Masked Clowns :: Wretched Clown

" loner, not very altruistic, not very complimentary, would rather be friendless than jobless, observer, values solitude, perfectionist, detached, private, not much fun, hidden, skeptical, does not tend to like most people, socially uncomfortable, not physically affectionate, unhappy, does not talk about feelings, hard to impress, analytical, likes esoteric things, tends to be pessimistic, not spontaneous, prone to discontentment, guarded, does not think they are weird but others do, responsible, can be insensitive or ambivalent to the misfortunes of others, orderly, clean, organized, familiar with darkside, suspicious of others, can be lonely, punctual, finisher, prepared. [From similarminds.com]"

Cross's curt and cold behavior stems more from his emotional fatigue. He simply cannot handle more than what he already holds close, and avoids making unwanted 'friends' that would further burden his already atrophied depth of mentality. The faction leader is not unfamiliar with the social disdain for being rude, but prefers being regarded as abusive or ignorant over letting people close to him - it's really just too much of a hassle, more than what he wants to be bothered with. Nonetheless he's still quick to help those in need, though no emotional attachments or meaning is held on his half in the light of such actions.  He can be mean at times just to be mean, and generally feels no remorse for it. Sympathy is not something to go to Cross for; he simply does not have it. Inwardly he's not arrogant or condescending, but may come off as such.
What he does have, however, is an excellent sense of work ethic and a sense of responsibility. Sometimes excess of it spills over into the domain of nagging perfectionism ; his workplace is always spotless, alphabetically organized, and well cared for. Dissaray causes him great distress, not just in physical cleanliness, but in situational chaos as well. Which, is surprising, in the light that he enjoys the dusty dimness of horse stables. He finds nostalgic comfort in things related to his faith and believes in a higher power. Overall he's not the most exciting, nicest, or fun guy to be around, but can be relied upon to keep up with responsibilities.

The bastard child of a prostitute,  Giovanni lived on the streets from a young age with his mother, Alice. Alice had been involved in an accident at the textile mills during her younger years, where her arm had become mangled after being pulled into the fast-moving belts of the machinery. Despite the profuse blood loss she miraculously survived - perhaps her death then would have been more merciful. With her crippled arm she was no longer able to work many of the jobs that were already scarcely available before any physical hindrance. The youngest of 12 children, her parents had already passed away in her early adolescence, and she did not know where any of her elder siblings had gone, leaving her without any aid. She turned to the church for help, like hundreds of others who had fallen into helplessness through whatever misfortunes - for a while she was provided shelter and so managed to survive. Alice had been raised as a Catholic, so the church's grace only made her more religiously devout. Unfortunately, with her damaged arm, there were very few jobs that she even had a sliver of hope of getting employed - despite her upbringing she turned to prostitution. The money was acceptable and at times her clients would give her gifts of food or clothing, something she needed the most.

She was turned away from the church once her profession had become known, and once more Alice meandered through the streets. When clients were scarce and she thought she wasn't going to make it, a man who seemingly worked in the area offered her food and a change of clothing for nothing in return. Every now and then they came to chat on the streets, the man introducing himself as Giovanni. Alice questioned his seemingly fruitless charity – Giovanni solemnly replied that the clothes were those of his deceased wife, who had died in childbirth. Thankfully the child had survived, but he explained that he could not bear to look at her belongings, and was grateful they were at least of some use to someone else.  After this particular conversation, Alice never saw the man again.

A few months later Alice had become pregnant with a client's child. She thought about terminating the pregnancy - she herself was making it just barely, what chance did a newborn have? After days of thought she finally decided to keep the child. Nine months later when the baby boy was born, she decided to name him Giovanni in remembrance of the man who had helped her time and time again.

Giovanni proved to be the angel in her life – the lad was cheerful and seldom complained despite his young age.  He learned quickly, and though his first few attempts at cooking were nothing short of a disaster, his home made stew put a smile on Alice’s tired face.  The two scraped by on meagerly wages in a small hut in the city, and the boy got along well with the other urchins who called the back alleys home.  On several occasions the boy had stolen food when the going got especially tough – much to his chagrin, his mother did not touch a single morsel of the stolen food, condemning him for stealing anything at all. He took her words to heart, but stole more food during one occasion when the two were truly on the verge of starvation. Though reluctantly, she partook in the meal – He questioned her as to why she had broken her own rule. She could only give a defeated reply. “To survive, sometimes we may need to do things.  Bad things.  That’s the way the world is.”  These words sunk deeper into Giovanni’s young mind than the ones she had offered before.
One winter, the cough that Alice said she would “sleep off” got progressively worse.  Mother and son barely scraped together enough money for one doctor visit.  She was diagnosed with tuberculosis, known as the “White Plague” during the time.  There had not been a treatment found yet, other than to ventilate the area well, and to get rid of the bad smell through flowers.  Giovanni was still too young to work, though his mention of following suit in his mother’s footsteps was a bit of a disturbing laugh for Alice. It became a part of the boy’s day to go out and try to find flowers despite the winter season.

