The scent of fried dough and desperation hung heavy in the air, a perfume I’d grown accustomed to. Tonight, though, it was punctuated by the shrill squeals of children and the flat, forced laughs of their chaperones. Another night, another gathering of the hopelessly dull, drawn like moths to my little… show.

I perched myself on the rusty, tilted stool, a splash of vibrant green against the dingy backdrop of the tent’s entrance. My face, of course, was plastered with its usual macabre grin, the white paint cracking slightly around the drawn-on corners. It was a good grin, I think, one that made the adults twitch and the children gawk.

A small hand tugged at the tattered velvet curtain that served as the entryway. A child, no older than seven or eight, peered in, their eyes wide and luminous in the dim light. They were… different. Most children, when they see me, either recoil in fear or attempt to mimic my sneer – pathetic. But this one, they just… looked, their gaze taking in the chaos of my freak show with a strange, detached curiosity. They had a shock of bright hair, the colour of a sunset after a particularly violent storm, a colour that wouldn’t be out of place among my motley crew. I would have that, I thought.

“Well, hello there, little firefly,” I said, the raspy purr of my voice echoing oddly in the almost empty tent. “Lost?”