers, which he’d forgotten to remove from Cam’s face.

“Yeah, but what kind? More specifically.”

“Dreaming about me again?” Cam said with an accusatory lilt in his voice. “It’s like sand.”

“Sand is yellow… that’s blonde.”

“Well, it’s like blonde, but darker. It gets lighter in the sun, ok? I guess it’s kind of blonde right now. Think of it like… dirt, but really dry. Or like sand, but wet?” Cam laughed at himself. “I’m not good at describing myself, sorry.”

“S’okay, I don’t think that’s what’s missing anyway. I wish I knew…”

Cam put his hand on Jonny’s cheek, pushing away the wetness there with his thumb. Jonny didn’t realize the tears had gotten out. “I’m sorry, Jonny.”

“Not your fault,” Jonny muttered.

“What was the dream?”

“Same as before; you and a girl I don’t know, creepy man with bad hair, and death and the witch’s voice saying something I can’t hear. This time he caught me though, pulled me up by my hair just before I woke up. Kinda hurt.”

Cam shifted closer to Jonny, reaching over and gripping the hair on the back of Jonny’s head. “Huh, guess it is long enough to grab. Maybe we should cut it.”

Jonny laughed. “I don’t really think that’d stop him, Cam.”

He felt Cam shrug. “Suit yourself. I wouldn’t take any chances, though.”

“Fine. Cut away.”

After Cam was satisfied with Jonny’s haircut, the boys got dressed in plain t-shirts and jeans and headed out to meet the crew for breakfast on the lawn.


The Sanders and Sons Traveling Circus had set up shop in a large, vacant field just outside Melancholy, South Land of Seas—a moderate sized port city off the coast of the Sullen Sea; named so likely due to the practically perpetual rain that plagued the lands that touched it. Melancholy was likely named as such.

It was the rainy season in the Land of Seas—the rainiest season of an already rainy land, that is—which meant floods, mud, and much sporadic lightning, and traveling mostly unprofitable if not entirely unbearable. So, the Ringmaster had decided to ground the show for the next few months until the weather was more permittable, just as they’d done every “rainy season” since Cam had joined up. Cam had never been to Melancholy, however, and thought it was a bit counterintuitive to hunker down just off the coast of the Sullen Sea, where the rains were always unforgiving and cared not what weather was in season. But, Cam also knew better than to assume he knew better, and he definitely knew better than to ask the Ringmaster questions that could be interpreted as insults. Melancholy was a nice place, after all, and suited Cam just fine, whatever the reason. Cam liked the rain.

The entire crew had been put up in an extended stay Motel just outside the city limits of Melancholy and just within walking distance to the field where the Circus was set and ready to go for their first show later in the evening. Cam especially liked the rainy seasons, as this was the only time of the year he got to sleep in an actual bedroom with an actual bed—and a shower and a window and everything! And Jonny was always his roommate, of course. The only thing better than having a room all to himself was sharing one with Jonny; where they could be alone and talk all they wanted, uninterrupted, and Cam could watch old horror movies while Jonny slept next to him, and Cam could watch Jonny while he slept—all dark and peaceful and just plain good—and nobody was around to see him, judge him, wonder what the hell was wrong with him, etc. Life was sweeter in the rainy season, and Cam had fewer dark spells.

As they crossed the Motel parking lot, Jonny ruffled Cam’s already unruly hair with a knowing smile—Jonny always seemed to know what Cam was thinking about the moment he was thinking it, even if he didn’t know all the details. Jonny couldn’t read minds with his Third Eye, nothing like that. Jonny just knew Cam better than anyone. However, Jonny surely did not know that Cam stared at him while he slept; or oftentimes while he was wide awake—thank God for small favors. Even friends as close as Cam and Jonny needed some secrets between them.

Though Cam honestly did not know what sort of things Jonny would/could keep from him. Sometimes Cam felt guilty, being it was much easier to have a bunch of those little secrets when your best friend was blind.

Jonny and Cam made their way to the lawn, attempting to smoke a few cigarettes before they reached their destination, but the rain, though fairly light this morning, made it quite difficult.

The Circus always looked a bit unimpressive during the day—large, striped tents all the colors of the rainbow, faded from years of wear and tear, classic wooden food and game carts sorely in need of new paint, outdated and somewhat rusty pickup trucks and trailers with nowhere to hide—in all honesty, it reeked of poverty. But, at night, the lights changed everything and the Circus was pure magic! Amazing what a little light and darkness can do to a place.

Just behind the Big Top, a portion of the “backyard” was protected by a large, colorless pavilion with no sidewalls—which Cam also found counterintuitive, as the ground beneath was becoming sodden and unpleasant. That didn’t stop everyone from gathering in the pavilion, chatting over eggs and sausage thrown together by Cook—there’s always a Cook, you know—lounging in folding chairs, eating at folding tables, while Cook wiped down his brand new portable gas stove almost reverently—new equipment was a rarity in the Circus. The Ringmaster, Ed Sanders, was reclining in a lawn chair, long legs propped up on an upturned bucket, sausage fingers wrapped around a mug of black coffee that rested on his growing pot belly, which jiggled as he laughed at something his son, Claude—more commonly known as Barrage, the Strong Man—was saying, sloshing the coffee over the sides. Cam frowned. He didn’t like to see coffee go to waste, even if it did taste like tar.

Both Sanders men had matching handlebar mustaches, though the Ringmaster’s was freshly dyed a deep brown. The Ringmaster was always in character, wearing his long, red-striped coat with blue lapels, high black boots carefully polished to hide their age, and a fabulous blue top hat to hide his own. Barrage, though only 30 or so, suffered the same fate and purposefully shaved what little hair still grew on his head, while his father kept his remains slicked and dyed and just visible enough, never revealing to the public the shiny, blotchy scalp above.

Barrage had his arm around his wife, Rose, one of the three trapeze artists, who was also laughing loudly; unnaturally-red curls bobbing as she shook her head from side to side. She was still wearing a bathrobe and pajamas and Barrage had on nothing but sweatpants and rainboots. Cam figured they must’ve just crawled out of bed as well. Rose turned, smiled, big red lips framing perfect white teeth, and winked at him dangerously—conspiratorially. Cam smiled back but did not wink, as Barrage was now looking their way. Instead, Cam looked up at Jonny whose mouth was flattened in a disapproving line. Jonny always “saw” more than he should, and little things like that made Cam worry about the safety of his secrets. What Cam did with Rose wasn’t one of those secrets, however, and Jonny was likely just sensing the momentary tension between them.

