Day became night, and after my performance - which closed the show - the crowds drained out of the tent; leaving sticky plastic cups, greasy burger boxes and a trail of taffy wrappers behind them.

My muscles stiff as vestiges of my masquerade, I retired for the evening. Still, my body was pulsing with adrenalin, my knees quivering as aftershocks of the show, my hands clammy inside the stuffy gloves.

I walked through the darkened carnival, the last colours of sunset draining from the horizon and the the lights of the booths and the tent were flicking off.

The merry band of misfits - who in the last six months had become my family - were celebrating. Clacking of beer bottles rang out and raucous laughter.

"Ah! The pièce de résistance!" Jacques announced, arm gesturing in a sweeping motion to me. "The cream of the carnival!" He blew a kiss and beckoned me. "My little Hawkeye!"

I was dragged towards the rowdy group of carnies, weaponry still on me and costumed to the nines. An uncapped beer was stuffed into my hand, beads of condensation coating the glass; it slipped around in my grip.

Jacques catapulted a cumbersome arm around my shoulder, resting drunkenly on me. "A toast! To our newest and most successful member!" He slurred, blinking lamely.

All of the bottles were thrust high into the air, clinking together and spilling fizzing ale onto the grass. "To Hawkeye!" The bottles were then guzzled in my honour.

Staring mutely at the drink in my hand, I turned to Jacques. "I-I can't drink..." I resolved, going rigid where I stood.

Jacques belted out a phlegmy laugh. "I know you're not twenty one, but here-"

"No, no, it's not that, it's-" My father was a drunkard. He used to abuse my mother and me when he drunk. My borderline abusive brother used to get worse when he was drunk. I don't like alcohol. I don't like what it does to people. It scares me. I don't want to know what it will do to me. "Nevermind." I crammed the bottle into Jacques free hand, not in the mood for disclosing my dark past and bear the burden of the beastly memories that came with it.

"Woah, woah! Hey!" The jubilation drooped off his face. "What is wrong with my little bird? My small showman? My Robin Hood?" A pinch appeared between his bushy brows and his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Nothing's wrong." I tried to costume my despondency with a wistful look and a pensive smile. "I should..." My head wilted. "...Get to bed." I nodded dolefully. "It's been a hell of an evening..." Then pivoted on my heel.

But ten metres down the dusty track to the trailer I had been granted, I heard a pattering of feet and Jacques shouldered into me.

"Hey, Clinton," he purred, his French accent having thickened in his doziness. "What is it that's troubling you? It's unlike you to be anything but buzzing with life!" He prompted, shoulder to shoulder with me. The very use of my first name jarred on me; it had been so long.

"I don't wanna talk about it, Jacques, it's nothing. Really..." I tore my gloves off with my teeth and undid the ribbon on the mask that was strung around my neck.

"Something about the alcohol..." His eyes narrowed discerningly, but his mind was numbed by the drink. In all honesty the volatility that alcohol instilled in people unnerved me. Even Jacques, the man to who I owed my employment and home, in his current state, unnerved me. "It doesn't bode well with you?"

Reaching the steps up to my trailer, I perched on the edge and pulled off my stuffy boots; wriggling my blistered and sweat-slick toes out of the choking things. "I don't wanna talk about it."

The steps creaked as Jacques dropped down next to me like a sack of spuds. "Ah... I know that tone..." He took a final swig of the bottle, a small droplet of beer dribbling from the corner of his mouth and then hurled it onto the glass. "Since it makes you uncomfortable..." He gestured to the still half-full bottle glugging remnants of the drink onto the turf. "It's your past isn't it?" He turned to me, a fatherly twinkle in his eye.

"I don't wanna-"

I was cut off by a wave of the hand and a heavy-hearted sigh. "It's okay, kid..." I was patted on the thigh by a clumsy hand. "All of us here..." He gestured towards the gathering of people still celebrating the success of the evening, standing under a striped red and white awning of a stall. "We're crooks and runaways, all of us. We're all running from something; or we wouldn't have joined a travelling carnival! What stability, financially or geographically, does it provide?" He shrugged. "It doesn't..." He squeezed my knee, gazing disconsolately at the full silver moon peeping from behind the peaks of the shadowy pines on the horizon. "But it doesn't need to, Clint. Here, we're all family. We look out for one another, we don't care about the past. We look to our future. A brighter future. The carnival? It's a second chance for so many..."

A smile was threatening to spill onto my face. "You don't care about what I've done? Where I've been?"

"No!" He chorused, cuddling me to him with an arm around me. "People make mistakes, Clint. But mistakes are a good thing!" He proclaimed boldly.

Furrowing my brow, I gave him a cynical look. "I don't see why..."

"I'll explain: mistakes are a learning curve. You screw up the first time? There's always a second. Always. And you know not to make the same mistake again. What happened to you, is nothing to do with me..." Jacques hung his head with a solemn smile. "But if you ever want it to be? I am your listening ear..." With that, he ruffled my hair and then stumbled drunkenly away. "Oh! One more thing!"

A pouch was tossed and me and I managed to snatch it out of the air before it hit me square in the face. "What is it?" I asked, shaking the jingling bag of unforetold treasures.

"Your cut!" He called and staggered back to the gaggle of drunken carnies.

I dipped my hand into the bag and pulled out a bunch of crumpled notes, plenty of loose change and a few valuable looking trinkets: a pearl necklace, a couple watches and plenty of rings. Satisfied, I stuffed it into my quiver and then dumped by bow and quiver in my trailer, on the mat by the door.