The rumor of the contagious disease eventually got around- the children stopped playing with Giovanni, afraid that they too would catch it. The boy had surprisingly not caught it, at least not yet.  He played alone, not quite adventurous enough to stray from the area he knew. Naturally, without income, their lifestyle grew poorer with each passing day. He still continued to look for flowers.

Alice would not be lucky twice – before her passing she passed her rosary beads to Giovanni, and bid him to seek shelter with the church.  Despite all the hardship he had gone through, the loss of his mother was the most devastating. Everything else was just a menial part of his life – the hunger, the cold, the heat, the grime – but Alice, she was the reason for everything. The lad was still young, it was only natural to grieve over his mother, and now even that had been taken from him. Her death was nothing peaceful – Giovanni held her hand until the last spasms of her body calmed and stopped into the stillness of death. For a few days he just sat by the window, watching the snow outside, for the first time feeling completely alone. She lay in a bed of wilting flowers -Disease had ravaged her body like a flock of demons.

Christmas morning the 6 year old boy stood before the gates of the cathedral, rosary beads clutched tightly in his hand, downcast eyelashes catching the falling snow.  His cheeks were flushed with the cold, feet numb from treading through the snow with tattered shoes. The gargoyles that looked down upon him from the high cathedral buttresses reminded him of death – it sent a shiver of fear down his spine, made his heart pound coldly. He ran. He ran away from those demons, and into a nearby building, any place that would keep him away from their stone gaze that terrified him.

The boy was greeted by the smell of hay and livestock – he’d run into the town’s stables.  Hearing approaching footsteps he ran into one of the stalls and hid in the corner – the horse payed no heed. For once in a long time, he felt safe and warm. The horse that had been standing soon lay on its side in the large stall, observing the intruder all the while.  Giovanni cried in the corner, it seemed it was the only thing he could do at that time. It was all so overwhelming – he was only 6 years old, now alone, and the only place that could possibly provide him prolonged shelter was the cathedral with its demonic guardians. Yet, it was his mother who had told him to go. His mother was always right.

Giovanni spent a few more weeks scurrying around the stables, eating the oats and stale bread the horses were fed, drinking a portion of their water. It had begun to make his stomach hurt, but it kept the hunger away. Like all good things however it came to an end when he was caught by one of the stable hands and tossed out into the streets.  He still did not want to face the gargoyles however…There was only one other place in the world he could think of.

The smell was overpowering. It was cold, but the organic matter still decomposed – it hit the boy with full force the moment the door had been opened. Nothing had been touched since he had left – not even his mother. Her body had bloated, skin a grotesque grey-green, sheets and once white dress stained with body fluids and oils that seeped. All Giovanni saw what the shell of his mother the demons had left behind. The boy gagged, and could feel a scream bubbling up in his gut. But there was only silence as his knees gave out and he slipped into darkness.

Birds chirped faintly, and colored light filtered upon pale cheeks. He blinked his pale brown eyes, absentmindedly observing the patters of the stained glass. It was warm, and he could hear the low murmur of people, the muffled toll of the church bells… He shot up then and looked around, eyes wild. A nun looked at him with a startled expression, her hands raised in an uncertain gesture.  Like a feral cat he backed away into the corner, bumping his head rather roughly from his disoriented movements, tripping backwards on the bed sheets. What the heck were those weird looking clothes? Where was this? His small chest rose and fell rapidly. Where was his mother?

“It’s okay, child.” The woman said. Giovanni hardly heard her in his confusion, his eyes darting around the small room. “It’s going to be all right. You’re okay.” It took the boy a while longer to calm down – he sunk back into the depths of the blanket and observed her wordlessly. “…Here, this is yours, isn’t it?”
Gio’s eyes lit up with recognition, and he snatched the object from the woman’s hand. The wooden beads he had grown familiar with offered comfort, his mother’s rosary.
“Don’t you worry now. What’s your name, child?”
“…Giovanni. Cross.”
“Where is your father, Giovanni?”
“…Don’t have one. Don’t call me Giovanni.”  
He decided he didn’t like it. It sounded too similar to how  his mother used to call out to him.
“I see… “ The woman raised a friendly brow. “Then what shall we call you?”
“…Cross.”