Jonny did not disapprove of Cam debasing the sanctity of marriage; Jonny would never judge Cam like that. Jonny simply worried that Barrage would find out one day and kill Cam, and probably kind of hated Rose for taking such a risk at Cam’s expense.

“Morning, boys! Think it’ll rain?” The Ringmaster said.

Jonny snorted.

“Til the end of days, old man,” Cam said automatically, for likely the millionth time.

The Ringmaster let out a wet guffaw, slapped his thigh, and sloshed more coffee. Cam tried to laugh with him, as he did every morning.

“Welp, we’d best go put ourselves together, right baby-doll?” Barrage said, patting his wife on the ass.

“Sure, honey.”

The couple took their leave with a nod from the Ringmaster and Cam and Jonny took their seats. Cook, aka Billy Jean the Balancing Bumkin—Cam found Cook’s stage name a bit offensive, as he’d been labeled a country bumkin himself more than a few times, not one of which was meant in compliment—preemptively handed them mugs of coffee.

Jonny and Cam never actually ate breakfast with the crew. Jonny had this thing about eating in public; as in, he would not do it. Personally, Cam didn’t think there was anything off about the way Jonny ate, and, in fact, thought it was remarkable how unremarkable Jonny’s table manners were, being Cam could see better than the average man and stilled managed to make a mess of himself on most occasions. Nevertheless, Jonny was insecure and Cam would only eat when Jonny ate; for moral support, he supposed.

“You boys are starting school tomorrow.”

Both boys groaned, in stereo.

“Got you all set with the principal. I’ve informed them of your condition,” he said, nodding at Jonny, which made Cam chuckle and the Ringmaster sigh, “and, they’ve agreed to put you both in the same classes.”

“Is it really necessary, old man?” Cam said. “Just memorizing useless shit everyone else already kinda knows, having everyone else look at us like we dumb for not knowing enough useless shit like, like the battle of Mourning Falls was fought in 1303; what fuck good does it do me to know that the battle of Mourning Falls—”

“1307, you little shit!” The Ringmaster laughed. “That’s the year of our secession from the Great Republic, you better remember that much. Shit, boy, I know it’s useless, but you have to! I don’t want social services coming at me, asking questions about my kids, accusing me of ‘depriving children of their right to proper education,’ you know all this!”

“It ain’t depriving! It’s a goddamn waste of time, time we could be training—”

“Dammit, boy!” The Ringmaster sloshed his coffee once again and pinched the space between his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter, Cam,” Jonny, always the voice of reason. “If they think we’re being deprived or neglected or anything, they can take us away.”

“Such bullshit, if I don’t wanna go away, how can they just make me go away with them? I’m a goddamn person, not a dog!”

“It’s the law!” Jonny and the Ringmaster said, in stereo.

“In the eyes of the law, you’re not a real person until you’re 18,” Jonny finished.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but, essentially, he is correct.”

“It ain’t—”

“life isn’t fair, boy! Now get off my back, you’re going to school tomorrow! Little shit, you are.”

Cam huffed and drank his coffee in silence. He hated school; really the only thing he hated about the rainy season.

“One more thing you should know: I’ve hired us a new magician,”—Jonny sucked air through his teeth—“now, I know how you feel about magicians, but that is what we call prejudice, boy, and I do not tolerate prejudices in my circus. Besides, we need a good magician to round out the show. People love a good magic show down in these parts.” The Ringmaster smiled and winked at Cam, a comical echo of Rose’s previous gesture.

“Whatever will be, will be, I guess,” Jonny said with a frown. “When?”

“She shall arrive tomorrow night. Tonight, the show goes as normal. You’re act 4, after Billy, then Clarrisa will close the show. After tomorrow, I might shake things up, depending.”

Cam and Jonny expressed their acceptance by raising mugs to the Ringmaster and finishing off the coffee, then made for the Big Top to claim a spot for practice.

Cam stopped off at the prop trailer to pick up his belt, stocked with freshly sharpened throwing knives. The old belt, which he’d fashioned himself many years ago, could only hold six knives, three on each side, and he needed about twelve for the show nowadays. So, he’d crafted wristbands and ankle straps to hold one on each limb, as well as added three sheathes to his bow sling (the newest addition to his toy collection). The belt was all he wanted for morning practice, however, so he strapped it around his slim waist—he would probably have more room for knives if he put on a little weight—and met Jonny in the ring.

Cam warmed up by taking a few shots at a wooden post while Jonny stretched out his chest.

“You know, Jonny-boy,” he said between throws, “I think you’re looking at this magician thing all wrong. Like, I mean, a witch took your sight, sure, but she gave you what you asked for. Your Ma’s the one who walked out.”

Jonny, who had just dropped into a set of push-ups, stopped in his tracks. “I was just a kid! Didn’t even know what it meant. The witch knew exactly what it meant.”

Cam collected his knives from the post. “I know, I know, but still. A magician could be your chance! How else you gonna get your sight back?”

Jonny sat back on the dusty ground, shrugged, and clenched his jaw, blue-sky eyes narrowing—Cam thought it was kind of cool how Jonny’s eyes that saw nothing could still be so expressive. “Fine, but I’m more worried about the dream. You think it’s just a coincidence? I don’t.”

“Well,” Cam gathered three knives and began to juggle—he didn’t plan on juggling for the act though; that was already part of Desmond’s routine in act 2, “old man said it was a ‘she,’ for one. For two, this ain’t the first magician we’ve had since you started dreamin’ those dreams—in case you forgot how I helped you run off the last one—and three, we don’t have a fuckin’ clue what those dreams are even trying to tell you! Creepy magic guy could be here to save you from the witch, for all we know. Think about it, you sure as fuck don’t trust her, yet you’re suspicious of this magic man who’s drowning out her voice?”

Jonny sighed. “Maybe, I dunno… Magic man just feels evil; or wrong at least. I just know he’s no good, ok? But, you’re right I guess about this new magician. I do feel a bit guilty about Charley.”

“Poor Charley.”

Both boys snickered at the memory of the hapless old magician.

They practiced through the morning, smoked and shot the shit in a nearby grove of trees for a few hours in the afternoon, then ran through the entire routine three times in the early evening before showtime.


