The Carny of the Headmistress

by Sparks

Ancient libraries capture the senses with their scent; musty, rich, with history embedded into the delicate, tattered pages of old texts and story books. Such beautiful things, aged books are, each with their own tale to tell in the fine bindings and water stains. I've lost count of how many times I've inhaled their smell, trying to catch a whiff of a brandy spot from a long-dead aristocrat, or the lingering perfume of a proper lady who cherished stories of eternal, timeless love.

Perhaps one day, I, too, will treat love like such a woman would have. For now, I am contented with the darker side of these books. There's still something forbidden that they carry, with talk of infamous vampires and medireview devils, ramblings of the superstitious and paranoid. Madness has always been a fascination of mine. It is the freedom of genius. I test myself, treading the borders of insanity like a fine high-wire, seeing how much I can absorbed before I force myself back to the platform. I have far too many responsibilities to be truly free.

Neither my students nor my fellow headmaster know of my...hobby, and they never shall. I've had much practice at precarious cover-ups, my secret is as safely cloaked as my own private library. After all, people can be incredibly blind to what is right in front of their eyes. How cliche it would be of me to keep my books in the basement, or in some unknown catacomb that can be reached through a hidden passageway in my study.

No, my important things are in the attic, literally and figuratively. I must have read each of these books at least five times over, and given the challenge, could recite each text word for word. Even if they found my collection--which they can never do--they couldn't steal my precious treasures. I know my way around the labyrinths of the mind better than any other telepath, despite what Charles Xavier and Jean Grey-Summers might imagine. They don't know the things I do, haven't been through what I have or seen the things I've seen. Oh, believe me, I know headcases. Everyone. They may have the lead, but I have the map and mental torch needed for guidance. No one can take that from me.

No one can take anything from the White Queen.

I'm not all bad....I love my children, I truly do. They're like dolls in a glass case, all porcelain faces and rosy cheeks, even Angelo blushes plum at my glance and Jonothon sparks around his bandages. They don't know I can see them, but I always do, I always know.

My school is my home, my home my castle, my castle my dollhouse, just like the one Father gave me when I was ten. Ten's such a ripe age for fairy tales, don't you think? My children are my court, and Sean my jester. He makes such a sweet marionette when you pull his strings, no matter how hard he resists. Adorable little puppet. That's my pet name for him, you know; Puppet. Though he's never heard it escape my lips. He never will.

The attic will always be where I truly live, in my head and my beloved academy. Where I can sit on the leading rose-endowed horse on the gorgeous carousel and ride in gentle circles while I read. The music is enchanting, and the mirrors...the mirrors are my favorite. They line the inside box of the carousel, where the controls are kept. Sometimes I can see the man inside, guiding the horses and the Bach that gently chimes in time with the tedious ups and downs as my winning white horse rides high and proud before the others on her winding golden pole.

The man is one of my characters, one of the vampires, perhaps, all portly and flushed with the consumption of fresh blood, clothed in the finest breeches and ruffled collar and vest that the sixteenth century had to offer. One of his soft, brown leather shoes pads along in time with the music, causing the slightly loosened gold buckle on top to jingle. I can even smell the fine powder on his wig.

And then...then he begins to morph; his face contorts and swirls and I laugh. His stomach slowly deflates and sinks in, and his hair turns to a mousy, greying brown, and his complexion is muddled from its perfection into a sallow, fleshy tone. I laugh harder.

The barely-fanged smile fades into a deep, marring scowl, like a slash of lips across his face. His eyes dull to the colour of storm clouds, their tiny red capillaries shooting out from his irises like bloodshot lightning. Beautiful clothes smooth into a sterile black pinstripe suit and a crisp, starched white dress shirt that looks like something meant to be pinned on a paper doll. I laugh so hard that I begin to cry.

He shakes his head at me in a silent scolding, the look of disapproval and disappointment and shame forever ground into his harsh features. Anger and rage blanket his face, and my expensive white suit tightens to the point where trying to struggle out of it is futile. The usually soft fabric becomes suddenly scratchy as it squeezes me like a python, constricting and binding until I cannot move at all. But I can still cry.

The jacket arms lengthen and whip behind my back, forcing my arms into an X across my chest. My ribs and lungs ache for air, and my shoulders fight to stay in their sockets. I can't stop sobbing.

The man, now my father, approaches me with disdain and disgust. With a sharp tug on my blonde hair, he yanks my head to the side, exposing the pale flesh of my neck. My eyes are swollen and red and flooded with tears; I never even see the bite coming. But I feel it, and I feel the blood scrape my veins as it's pulled from my body, and I feel my heart become drained and hollow, and I feel myself shatter like glass from the inside out.

He releases me, and I crumble to dust on the attic floor. Back straight and posture stiff as his shirt, he simply walks away, crunching what's left of me under his Italian loafers. The carousel runs down to its last turns and the music groans out its last haunting notes. The lights dim and fade to blackness and the hinges shriek in protest as he shuts the door. I listen to the wood creak as his footsteps disappear down the hall, down the stairs.

The paint on my horse begins to chip and peel, and her roses fade to dusty pink. Cobwebs collect in the corners of my castle, and my beautiful dolls and puppet are left neglected, prey for the moths and spiders' webs. Their stands tilt off-balance and their hair becomes tangled. Smudges smear across their faces, blushes trapped beneath the dirt. What was bright becomes dull, what lived, dies, and what thrived, deteriorates. I never wanted to abandon them, and no one will ever find them here, or me. No one knows about this place. No one comes here but me. No one will know, and I'm the one who made sure of that, and I always knew...always knew I was damning myself, damning us all. It was easy...

...because it was all his fault. Never mine. It's not my responsibility. I took care of them all, and he took that from me, just like before.

He'll never feel guilty about it. I'm not his little princess anymore. Only a puddle of dust and tears and blood on the floor of the attic, on the floor of his mind.

And mine.

I became his jester, but now he took my final act away. And now my audience is blinded, as I fade into my attic...

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