From the cathedral he was transferred to an orphanage, mainly funded by the order’s wealth. Faith was on a decline due to the Industrial revolution, but it was enough for children who had mostly come from dire situations, including Cross. There he met Anastasia, a sickly child who had been left at the orphanage by her parents who could no longer take care of her medical needs.  Already wolf-like and slow to warm up in nature, for the longest time the lad only regarded Anastasia and the other children from afar, preferring to help the adults instead. The only reason he and Anastasia later became close was their shared trait of thoughtfulness; over the weeks he noticed her helping out the other children on the orphanage, and wished secretly he could join.  He was still unable to let go of his mother’s death, and found comfort in prayer with the Rosario she had given him.

One night while getting a glass of water to drink, she spotted Anastasia by the front door, seemingly just standing there.  Cautiously he had approached her.
“…What are you doing?” He asked uncertainly.
“ Ah, waiting for my parents to pick me up.” She replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“…Ok.”  Cross didn’t interject that, once here, their ‘parents’ usually were not seen again.
Slowly he began to warm up to the girl and even started to help around the orphanage together with her, eventually even interacting with the other children as well -the new daily interactions slowly lifted him from his previous social isolation.

At the age of 14 he began to work at as a stable hand, taking care of horses and cleaning out stalls.  The job suited him well, for he had a fondness of animals, especially in regards to equines.  He worked quietly and diligently, using much of his earnings for the orphanage and its children, and especially for Anastasia. He may have seen his mother in her, the same way she had succumbed to illness; a part of him wanted to save her, in the stead of his kin he could not save. Anastasia had grown to become like a sister to him.

In his second year of working at the city’s stables, he met Matthew Crawford, an apprentice travelling medic who had followed his teacher on their journey. Cross and Matthew came to meet each other frequently, for Matt was often asked by his teacher to relay messages and run errands on horseback to nearby towns.  Slowly they formed a passive friendship, which eventually progressed to something akin to brotherhood.  Matt had lost both of his parents to the white plague several years before, just as Cross had lost his mother – his current teacher was a good friend of his father’s, who had taken Matt in after his parents’ death.  
Matt met Anastasia at the hospital as her attending nurse– He confided in Cross that it was love at first sight.  Cross simply rolled his eyes at the words of adoration that poured out of his friend’s mouth when they were alone in the stables, oblivious at the time as to just how infatuated his friend was with Anastasia.  At first, it was jokingly that Matt whined about Anastasia’s conversation topic being Cross.  Soon though it took a bitter tone, and the two began to avoid the subject; otherwise the two were still close.

Before long, three years had passed in the blink of an eye. Many things had happened, but to Cross, Anastasia’s decline in health became central to his life. Most days she had become bedridden at the hospital, and seldom returned home to the orphanage. Cross visited when he could between work, believing that the cure would be just around the corner, and that he could conjure up enough funds no matter what its price if he continued working.  His wages had gone up in the years he had worked at the stable, even having established a managerial sub position under the same employer. Matt too had become an independent doctor’s assistant, leaving his teacher to work at the hospital instead under different doctors.

It was now at the hospital that Cross and Matt met frequently – Matt no longer had business with the stables after all with his promotion.  He had said the stables were a mill for unwanted pathogens, and had begun to speak of it in a way one might of the sewers. It did not really bother Cross, but he noticed a small distance that had begun to form between him and Matt.  What did bother Cross however was when his friend began to prohibit visits stating that Cross was the one making Anastasia sick. It was yet another seed of friction between the two brothers.

He was then moderately surprised when Matt showed up at the stables one afternoon. It was December 20th, and Cross was about to go out to browse for holiday gifts – he had been alone in the stables, the other works gone for their break. The boss too had stepped out for some business and only the shift leader was left in the loft above – He was usually always asleep though, and a deep sleeper he was.  At first Matt’s appearance infused him with a general unease, but it soon turned to a red flag when his friend asked the paperboy just outside the door to go sell somewhere else.  There was something …different, with Matt. It was inexplicable as to how, but it was a gut, instinctual feeling that Cross sensed - He could feel his heart speeding up with the thud of the door closing behind his friend.

The stables were built in a ‘T’ shape, with stalls lining all sides. Cross stood on one end of the shorter hall, Matt on the other. Unfortunately Cross’s end did not have an exit; matt stood in front of the other, and the last escape was down the longer hall. It also meant that he would have to run closer to Matt to make it to the only exit left.