Billy Jean was just finishing up. He’d used a mess of chairs for his act tonight and had the crowd in an uproar. The laughter was almost constant, broken only by collective gasps here and there as, Jonny supposed, Billy was feigning some kind of instability. Jonny always admired how Billy could twist his death defying balancing acts into comedy. Jonny and Cam’s act was nothing of the sort.

Cam had just finished up with Jonny’s makeup, which was apparently something special, as the audience was always reasonably appalled by the gapping holes that used to hold Jonny’s eyes. He covered them with a decorative blindfold, which he would only lift for a moment to reveal the “truth,” as the sight was too disturbing to keep visible the entire act and might distract from all the good shit, as the Ringmaster would explain to the crowd—not verbatim. He also wore something like harem style pants with a pattern he could only guess at. Cam had simply said, “It’s colorful and it’s cute and perfectly acceptable for a circus act!”

All Jonny knew was that they were mostly blue and Cam’s were mostly purple, and that was only if Cam had felt like telling the truth. Cam lied about silly things sometimes.

The Ringmaster released the clowns to clumsily clean up Billy’s chairs as he bowed his way out of the ring, high-fiving Cam in passing.

“Ready for this, Jonny-boy? I got a good feeling, good feelin’ bout’ tonight!”

Cam sounded drunk, but Jonny knew it was just his excitement overflowing; Cam would never drink before throwing knives at Jonny. Some nights it felt like Cam was going to explode with adrenaline all over him, and this was one of those nights. It made Jonny nervous. Nothing bad would happen of course, nothing ever did (not during a show, that is), but it unsettled Jonny anytime Cam’s emotions were boiling over. It wasn’t just knives tonight either; Cam had fashioned himself a bow and arrow set for the occasion, which they’d been practicing with frequently enough that both he and Jonny’s hands were so callused they felt like cats’ paws.

At the beckoning of the Ringmaster, Jonny gathered up his round, wooden targets of varying sizes under an arm and the boys made their way into the ring. The smell of sweat and popcorn was overpowering his senses as usual, but Jonny didn’t even have to count his steps anymore.

“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to a very special act, one of a kind! You ain’t never seen nothing like these boys, I tell you!”

The Ringmaster sounded almost as country as Cam when he was onstage.

“I present to you the sensational, the death defying”—every good act was death defying—“Jonny Geronimo and Cameron Kid!”

The Ringmaster went on to tell the story about how Jonny lost his eyes and, at the cue, Jonny lifted the blindfold—gasps, awes, the usual—then returned it to its resting place while the story went on and his Third Eye was introduced, leading to more awes and some skepticism. The Ringmaster then talked up Cam’s marksmanship briefly before the drums began. Jonny relied on the drums to keep in-time with the choreography, though his Third Eye took over when it counted most.

Jonny methodically laid his targets out in front of himself; sizes in descending order. The crowd was finally silent, and Jonny fell into his groove. He could feel the apprehension, the collective question in the air; nobody ever really knew what to expect. There were always a few people who continued to eat during the first few minutes of the act. It tickled Jonny’s ears and he secretly hated them for it, but they would stop once Cam got to work.

The drum crescendo signaled it was time and Jonny shut out the world. Everything in the world except Cam, that is. Cam was a raging ball of lightning in his mind’s eye; the turbulence took his breath away. He couldn’t have shut Cam out if he wanted to.

There, racing towards him, a streak of ice through his temples, he crouched, grabbed the largest target, tossed it in the air and heard the familiar thunk as the first knife struck home. Loud Oohs and Ahs from the audience were somewhere in the back of his mind, like a day-old echo. He tossed the next five targets in the air in quick succession, the vibrations of every hit jarring his brain, faster, harder; the wood smelled almost burnt from the impact.

He ran out of targets, but the knives would keep coming. The audience let out a collective wail just before Jonny twisted around the next projectile blade and caught it by the handle before it could speed past him. Loud cheers now and clapping—the usual. People loved the knife catching much more than simply dodging. It had taken them years to master it, too. Jonny dropped the first knife and caught 4 more, each one sending piercing cold through some part of his body; temples, chest, stomach, groin, something like a taste of what might have been had he moved the wrong way.

The audience was wildfire and Cam was practically bursting into flames himself. Jonny could smell the burning even stronger now, but it wasn’t the targets, just Cam’s energy.

Cam was about to improvise something. He’d missed his cue to draw the bow. Jonny was used to this though and stood his ground, waiting patiently with his arms behind his back, trying to ignore the sickening anxiety of the crowd.


Cam prowled towards Jonny as the drum beats slowed their tempo to an ominous larghissimo. His vision narrowed and his own breathing seemed much too loud in his head. Jonny stood as still as a statue, though he must know by the bells on Cam’s shoes that Cam was approaching, even if his Third Eye didn’t clue him in. Cam stopped with just inches between them, so close his breath was probably tickling Jonny’s chin—Cam was a tad shorter than Jonny.

This was going to be good.

Cam balled Jonny’s shirt in his fists and tore it down middle, exposing a respectable amount of Jonny’s perfect, milk-chocolatey skin—all the ladies in the audience went wild!

Jonny didn’t even—blink, bat an eyelash, all the idioms Cam could think of did not apply to a boy in a blindfold, but you get the point. Jonny stood perfectly still as Cam yanked his shirt down over his shoulders and threw the tattered remains to a skinny girl in the front row who squealed and did a little dance as she caught it. A smile was tugging at the corners of Jonny’s mouth. Cam then planted his foot on top of the closest target and yanked a knife free. He raised his empty right hand to the audience and, after introducing the knife in his left hand with a flourish, slit his palm across the middle—slowly, for dramatic effect—walking a circle around Jonny all the while so the entire audience could appreciate the slightly macabre display. That was Cam in a nutshell: brash, dramatic, and slightly macabre. The audience was riddled with gasps as the blood streamed down his forearm and Jonny whispered, “Cam?”

He finished his circle and whispered in Jonny’s ear, “Roll with it, Jonny-boy.”

The blood pooled in his palm, and he massaged it between his thumb and fingertips for a moment; slippery as it bled, sticky as it dried, the pain dull and then sharp as he moved. He appreciated the contrast. He raised his fingers to Jonny’s bare chest and smeared the blood in a large circle around his heart. Jonny breathed in sharply and whispered again, “Cam, did you—”

Cam finished the target by painting a bullseye right above Jonny’s heartbeat. He lingered there for a long moment as Jonny’s heart-rate spiked under his fingertips. “Right here, Jonny. Don’t you fucking miss!” It was a loud whisper, but the crowd couldn’t hear over the drums.

