T/W: Mentions of blood and a panic attack

Back in the crisp Autumns of the 1990's, I was happy. The feelings have since faded with the turn of the century, and to be frank, I had only whispers of memories to even imagine what it was like to smile, or laugh, at least, not genuinely. It was the day before Bonfire Night, in 1999 when my sister went missing. Her name was Jenny, Jenny-Anne Martin. Her beaming grin was one which could light up strangers' days, and her melodical giggles were those which danced around your face so infectiously that you just had to join in too; her face was always tinted with mirth, great red roses bloomed on her cheeks and her eyes crinkled like crumpled love notes shoved into pockets.

But she was a liar, most days, and incredibly naïve, which hardly helped her craft. She clawed herself into people's minds, and she ensured that her name could skip comfortably from tongue to tongue-- if that meant lying, then so be it. People used to talk, they'd say she was a social butterfly, when really she was an acrobat: colourful, mesmerising and fleeting.

I suppose, dear reader, that this is what rendered Jenny-Anne so susceptible to her treacherous ring-leader's threats. A lady of around 35, a lady with serpentine eyes, a lady who was adamant she knew little Jenny-Anne's friends, and wanted to take her to meet some new ones, and little Jenny-Anne smiled one of her luminous smiles and took her trusting fingers, lacing them through the woman's.

Their destination was a happy little circus, with kaleidoscopes of amusement and fun and hellish games and crime and casualties.

It was a journey, far enough away that Jenny decided it was rather impractical to have friends that lived so far away, but her addiction to social exposure was what kept her quiet, at least, that's what I think.

"You aren't scared, are you, Doll?" The ringleader asked through a smile, "'Cause we're all brave people here."

"No, I'm not scared, not at all." See, a liar.

However, when the smiling little circus rolled into view, Jenny-Anne had her trust in the woman restored: twirling lights dazzled a startling waltz, the walls were dressed in vibrant posters which were adorned with beaming faces and grand calligraphy; artificial forests of sequined fabrics and crates of props were strewn strategically around the place, whilst sumptuous lights flooded the room. Jenny-Anne couldn't help but gaze around with bewildered eyes, a hazy expression of wonder glazed over her face. Stepping into the performing ring, she continued to marvel at the wondrous little circus, until a great force collided with the back of her head, and she crumpled to the floor, a ragdoll, a puppet.

Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle, that's the way the money goes, pop! Goes the weasel. Pop! Goes the weasel. Pop! Goes the weasel.

Pop!

The nursery rhyme had risen to a dangerous crescendo, so much so that Jenny-Anne's ears began ringing, white noise on a continuous loop. She'd gained consciousness and was slow to process her surroundings, although there was some things she couldn't ignore: first, the obnoxious pounding of her head, her brain was throbbing, it felt as though it had swelled to a size beyond her skull's capacity, sending a bruising ache to swallow her head.

Secondly, her leg. Or, it had been, a mangled stump was left in its place. It was her hand that reacted first, careful, shaking fingers trembled as sharp, stinging pain tore at her leg; jagged lines ripped ugly words into her skin, still dripping red residue all over the floor. Her eyes were the next, darting across the angry scrawls, barely legible under the nightmarish grasp of blood, though 'Come play, Jen' seemed to glare through the concealing coat. Next, her chin reacted, wobbling uncontrollably, as her mouth gawked in morbid fascination, opening and closing with no words making their way from her dry throat. But then the sounds came.

Terrible screams ripped through her, slicing through air--it sounded as though she was choking, sobs and wails built up in her claggy throat and she found herself calling out for her mummy, asking for her dad and screeching for her sister: the futility was startling, she was all alone.

Except she wasn't.

With disconcertingly graceful steps, the lady with the serpent's eyes entered the tent: this one was a lot smaller than the first location, there was no room for grandeur, merely fleeting light from flickering candles, caged in rusting lanterns. Swirling shadows haunted the majority of the space, and a labyrinth of bloodied rags replaced the elegant costumes.

A smirk tugged casually on the scarlet lips of the lady, her velvet costume hid something, which glinted in the minimal light, which only caused more panic in the cowering little acrobat. Painfully slowly, the weapon was revealed and exercised methodically. There was only a beat of silence before the let out a pained howl, like that of a wounded animal, except it wasn't only wounded, no, it was dying. And it knew it. Her throat sliced itself, as her form shivered and shook with the sheer agony of it all, sobs choking her.

I should probably end the suspense: she didn't make it.

They say they found dust with inscriptions of resistance and frantic thrashes coating the floor, dyed a menacing maroon, but no DNA from the murder, not a hair, no finger prints, no footage, nothing.

It was then, dear reader, that I had decided to become a crime investigator. It was a difficult job, it was littered with second hand grief and burdens, but the unadulterated euphoria that came with giving hysterical parents their lost child back, or providing closure for families nearly driven insane with uncertainty was the most rewarding feeling I'd yet to encounter. 

Child cases were the most emotionally demanding, by far, but I'd managed so far, and nearing fifteen years after the fact, my mind was at ease as you could get with something as traumatising as I'd experienced.

I was following a nurse when it all got worse again: the click of boots halted promptly besides me as the woman opened the door. I was uncomfortably aware of my heartbeat-- the case had to have been serious if I was called to the morgue with the urgency that my boss had called me with.

Lying perfectly still in the centre of a cold metal table, a slashed face greeted me with putrid calmness, the slacked jaw was a wounding juxtaposition to the violent holes carved into her face. How awful is it--years ago I'd have done anything for eternal youth, and yet these children have it against their will. I then covered the face, having never gotten used to seeing a sight which was so against nature. Instead, I lifted the blanket to see what had been written on the child's leg, only to drop the blanket in a fit of disbelief; I'd felt nauseous before, but the message had knocked the air out of me with the force of a hammer.

My chest grew tight, as the screw of anxiety tightened by muscles--my shoulder tensed uncomfortably and my lungs felt as though they were filling with water and suddenly I couldn't breath because this always happens why does it happen why can't i just breathe why can't everything just stop, stop I want mum, i don't want to turn out like these kids I don't want to die why am I choking I need it to stop--

I felt somebody carry me out, wiping me face and holding my shoulders with calculated, soothing touches, with a gentle tone and clear instructions on how to calm down. And I did calm down, eventually, but my mind was a jumble, but amidst the chaos, one sentence floated above it all.

Come play, Vivi

My name, my nickname, my time to catch the Ringleader.

A/N: Hope you liked it, and please let me know if there were any trigger warnings i missed out. Also, if somebody could suggest a better title, I'd be more than happy to hear it, I really didn't know what to put,, Thank you for reading, I'm sorry it isn't poetry, but let me know if you want more short stories as well as poems, please :) x