“So,” Matt said casually as he stepped closer, his voice making Cross flinch inwardly from sheer anticipation. “How goes your day, brother?”
Swallowing his unease, Cross tried his best to act just as casually. The soles of his riding boots seemed to echo louder than usual amidst the soft whinnies of the horses and the rustling of hay, trying to make his way discreetly over to the longer end of the hall. He gathered his coat and flung it over his shoulder.
“It goes well, Matt. I was actually about to leave to do some shopping.”  He offered a smile, hoping it did not come across as stiff. “Did you need something?”  Matt continued to advance, and Cross did the same.
“Oh brother, how to tell you this… Anastasia’s health is not so good. It might be today.”
This would have made Cross stop walking any other situation, but not this one. He continued walking at a moderately brisk pace.
“Is she…really that far gone?”
“Yes brother…She’s seldom conscious since last night.”
“Well then what are you doing here? You ought to be by her side, shouldn’t you, Matt?”
“Yes, brother – “
Cross bolted once he was at the cross section before his friend could finish the sentence, down the long hallway. He could hear Matt’s footsteps right behind him, then a sharp pain exploded in his head.  It made him take a knee, his head swimming.  Through the delirium he heard the metallic clank of something falling to the ground – a horse shoe.  He tried to lurch forward but only fell, stumbling into an empty stall. Bits of hay clung to the blood that ran down his forehead. From behind, he could hear Matt sobbing softly, then the scraping sound of something against the floor. Cross barely sat up and backed away from the noise, his vision still blurry.

The medic had dragged over a ferrier’s stool, and now closed the stall door and sat just in front of it, looking at Cross wistfully.
“Why couldn’t it be me?” Matt said, tears running down his cheeks. “Why did it have to be you?”
“What the hell are you talking about…” Cross grunted, putting a hand to his throbbing head. The other man surely got him pretty good – he could feel the viscous liquid still running down the side of his head.
“Oh you know what I’m talking about…It’s always ’Gio this’ and ’Gio that’ blah blah blah.” He spoke in a high mocking voice as he imitated Anastasia. It dipped dangerously low in a growl. “ Why can’t she just look at ME?!” He stood and kicked the stool away violently.  Cross flinched and looked away.
“She’s just like a sister to me, Matt. I don’t -”
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUUUUT UUUUUP!”  Matt skipped over and kicked Cross repeatedly, who now curled up on the ground in agony.  The medic burst into tears again and slid down to sit next to his companion on the floor.
“You know,” Matt said between fits of sobs. “I was going to let you off the hook.” His had flipped outwardly in a shooing motion, nodding quickly. “You were a good friend, handsome, tall, hardworking. Giovanni Cross.” He laughed nostalgically. “Stable hand all star the girls all giggled about. The captivating underdog. Eh?”   Cross could only groan when he was socked in the arm playfully.  The man was mad.  He continued.
“Yeah.  A nobody who started on the streets. Just like me. We had some good times.” A slow nod followed his words. Cross propped himself up on one arm – the other lay limply at his side. The inside of his mouth was a mushy pulp.

“Matt-” Strong hands gripped Cross’s angular jaw and yanked it upward – everything hurt. Though half-opened eyes he could see his once good friend’s face not far from his.
“Don’t. Talk. Shhhh.” The mad man pushed away Cross’s face forcefully and resumed. “Anyway… as I was saying before you rudely interrupted… We had some good times. But it’s about time it ended, don’t you think? Just imagine -Mrs. Anastasia Crawford.” He had taken Cross’s shoulder and now gestured in a sweeping motion across the horizon with his other hand. The tears that had stopped momentarily started again. “But she’s dying, my brother, she is dying…And to the end, it was always just you and those damn kids at the orphanage. I never delivered anything you gave for me to deliver to her, you know? None of it. And you know…”

Cross sat hunched quietly, listening to his friend’s mad babbling. More than the broken bones, it hurt to see his friend in such a state. He felt responsible for it – Matt had always been insecure about himself. Maybe he could have supported him better. Maybe he should have talked to him more openly. Maybe-

“…llo?? HELLO?!” Cross was brought back to the external world with a jarring shake that made his head hurt. “Don’t pass out on me yet, sir Giovanni.” At that time, the sound of the door opening caught both of their attention.  They could hear the sound of numerous feet shuffling in, and the voices of the other stable hands.
 
“Cross!” One of them called out. Matt had clamped a hand tightly over Cross’s mouth, though Cross himself doubted he could even make a sound loud enough to get his colleague’s attention.
“Cross is probably out for his break. Alright boys get back to work. Round up the horses in the corral outside and switch them with fresh ones from the stall.” The boss was back too. It lifted Cross’s hopes when he saw the man stop momentarily by the stall. Was he going to notice? Oh lord, please – let him notice. Then, their eyes met. He was right there, looking at Cross and Matt – the stable hand’s breath quickened, he was saved.
…But then the boss walked away. He just tapped his pipe, glanced back again at Cross, then walked away.  No, no…no no oh no.  He stared wide-eyed at Matt who had begun to chuckle quietly. Cross felt something sharp plunge deep into his neck, and soon his veins felt like they were on fire. Within minutes he began to sweat profusely, his vision warped and intruded with things that were not real. Matt tucked the syringe neatly away in his coat and stood up. Cross could barely look up. He saw slit red eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth grinning down at him. As his vision faded, he could hear the thing hissing gleefully.

“Sweet dreams, brother.”