“I never miss,” Jonny said, letting the smile win over.

Cam drew the bow from his back as he turned on his heel, striding back to the opposite side of the stage, and then turned again to face Jonny, nocking an arrow in one smooth motion. The pain in Cam’s hand would not affect his aim. That and the coppery smell of his own blood were a cold reminder of what was at stake.

Jonny stood with his hands behind his back, feet planted in a wide stance. Cam’s blood had started running from the target on Jonny’s chest in small rivulets down his torso. One had already flowed all the way down from his sternum, following the clear separation of his abdominals to pool in his bellybutton. Cam watched as another traveled down the contours of Jonny’s ribs to his obliques, then followed the sharp line from his iliac crest until it disappeared behind the waistband of his pants. The sight gave Cam chills. He returned his attention to the bullseye.

To Jonny’s heart.

He was terrified. He was always terrified at moments like this. What if this was the first time Jonny missed? What if someone from the audience had a seizure and Jonny got distracted and Cam killed Jonny? What if Jonny decided he wanted to die today—it happened to Cam often enough—and just let the arrow pierce his heart? What would he do if Jonny died? Probably kill himself, no doubt. He was terrified, but the thought of killing Jonny and killing himself was also beautiful and exhilarating and had him spiritually aroused, or something like that. The feeling was awesome and terrible and Cam… well, Cam practically lived for it!

Cam’s heart was in his teeth.

He held his breath and loosed the arrow, refusing to blink.

Thwack—Cam imagined the sound would be the same whether or not Jonny caught the arrow. But, Jonny never missed.

The crowd went insane!

Jonny stood at an angle, rocked back from the force, with the arrow in his right hand, holding it by the shaft in a vise grip, just above his heart. His left hand was still behind his back and his feet still planted on the ground, exactly where they’d been before. Jonny had let the arrowhead break his skin slightly, right in the middle of the bullseye Cam created, and Cam shuddered as he watched Jonny’s blood mix with his own.

Now that was some kind of magic! They walked to the center of the arena together—Jonny still holding the arrow and Cam still dripping blood all over the ground—and gave the audience a few bows as they received a standing ovation. The audience loved them, but then, the audience always loved Jonny and Cam. A part of Cam still resented the fact that they were never the main attraction, but he’d stopped caring so much about that stuff in recent years. Jonny never minded and they were awesome together, even if they never got to close the show. He didn’t even mind taking second billing to Jonny, being Jonny was the one risking his life and all. Besides all that, Cam loved Jonny more than anything.


“That was a hell of a show, man! Got my dick hard! You’re so fucking good, Jonny, I can barely stand it!”

“C’mon, Cam, it wasn’t all that different.”

Jonny and Cam were walking along the Boardwalk, which was completely dead at the late hour. Jonny was appreciating the sound of the Sullen Sea crashing below them, about 30ft down and some rocks; he especially liked hearing distance for some reason. Sometimes he would click his tongue to hear walls and shit—that thing that bats do. Cam called it “echolocation.” It helped solidify his mental imagery, which is something his Third Eye did not do. The Third Eye would keep him from walking into a wall, but he wouldn’t actually “know” what it was he was doing. Not exactly, that is. Using the Third Eye was almost like being unconscious, giving everything over to instincts and emotion, which was no way for a social creature to live.

“Not all that—different? Shit, man—shit! You caught an arrow inches—from your fucking—heart! An inch! An inch—away—from death! Didn’t even—fuckin’ move! A fuckin’ inch, man!”

Cam’s footfalls were about level with Jonny’s chest, bare feet slapping against the wet, wooden railing as he did what Jonny imagined were cartwheels and handsprings and such, making his voice waiver as he tried to breathe and talk and move at the same time. Cam was too wired for simply walking, as usual. Cam hardly ever just did anything; walk, watch tv, smoke, etc., he was always working on some kind of skill or trick at the same time. Cam didn’t know the meaning of the word relax, but Jonny figured that perpetual unrest was a big part of why Cam was so good at so many things. During the week, they performed short acrobatic routines where Cam did cool things and Jonny was a glorified tree. Cam was light and full of tricks, but Jonny was strong and sturdy and able to support most of Cam’s antics, even standing on his hands—that was Jonny’s only real acrobatic skill.

“I just did what you made me do.” Jonny was actually a bit put off that Cam would have him do something so risky without ever practicing. Jonny didn’t want to put a damper on Cam’s good mood, though, and, if Jonny was being honest with himself, he could have shifted to the side before catching the arrow, despite Cam’s set up—if he’d really wanted to.

“Me? Jonny-boy, you—”

Cam’s foot made a clumsy thunk against the railing, but Jonny was already reaching for his friend before the sound even registered. He caught Cam’s hand mid flail, pulling him back and over, not-so-gracefully into his arms.

Cam exhaled audibly. “Shit…” He rested his head against Jonny’s shoulder and laughed.

“Cam… did you just almost die?”

“Eh? No… Naw, man, no—’’

Footfalls, coming their way.


Cam looked over his shoulder to see a scrawny figure followed by three slightly larger, barely illuminated by a nearby streetlamp and mostly obscured by mist. In an instant, the frontrunner had reached Jonny and Cam—a fast runner for such a small boy. Well, this is awkward… Skinny looked at them quizzically—out of breath and nervous.

Cam was still lounging in Jonny’s arms, bare feet dangling, when the three larger boys caught up to Skinny, and he couldn’t help but laugh a little. Though Jonny was wearing a long, dark coat, and Cam had on a red, hooded sweater, they were still wearing their colorful and very out of place stage clothes underneath. Cam cleared his throat as he hopped down to his feet.

“Uh,” said Skinny.

“The hell’s this?” One of the bigger guys, Pug Nose, came closer, squinting his eye’s at Cam and Jonny. “Fee Fee, you friends with the Circus freaks?”

The other boys, Stocky and Spikey, laughed while Pug Nose put an unwanted arm around Skinny’s shoulder.

“They just happened to be here, Darren. Leave them out of it.” Skinny’s voice cracked, eyes shifting; poor kid was trying so hard to be brave.

