cyrus barrone; carnie; nineteen.
Everyone was a freak here, in whatever sense of the term. From the most extreme to the ones who were only slightly unordinary. It was a nice place to be, there was nobody who was exactly the same, even if there were a lot specializing in the same thing. It was nice, but weird, to feel comfortable in this sort of environment, it was weird to be just one of the freaks. I scared some people, I think, the whole idea of someone throwing a knife put people off. I don’t see why, but I never take time to ask. I put it to them thinking that I’d try to hurt someone with one of my knives- I could, easily- but I just wouldn’t. Not only because I wasn’t that type of person, but because, why the fuc’k would I? It would be nice to meet someone in here who wasn’t a little concerned about my knives and all that. I was sitting in the supposed resting room, it had a fire in and these big furs, which I didn’t want to think too much about. My knives were all lied out in front of me, on top of a roll of fabric. There were about seven of the knives, all different but all gorgeous at the same time. One had a long wooden handle and a slim silver blade, whilst an other had a thick plastic handle and a blade which caught purple-blue in the light. I had to clean them all, I was kind of obsessive about how clean they had to be, and I cleaned them a helluva lot. I’d just been throwing them, you see, so they had the dust of the straw boards along their length, and it wasn’t nice, wasn’t pleasant. My glasses were on the end of my nose as I ducked my head to wipe a cloth along the length of the first one, the handle had already been cleaned carefully, in a sort of OCD way. Everything had to be damn perfect. It would be nice for a little company, though.