I was almost curious what alcohol was like. Almost. I wondered what it was like to be so drugged out of your mind that you couldn't walk in a straight line or speak correctly. I pondered what it was like to be so addled that your mood turned on a dime. I pontificated what it was like to be so drunk that you weren't in control of your actions. Would it bring me peace? Melancholy? Rage? I shuddered. Teetotal was the way for me.

That was when out of the corner of my eye I noticed an orange glow, then the acrid stink of cigarette smoke entered my nostrils. Menthol too.

"Hey, Marcella," I grumbled.

"What's got you so miserable, hawkguy?" The light from her cigarette assisted in illuminating her lips to the point where I could read them.

"Nothing outta the ordinary..." I chuckled.

Dropping the stubby butt of the cigarette to the floor and twisting it under her patent red heel, she sauntered towards me and sat down next to me.

"What has you up so late?" She said conversationally, twiddling with the curls of her auburn her, her catlike green eyes fixing on me.

"I could ask you the same, little lady," I replied wrapping my arms around my costumed body; there was a nip in the autumn air. I took a moment to consider how ridiculous I looked, britches, tabard and ribbon.

"But that would be hypocritical!" She proposed, her voice husky from taking drags on fags. "What's put such a soppy smile on such a handsome face?" She questioned, running her red laquered nails over my cheek and chin.

Marcella Carson is the boss's daughter. My age, but looks a little older. Most of the time, her pa' keeps her locked away from the randy festival of carnies: he doesn't like her to associate with us 'gypsies' as he calls us; but he's happy to let us rake in a mountain cash for him for practically no return. Apparently the last guy who spoke to her had his wrist broken by the big cheese and was sent out on his ear. Marcella is a danger game dressed like tempation. Lean and curvy, she poses in booty shorts and a crop top with 'Carsons Carnival' commercialised across the chest. Her hair is a fiery orange and her eyes a leafy green.

"Bad memories..." I opened up. What harm could she do?

"What of?" She placed her hand on mine, her twine-like fingers trying to intertwine with mine.

"Like it matters..." I cast my eyes to the floor. "It's just today... It reminded me of my past for the first time in a while... Of some things I would've preferred to've remained forgotten..." I forced a smile.

"How can you be so sullen after such a successful day?" She chirped. "Daddy says you're the new star attraction!"

I chuckled at her flirtation. "I loved it tonight... There was just a couple people I wish had been there." I scratched the back of my neck self-consciously.

"Who?" She drew doting patterns on the back of my hand with her fake red nails, her moonlit complexion like silk and silver.

"My brother. He always used to take me to carnivals because he was that much older. I used to love it. The stunts! The colour! The music!" I grinned like a buffoon, my smile bright enough to rival the stars in the sky. "It used to be a respite from home..." My smile wavered. "Home was crappy at the best of times..." My smile died. "And at carnivals, just for a little while we could forget about what was at home... But my big brother, he grew up all too soon... Leaving me far behind." The positivity framing the memory became shrouded in melancholy. "He left home... Left me..."

She propped her head on my shoulder sympathetically and linked her arm with mine. "Who was the other person?"

"A friend." I struggled to swallow. "I promised her I'd take her to a carnival someday..." I glanced at Marcella, nose to nose. "Her mom never had time to take her to one... Well, that's a lie, her mom had plenty of time, just none for her kid..." My jaw clenched with residual rancor for Kate's circumstances. "Her dad worked way out in NYC, so she never saw him and he never took her either..." My fists balled resentfully. "And now I'm here, living it up, and she's..." I sighed. "I dunno where she is... Or if she even misses me..." My shoulders slumped.

"Just a friend?" She probed. "Nothing more?" There was a thorn of jealousy in her tone.

"Katie was like a sister to me... My best friend..." My only friend.

"I'm sorry those people weren't here tonight..." She cooed sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes at me. "I wish there were some way to..." Her eyes darted to my lips. "... Make it up to you?"

I turned away, nothing but a well of emotion from all of the memories I'd spoken about. "Unless you can magic them here there's nothing you can do..." I untangled myself from her and stood up. "Sorry, I gotta get some rest..." Her hand broke apart from mine. "Sleep well, Marcella..." I turned and opened the door, but it only opened part of the way, owing to my untidy equipment.

"Hey, Clint..." She said, resting her hand on my wrist. "If you ever need anything, just head over to my trailer. You know where to find me..." Her glossy lips curved into a smile. "It gets awful lonely being cooped up in there on my own."

"Will do..." I mumbled and we parted ways.

A/N - I wanted to do take a moment to reflect on Clint's past a bit in this chapter and how it's shaped his experiences so far and his world view. I also wanted to explore the Carnival a bit more and all of the characters that it holds.

My fancast for Marcella Carson is Jessica Chastain; in the comics Marcella is a red head, and she's the first flame haired actress that popped to mind! Also, I think she could play the role easily!

EDIT: I nearly completely forgot! Wattpad has a brand new Fanfiction orientated magazine up called 'The Fan Fair' and I was interviewed recently. That interview was up yesterday! ( https://www.wattpad.com/152603826-the-fan-fair-interview-with-professional_dreamer ) The interview is more about me than my writing, so if anyone's vaguely interested in the mind behind the story, go ahead and check it out now!

Dedication goes to AnnaisFantabulous! x