“Talk to me, freaks,” Pug Nose released Skinny and moved closer to Cam. “Imma bout to beat some sense into smart-ass Fee Fee here. If you’re freak friends, you can take a beating with him, by all means. If you just freaks, you have my permission to run along, sound—”

Cam laid Pug Nose out with a surprise haymaker. The others stared at him with wide eyes for a long moment before Stocky and Spikey moved in, expressing their outrage with indignant cursing. Jonny caught Stocky by the shirt collar and effortlessly tossed him to the side, where he landed hard on his ass. Spikey took a swing at Cam, but was comically slow. Cam sidestepped the sorry swing and took him out with a punch to the gut. The oily boy—who was likely around Cam’s age—curled up in a ball on the ground with his wind knocked out.

Stocky got up but showed some sense, refraining from striking out again. “Got lucky again, Fee Fee. Maybe one day you’ll fight your own battles,” he said indignantly as he helped Spikey to his feet.

“You freaks better watch your backs!” Stocky slung his fallen comrade over his shoulder and backed away, followed by Spikey.

Cam laughed. “Oh yeah, big-boy, scared shitless.” Cam took a couple steps after them and yelled, “Your lack of creativity is fucking terrifying!” He turned to Skinny and mimicked, in a high voice, “you freaks better watch your backs!” He laughed again, this time with a snort. “What a fucktard, eh?”

Skinny let out a nervous chuckle. His dark eyes searched Cam’s face suspiciously; not the trusting type.

“That was…unexpected. You alright… Fee Fee?” Jonny asked, leaning against the railing, always so cool while Cam was about to bust at the seams.

“Yeah… yeah, thanks. It’s Felix, though.” Felix smiled sheepishly, his long, sharp face softening a bit as he relaxed. “Thank you, really. Those guys—well, it’s nothing new.”

“No problem, boyo. We had to defend our honor, anyways. You smoke?” Cam asked as he reached into Jonny’s coat pocket for cigarettes.

Felix shook his head. “I saw your show—most of us did. Pretty sick. Was it… real?”

Jonny laughed this time.

“Real? Was it real, Jonny-boy?”

“Real enough for me.” Jonny put a hand over his heart and actually looked a bit aggrieved by the memory. Cam was coming off his high and immediately felt guilty.

“My girlfriend caught your shirt,” Felix said, surprisingly without a hint of jealousy. “She loved it! The show, I mean. Though she did keep the shirt.”

All three boys laughed a bit too hard at that.
​
Jonny and Cam walked Felix, the very skinny one, home; like any good bodyguard would. On the way, they learned that Felix went to Melancholy High—which Cam had already figured, being it was the only high school in the city—and they’d likely be seeing him in the morning.

Jonny Geronimo only liked stories with happy endings. Now, it should be noted that this predisposition had little to do with Jonny’s own fairytale of a backstory—we’ll get to that soon—as he’d made the conscious decision to hate all bad endings at roughly 5 years old.

It was his personal philosophy that: one who had complete control over all circumstances, all events, all the emotion of a great story, and then intentionally chose to write a bad ending, to turn something wonderful into a tragedy, that—and Jonny truly believed this, without a doubt—such a person, a person capable of such a heinous thing, was the worst kind of sadist; intentionally ripping your heart out, leaving you hollow, despairing, and aching hard for something or someone that doesn’t even exist, and getting off on your heartache to boot!

Sure, Jonny could imagine things ending differently in his head; after all, a story is fundamentally imaginary, right? But, logic aside, stories simply do not work that way, fiction or no. The creator is god and you are just a spectator. If the creator wants you to feel pain, then by god you will feel pain. Some people liked that sort of thing—the literary masochists—but, Jonny would never understand. Jonny’s best friend, Cam, was a bit of a masochist. Cam loved horror stories more than anything, and everyone died in those. His favorites were the ones that made you care that everyone died, too. Jonny would never understand, but Cam was a good friend despite his poor taste. The best friend a guy could ask for, for that matter.

Jonny met Cameron Kid when they were both roughly 10 years old, during a major turning point in his life in which he couldn’t decide if things had gotten exceedingly better or exceedingly worse, being he’d found the best friend a guy could ask for almost immediately after being orphaned and blinded in the same week—we’ll get to that soon—and basically everything had just evened out, though everything had changed drastically. Jonny supposed that that was real life though, everything just evening out. There were no good or bad endings in real life, because, honestly, there were no real endings in real life. Unless you counted death, which was still most of the time neutral. But, not all stories ended in death, unless you read the books Cam read. Maybe Cam wasn’t a masochist. Maybe Cam was just obsessed with death—we’ll get to that later.

In the beginning—no, “once upon a time” is more appropriate. As I said before, the story of Jonny Geronimo could only be categorized as a fairytale. You’ll understand soon enough.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived alone with his mother in a small studio apartment in the projects of Alberta City, Land of Seas. His mother was a whore—Jonny didn’t like to sugarcoat real life, even when it was part of a fairytale—and his father a client from back when his mother was still in her prime. Of course, Jonny had never met his father, but that was neither here nor there, as they say.

It should be noted that “Jonny” was not Jonny’s real name—Jonny doesn’t tell anyone his real name—and, during the time of these events, Jonny was not yet Jonny. But, we’ll get to that later.

Jonny’s mom was named Cherise—which was not her real name—and she worked long and hard every night just to pay rent, put crap fish-sticks on the table for breakfast, and support escapist habits that were likely all that inspired her to work for over 10 years as a prostitute in Alberta City, Land of Seas, without losing her mind or killing herself or running far, far away like anyone with a clear, sober mind would have.

Jonny would never do drugs, or even drink.

Cam liked to drink—we’ll get to Cam later, I swear to you.

Jonny hated his life in that cockroach infested studio apartment in Alberta city, Land of Seas, in which he rarely saw his mother, whom he loved dearly, and, when he did see her, was often crying and smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap red wine in the bathtub, black eye-makeup streaking down her cheeks, smelling of gin and BO and a darker smell Jonny had always associated with decay, though he wasn’t sure exactly where it came from.

Jonny never took a bath in that tub. It had seemed counterintuitive, being nobody ever cleaned the thing and it showed. He preferred showers whenever he actually got around to bathing, which wasn’t often to be honest (he was a young boy, after all).

