The only sound I could hear was Precision's enraged seething and disgruntled curses. He shoved me off of him before I could do so on my own and he hastily stumbled to his feet to assess the damage to his suit. His countenance said it all as it displayed, first, a look of shock before slowly transforming into one of disgust and then rage. Despite my terror, I managed a glance towards the spot where we had fallen and, to my horror, I saw a now-smashed pile of horse manure.
"Oh..." the man's voice shook with inevitable fury as his glare pierced my very soul, "You are going to wish you hadn't done that, freak!" he hissed. The only sound I could muster at that moment was a feeble whimper; I was rooted to my spot in fear and I couldn't bring myself to move no matter how hard I wished to.
With one harsh swoop of his hand, Precision caught me by the hair. I screamed the moment his fingers curled around my golden locks; he paid no mind and pulled me to my feet. Instinctively, I flailed my limbs and desperately struggled to be free, but the man's grip was far stronger than my crazed swinging and all he had to do to keep me from attacking him was to wrap his arm tightly around my neck and pin me against him.
The performers who had seen the whole ordeal went ballistic as soon as they saw Precision restraining me. They hurried forward, screaming and cursing at the prick to let me go while others threatened to slam his face right then and there. A group of select people who were actually thinking ran off to hopefully tell the ringmaster.
At last, among all the chaotic circus performers, FatCat charged forward with his fists balled, ready to strike Precision; however, the knife-thrower was ready for him
"Get out of my face you fat prick!" Precision ordered harshly, pulling one of his throwing knives out of his pocket and holding it up to my chest. My breath hitched in my throat and all I could do was stare, petrified, at the dagger. FatCat took no chances and stepped back immediately, holding up his hands in a feeble attempt to console the sadistic man who restrained me.
"I dare one of you to stop me!" Precision threatened, pressing the edge of the blade deeper into my skin. I began to breathe heavily in panic, my eyes still glued to the blade in pure terror. Still, the circus performers remained at bay and continued their attempts to reason with the insane man.
"Sir... please just let Tae go... she didn't mean for what happened," BearCat pleaded softly, his hands out in front of him defensively. Precision spat in his direction.
"You stupid cretin! She ruined my new suit! Do you even know how expensive this damn suit was!? You people can't even comprehend ever having such a price!" he yelled, pointing the knife at the artist threateningly. I released a shaky breath of relief but continued to hear my heart pound in my ears. BearCat glared at Precision, along with others who had the same thought: why would you wear an expensive suit in a circus?
The man, still pointing the throwing knife at the outraged circus performers, slowly began to journey back towards the performers' tents. I tripped over my own heels trying to keep up with him and my consistent slipping and sliding irritated the knife thrower. He growled furiously and turned me around to walk in front of him and the last moment I saw of the circus performers was all of them huddled around each other as they struggled to figure out a solution.
We passed by the cluster of performer tents without a word spoken. Precision kept a firm grip on my shoulder and led me to my inevitable doom. I dared not try and move, for fear of the knife that he still carried in his hand. Finally, he pushed me into a rather secluded tent and, upon recovering from my brief stumble, I was greeted by the sight of small yet luxurious knick-knacks. His luggage was of the highest brand and quality, he had modified his cot with his own bedclothes, and his desk had been crowded with expensive toiletries and supplies.
As envious as I was over his wealth that he bragged so much about, my mind was still not completely off of my current danger. Precision gripped the back of my neck, and his sudden touch jolted throughout my body and I reacted upon instinct, kicking his shin and making a run for it. Precision groaned and clutched his leg painfully; however, he still had the thought to stop me and he halted me in my tracks by simply swiping my feet.
I squealed in surprise as I hit the floor and the knife thrower quickly scrambled to his feet and lifted me by the hair. I screamed bloody murder as the pain shot throughout my body; I kicked frantically and clawed at the dirt below me. My cries were ignored and the horrid man slammed my head against the seat of a stool, pressing hard against the side of my head. He held me there, watching me sob and yell for help but to no avail.
Finally, Precision silenced my cries by plunging the knife deep into the wood of the stool before my face. I stared at my own reflection in the polished silver of the blade in horror; I recognised the terrified greenish-silver of my eyes instantly and I couldn't look away. Precision knelt down to meet my gaze, and in a chilled tone of voice, he said, "You will know what humiliation is, you freak."
My sobbing resumed as he took the knife back into his hand and, in a vice-like grip, he held my hair in his fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he began to saw away at my locks of hair. The golden strands fell past my face and I could only stare in horror; the sound of Precision's sawing and his angry grunts as he worked the knife never once left my ears.
