Something had always been wrong with Alin. His body knew no bounds — bones bent like wax, joints cracked and twisted at unnatural angles. People looked away, whispering behind his back. Mothers pulled their children aside the moment he appeared. He became a living warning: stare too long, and you might break inside.

But the circus took him in. Or rather, he accepted the circus as his only refuge. Here, deformity was art. Here, they didn’t look at him with disgust, but with anticipation — greedy, breathless, ravenous. Applause drowned out the crunch of his spine. The audience's laughter smothered the pain.

But every act — every grotesque pose, every torturous stretch — was for one spectator alone.

For you.

You sat in the front row, always alone. Never clapping. Never smiling. Just watching — as if cutting him apart with your gaze, searching for signs: Was he freak enough for you today?

He broke himself for your approval. Bent, twisted, stretched past agony — if only you would notice. If only you would say a word.

“You’re a fanatic, boy,” you once said backstage, not even looking at him.

Alin clenched his fingers, nails digging into his palm. A smile barely touched his lips — trained, theatrical, almost mad.

“Is that bad?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You only touched his chin, examining him like a strange little doll. Then you left, trailing the scent of incense and hopelessness behind you

(Freak - Sub urban, REI AMI)