One day, while Jonny was walking to school—unwashed jeans and t-shirt slightly oversized, no lunch money, no lunch, books in the same ragged backpack he’d carried for the past 2 years, the normal-normal—he heard what sounded like windchimes coming from the alley between Doc Featherbee’s and the barbershop. Normally, Jonny would not have been moved by such a sound, as he was, for the most part, desensitized to childlike curiosity. But, these were magic windchimes that sent cold through his body like a snowball melting in the pit of his stomach, and he was compelled to seek out the source. He entered the alley despite the trash and fecal matter, and suddenly the alley of trash and fecal matter disappeared. Jonny blinked and it was gone. No whoosh, no light show, nothing but a blink.

He was on a dirt path flanked by tall trees he’d never seen before—the local park was as close to nature as Jonny ever got—and he couldn’t help but walk. Something made his feet move. He didn’t fight it or anything, just let it pull him along. The trees were kind of creepy, with their spindly, low hanging branches, but everything smelled nice and the croaking frogs made him smile. He walked until he found an old lady hunched over a tree stump that appeared to have a lit sparkler sticking straight up from the center. She wore all black, a wispy cloak with a tall hat of fine quality, and Jonny knew she was a witch. She held her gnarly hands over the sparkler as if warming by a fire. “Come, my boy, come closer,” she said.

Jonny did, because the magic pulled him, but he didn’t fight it either.

“Hello, dear child. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because you’re a witch and you made me come here,” Jonny said without thinking.

She laughed, which sounded a bit like a fit of coughs. It may have been both, Jonny couldn’t be sure. “You’re here because you have a wish. A very loud one. What is your wish, my boy?”

He thought the question would be more appropriate coming from a Genie, but Jonny wasn’t an authority on witches or anything.

His heart was suddenly in his teeth. “I wish… to help my mom. I want her life to not be so shitty. Can you help?”

“Of course, of course!” She grinned wildly and beckoned him to the sparkler. Her red lips framed teeth that were large and white—he’d expected them to be yellow and rotting to match her gnarly hands and leathery face. “I can give you what you ask, but you must give me something in return, beautiful boy. That is how magic works, you see. I have a very useful spell, exactly what you need. ‘an eye for an eye’ it’s called.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only briefly, my lovely boy.” The witch ran her fingers through his hair and smiled at him like he supposed a normal grandmother would, though her eyes were solid black, rimmed with just a bit of gold.

Now, from here on there are three versions of the story: the one the Ringmaster tells as a part of Jonny’s act, the one Jonny told Cam, and the whole truth (which is only slightly different than the version Jonny told Cam).

The Ringmaster’s story is sensational.

The witch takes Jonny by the hair and smashes his left eye into the sparkler, sizzling it into a bloody pulp while he screams bloody murder, then immediately does the other one, cackling maniacally the whole time. And it’s nighttime and it’s a full moon and there’s usually a wolf howling or some shit… In the Ringmaster’s story, Jonny loses his eyes before being bestowed with the Third Eye, the power of sightless sight, which grants him physical abilities beyond any human being. I told you, sensational. The crowd loves it. The Ringmaster doesn’t even bother about all that stuff with his mom. His character is not meant to be sympathized with, but awed. His character gave up his sight for superpowers. The sensational Jonny Geronimo!

Anyway, the almost truth, or the story that Cam knows as truth, goes something like this:

The witch takes Jonny by the hands. “Now, I’m going to open your Third Eye, my child. This is a great gift! Once the Third Eye is opened, you will know exactly how to help your dear mother, understand?”

“Y-yes?”

“Good. But, as I said before, ‘an eye for an eye.’ If you wish to be granted this most powerful gift, I must have something in return… You, dear boy, must give me your sight. A trade, you see? Your old, conventional sight for something much grander. A magic tool to save your mother!”

Jonny said yes, of course. After all, he was a young boy and a witch had just offered him superpowers—yes, that part of the Ringmaster’s story was partly true, though he really did want to save his mom. Old, boring sight for something better? It seemed awesome and perfectly fair at the time.

The witch pulled the sparkler from the stump, whispered a few unintelligible words, then snuffed it out with her thumb and forefinger.

And that was the last thing Jonny ever saw.

He screamed—he omitted this part for Cam because it was embarrassing. It was the most jarring, frightening thing he’d ever experienced. He was back in the alley; he knew by the smells and the feel of concrete on his hands—he’d fallen to his knees. He eventually managed to make his way back onto the street where Doc Featherbee found him, and Doc let him sit in the waiting room until his mom showed. Doc couldn’t figure out what was wrong with Jonny’s eyes, of course, since he was a medical doctor and not a magician.

Though Jonny hadn’t exactly thought ahead when he’d agreed to the exchange, somewhere deep down he’d expected utter darkness; not the bright array of lights that assaulted his brain to no end. He knew it wasn’t real light though, because part of him still knew when the real lights were turned out at his apartment, yet these floating color shapes hung around in sharp brightness regardless, even when he closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep for 2 days. He also cried a lot—which he also didn’t tell Cam.

On the third day, he awoke after a brief, exhaustion induced sleep with numbers in his head and knew exactly what he had to do. He also knew how to navigate his way to the corner store and ask for a lottery ticket and for the clerk to pick the numbers: 08 23 04 17 30 15 for him, since he couldn’t see to do it himself. Once all was said and done and verified 3 times—Jonny didn’t like the fact that someone could trick him so easily, but the man had no reason to lie—he took the ticket home to his mom and said, “Keep this safe, please? I know you’ll win, I just know it!”

His mom took it and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek before heading out to work, or wherever she was going at 7am—she was usually still asleep. Jonny did not go to school that day or the following day because he did not know how, and his mom hadn’t told him to do anything except be careful until his broken eyes fixed themselves.

On the 6th day after Jonny gave up his sight, Jonny’s mom won 1 million dollars.

He never saw her again.

You might be wondering, what happened to Cherise? Was she killed for her new fortune? That might have been a more appropriate twist in Jonny’s fairytale, but this was also real life.

Cherise hastily ran off to The Islands to start over, without Jonny to remind her of her sordid past. Jonny knew this, without a doubt. Jonny’s Third Eye told him. Sometimes he just knew, same with the lotto numbers.

Jonny hated her then.

That was Jonny’s lowest point. But, before we move on to how Jonny met Cam, there’s one more piece of the story that Jonny intentionally left out.