The knife unexpectedly caught my scalp and the sudden pain made me cry out and flinch. I kicked out a leg in hopes that I could catch the man's shin again, but he was standing too far to my side and I missed. Precision ordered me to be silent once again and smacked my head against the stool. I cried and squirmed helplessly as he continued to slice away my hair that I had grown so fond of over the years.
Lock by lock of hair fell to the floor in a sad, devastating heap. I cried for the loss of my hair, I cried in pain, and in fear that Precision would continue to cut my hair until I was practically bald. I began to feel the chilled Autumn breeze on my scalp as he cut more and more. He had purposely cut an extremely uneven section off both sides of my head and he continued to make horribly butchered cuts.
The knife thrower seemed to thoroughly enjoy my agony. He was frustrated by my struggle, but I could tell the idea of me being helpless and in emotional pain satisfied him. His punishment for me ruining his suit was perfect to him and I couldn't protest or else he might attack me with his knife with vicious intents. I was begging for someone to save me, or for him to stop and set me free. Anything to get me away from this sadist.
Unfortunately, to my great misfortune, no one came and nothing happened to benefit me. I remained there in Precision's tent for several more minutes as he sawed off my hair with a throwing knife and forced me to watch it fall to the floor. He went slowly and he was patient to make sure I felt the heart-wrenching pain.
Soon, my cries subsided into pathetic whimpers as I accepted my fate. The realisation that I would be close to bald for a long time until my hair grew back made me imagine how I would coop myself up in the ringmaster's shack; unable to bear with the public's opinion. However, as I stared blankly ahead, my attention was suddenly pulled back to Precision; he had stopped cutting. Hopeful that he was done, I tried to look up at him for verification. To my surprise, his face was pale with horror and he was frozen in place. Behind him, stood the ringmaster and I had never seen a more malevolent, more sinister look in TomCat's eyes. He was enraged, but he was so enraged that he wasn't seething and boiling over; he was so enraged that he was strangely calm as he held a small handgun to the knife-thrower's head.
I was relieved beyond measure to see my best friend, but the look on his face, and the threat that he so clearly portrayed terrified me... so I refused to move.
"I want you to listen to me very carefully... Do not turn around... Do not say a word... Look straight forward... and follow my instructions... if you do... I won't completely dismember you like I had originally considered..." Tom's words were vile, and with each word he spoke, they crescendoed into a ghastly tone that could only be replicated by someone who was filled with pure hatred or the devil himself... I had never seen TomCat like this before and I cowered behind the stool that I had been previously trapped against.
Precision said nothing like Tom had ordered and he nodded slowly, understanding each instruction carefully. Tom ordered the man to walk backwards out of the tent, and soon, both men disappeared. All was silent for what seemed like an eternity. The footsteps disappeared into the nearby cluster of trees and all that could be discerned were the occasional birds that chirped happily.
But just as suddenly as it had become silent, was the peace soon interrupted by the loud crack of a gun, and then another, and another, and two more after that. Birds called from everywhere as they panicked and flew from their spots in the trees, leaving nothing but an eerie silence behind that was only filled by my scared breaths. Soon though, I heard heavy footsteps and Tom reappeared in the tent. His face had been splattered with droplets of blood and his previously white shirt was now stained and speckled by the same crimson liquid. I was still fearful of him, but he approached me anyway and lifted me into his arms.
Tom draped his coat over my head and held me protectively against his chest. The sound of his pounding heart and heavy breathing did nothing to assure me. The man, who I've known for years to be kind and passive was now suddenly unreasonably violent and I had no clue how to take it. I may have been young and innocent, but even I knew the truth: Reginald MacSeren killed a man in cold blood.
Tom's pace quickened to a jog and I knew it was to avoid the stares of the other performers, who no doubt, knew what had transpired. It wasn't long before we arrived at the small shelter and the feeling of safety and comfort washed over me.
Tom placed me on the couch and, without letting go of me, he told me to wait on the couch and not move until he came back. I nodded and he let me go, leaving the coat draped over my head so that I couldn't see him walk away and be reminded that he was covered in another man's blood.
I felt the damage to my hair, as there wasn't a nearby mirror for me to see. The absence of my long hair was unnatural to me and the spotty, uneven sections drained my hope of ever having a normal, grown woman's hairstyle again. Eventually, I began to cry again, feeling utterly defeated and traumatised by the day's events.
Congratulations, Knife Thrower... I will never be able to look at myself in a mirror again.