Back to the magic witch forest:

Once he’d stopped screaming, the witch told Jonny, “The spell is only permanent if you so choose, my child. As any good spell works, it may be easily broken with True Love’s Kiss. But, you must receive True Love’s Kiss before the clock strikes midnight on your 16th birthday if you wish to regain your sight. Understand?”

He nodded his head dumbly.

“There, now go take care of your mother, my lovely boy.”

And that was the end of Jonny’s encounter with the old witch.

Now you see. Most definitely a fairytale.

Jonny did not tell this part to Cam back then when they’d first met because, to be honest, it sounded girly and he was embarrassed. Jonny didn’t think he would mind telling this part of the story to Cam so much anymore, but too many years had passed for him to properly bring it up. Much like when you go too long without knowing the name of someone you’re supposed to know and it’s well beyond appropriate to ask again…

So, Jonny was blind and on his own, but he was getting the hang of reading his Third Eye. If he just let the knowledge in and went with it, it was almost easy to get around. Almost. It was like, concentrating on not concentrating. Like instinct, but his instincts were awesome when he let them do what they do.

Jonny left his shitty apartment well before the eviction notice could come. He had somewhere to be, though he wasn’t entirely sure where.

He wandered for hours, letting his Third Eye take the lead, until he was immersed in smells of deep fried everything and cheeky music, boisterous voices calling, “Step right up, step right up! See the—” insert spectacle here. Jonny had never been to the circus, but he knew what it was. Suddenly, he was aware that he’d entered the large tent—“The Big Top,” as some say—and a man’s hand crushed his shoulder.

“Hey kid, the show’s not for another 3 hours!”

“Oh…” Jonny guessed they must be rehearsing or something, but a part of him was still suspicious. He didn’t like the idea that people could lie to him so easily and thought that might be the worst part about being blind. But, the man had no reason to lie… except that Jonny was broke and it likely showed…

The gravelly voiced man pulled him backwards, saying, “Come back when it’s—”

There was a loud creak and a few gasps, then screams and too many voices; it was a lot to process for a blind boy. Jonny ran, grabbed ahold of something heavy and tubular, long like a flexible staff, and held it out to where, whatever it was, stood tall above his own head just as something very large thundered to the ground nearby. Jonny kept his body as rigid as possible while something collided with the pole, jarring his hands repeatedly until he could hang on no more. There were gasps and then applause—Jonny did not know what he’d done.

“My god!” said the gravel voice. “Boy, you just saved my life!”

“Huh?” Jonny felt like he must be blushing.

What had happened was: there was a mishap with the rigging of the high-wire; one of the support beams was not as supportive as it should have been and toppled to the ground, snapping the wire, sending it whipping across the stage with deadly force. Jonny had grabbed ahold of a balance pole and held it strong in the path of the wire, which ferociously wound itself around the pole instead of taking off the Ringmaster’s head.

The Ringmaster was quite pleased with the display and appreciated Jonny’s showmanship almost as much as his heroism. Jonny told the Ringmaster his story, and the older man was elated! A blind boy with superhuman reflexes? It was surely meant to be. The Ringmaster offered Jonny a job on the spot, which of course Jonny accepted. Jonny had nowhere else to go and what boy didn’t dream of running away to join the circus?

The Ringmaster dubbed the boy Jonny Geronimo, right there.

It was not even an hour later when Jonny would save his second life of the day. He was turning into quite the superhero.

But, Jonny’s next heroic act wasn’t nearly as spectacular, though it was probably the most important moment of his life still. Jonny wandered around the “backyard” looking for a kid his own age; his soon to be partner. Cameron Kid was a precision knife thrower and the Ringmaster had decided Jonny would make a magnificent target for him. They were to get together and practice immediately, as the show was in 3 hours. Jonny had hoped for a little more instruction, but he assumed that basically this Kid kid would try to kill him and he would simply try not to die and everyone would get a real kick out of it.

As it turns out, Cameron Kid was busy trying to kill himself. Jonny busted into one of the dressing rooms, which was empty outside of a small boy with a fancy knife held precariously at his own wrist. Jonny couldn’t see this, but he knew enough. At that moment, he thought he could smell death lingering in the corner; something dark but kind of sweet, and terrifying as all hell. His skin crawled and the hair stood on the back of his neck. He slapped the blade away and pinned Cameron Kid to the ground. If Jonny had been able to see, he would’ve noticed Cam’s eyes grow unnaturally wide and confused before narrowing with fury. That fury he couldn’t see, he most definitely felt emanating off Cam in waves. It tingled, like a minor electric shock, and sent his heart racing. They wrestled on the ground for a good 10 minutes—Cam cursing incessantly, Jonny attempting to placate—before Cam gave in. Jonny had him pinned to the ground by his wrists. “Fine, fine! Let me go, yeah? You win.”

Jonny didn’t let go. “Promise you won’t do it again?”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?”

Jonny gripped Cam’s wrists hard until the smaller boy yelped in pain. “Promise!”

“Promise, promise!”

Jonny let him up, though he stayed on guard.

“For now… I’m over it, yeah? Who the hell are you? And what’s wrong with your eyes?”

And that was how Jonny Geronimo met Cameron Kid and the rest was history.

But, before we move on, you should know a few things about Cameron Kid, the young marksman.

Cam’s story was not so much a fairytale, but will likely provide some insight into his inexplicable antics, as well as his poor taste in stories—poor according to Jonny, that is.

Cam’s story is sensational, though not at all part of his act.

Cam hailed from the country-side of Eagle’s Valley, or somewhere around there. His adoptive family had explained that he’d been found alone on a dirt road, naked and malnourished and probably around 3 or 4 years old—according to the orphanage. A pair of old fishermen had picked him up and called the police and that was how Cam ended up at the Sunnyvale orphanage in Sunnyvale, Land of Seas. He was officially a country-boy, and an orphan before he knew the words.
He was adopted by a young couple, Gregory and Wanda Schneider of Sunnyvale, who had already vowed to devote their lives to the Children of the Old Sun before deciding to devote themselves to parenthood.

It is worth noting that Cameron was not the name given to him by said young couple, but came from a book he’d read at the orphanage where he’d lived for a short time. The book was Cameron and the Crier; a story about a young boy who got a kick out of yelling nonsense over the town Crier, disrupting the spread of news and making the townspeople laugh and the Crier very, very angry. Long story short, the kid was eventually killed by the Crier. Cam related to the mischievous Cameron from the story and wasn’t bothered by the kid’s death in the least. In fact, he thought it was kind of funny. He took the name and abandoned Schneider in favor of simply Kid when he joined the circus. The Ringmaster approved, as Schneider wasn’t very catchy.

Cam barely remembered going anywhere with his adoptive parents outside of their cozy cottage home and the Hall of Light, as their church was called. The “Hall of Light” was a bit of an oxymoron—you’d understand if you saw the place. It was an unassuming, boxlike structure with no windows, lit only by dull, artificial light and occasionally cheap candles.

The Children of the Old Sun were of the belief that all humans of Perethea had come from another planet, far on the other end of the galaxy, and this mother-world was apparently some kind of paradise the Children of the Old Sun desired to return to; where their benevolent One God awaited them with open arms. Cam had wondered—quite vocally—why humans would’ve left the old world to begin with if it was so swanky, but then he’d been slapped across the face many times and told questions like that were inspired by the devil, until eventually one of the elders relayed the story of how humans were cast out for being selfish and dirty, and that only the chosen ones would be allowed to return, which Cam supposed made at least some kind of sense, but then the elder told him this knowledge was supposed to be for higher tier devotees only, and warned that questioning the scriptures the way he’d done was only good practice if he wanted to be “left behind.” Cam was understandably frightened and kept his smart mouth shut after that.

One day, during a time when Cam was likely 7 years old, the Children of the Old Sun decided they were ready to “make the journey.” There was a grand ceremony with many prayers and speeches Cam hadn’t paid much attention to and did not remember. Eventually, everyone held out their red plastic cups and awaited the elixir that would guide them to the Old World. The elders poured the concoction reverently into every devotees’ cup before taking their place beside the altar. They said some more prayers, everyone got to their knees, and then it was time to drink.

Everyone did as they were supposed to, except Cam. Everyone fell dead within minutes, except Cam.

Cam could not tell you exactly why he chucked his elixir over his shoulder. Maybe he was afraid of what the elder had told him—that he likely wasn’t a chosen one because he’d asked too many questions—and that he wouldn’t be granted passage to the Old World, and then what would’ve happened to him had he drunk the elixir? Or, maybe he just didn’t believe like his family and friends. Maybe he simply liked being Cameron, a kid of Perethea, and didn’t see a reason to leave.

Whatever the reason, Cameron Kid watched the only family he’d ever known and all their friends die right before his eyes—blood flowing from noses and ears and other orifices, limbs twitching, bowels evacuating, the putrid smell of the sudden deaths of over 200 human beings rising from the cold floor—what could he do?

You probably guessed it. He did what any boy his age would do and ran off to join the circus.

Jonny figured Cam carried a lot of guilt with him for not “making the journey” with his parents, though Cam would never admit such a thing. But, when Cam was under one of his “dark spells”—as they’d taken to calling it whenever Cam lost his shit—he often contemplated suicide. Cam tried to do himself in more than a few times, too, but Jonny’s Third Eye always kept him safe. Jonny would never let Cam “make the journey.” Cam would thrash and scream at him for a while after, but once he’d snapped out of the dark spell, Cam was always grateful and sorry for lashing out. Cam didn’t really want to die, Jonny was almost sure of that. Almost. But, to be on the safe side, Jonny did everything in his power to give Cam something to live for.
​
And their act was the shit.

​His vision narrowed, unfocused, his breathing was loud in his own head. He stepped onto the parapet, heart thumping as loud as his breath, and pushed off.

He felt the collision instantly, like a freight train; no flight, no air, no freedom, but he was still breathing, no pain, heart thumping, thumping—his vision cleared a bit and he watched the ground disappear in favor of the sky while something like tree roots latched around his waist, driving him backwards, away from the parapet, and he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding that came out in the form of “Shit! Fuck!” before he breathed too deep, thought he might throw up or pass out. He closed his eyes as the freight train who was a man took him to the ground with the tree roots that were, of course, just arms. Really fucking strong arms.

“Shit! Shit!” The words seemed to come out of their own volition.

A large, callused hand covered Cameron’s eyes, forcing him to rest the back of his head against a rocklike shoulder. Somehow the darkness calmed him down a little; enough to breathe almost normally and stop repeating “Shit!” with every exhale.

The hand slid away to rest on his opposite shoulder, crossing his chest protectively. Cameron looked down to find his hands like claws, digging nails into a man’s forearm, and it was almost impossible to get them to relax, but he eventually managed. Little crescent wounds marred the perfectly milk chocolate skin that could only belong to--

“Goddammit!” It was louder in his head.

“Relax, Kid, I won’t tell anybody,” Jonny Geronimo, voice as milk-chocolatey as his skin, breathed into his ear.

“Shit!”

“It’s ok, stay here with me. It’s ok, I promise.”

“Shit…”

Cameron noticed Jonny’s long legs sprawled out at his sides and was suddenly giddy. He laughed a little and rested a hand on Jonny’s rock-solid thigh, attempting to memorize the feel of being pressed so close against Jonny’s body now that he was fully conscious of it. The circumstances weren’t exactly part of his fantasies, but damn!

“You really won’t say anything?”

Jonny rested his chin on Cameron’s shoulder with a sigh. “No, never. But you have to stay with me. Just for a little while.”

“Up here?”

“Fuck no, it’s the weekend. Let’s get out of this place.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be the best company…” Cameron snorted and thought he sounded drunk.

“Shut up. Come on, just you and me. Let’s go.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to! Let’s go.”

Good ole Jonny Geronimo, always the hero. You can't save everyone, Jonny-boy. “Then what?”

“Then? Then, if you still want to, do what you gotta do.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s your life, Cam. If you don’t want it anymore, that’s for you to decide. But, wait til your head’s clear. Things change, you know.”

“It wasn’t a whim, I’ve been meaning to do it for a while.” Jonny’s face broke his heart and he almost took it back. Someone so beautiful should never look so sad. “I—”

“Then, do it for me. Let me have this weekend to get to know you, since I won’t get another chance. Fair?”

Cameron’s heart shot up to his teeth. Spend his last few days with the boy of his dreams? Maybe he did hit the pavement. “Yeah, sure. Fair. Why not?”

Or, a going away present from the universe perhaps? What's the saying? Something about gift-horses mouths, or whatever… 

"Take me anywhere you want, Jonny-boy," he said with a laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~