THE KNIFE THROWER'S ASSISTANT

Grief, anger, betrayal. Death was the only escape, he was sure of it. Mind clouded with rage, the unnecessary melodrama of his plan for revenge was invisible to him. Standing in front of the large audience, he braced himself for the blow. The knife came fast; he had only a moment to move and no time for re-thinking.

Four feet away, then three, as it drew near the small man aimed his heart right in its path. First Pain, then numbness filled his chest while the blade burrowed its way in. Sliding his hand up his now sickly wet and warm torso, he could feel his time running short. But as he peered up into the knife thrower’s eyes, the look of shock and panic reflected made death all worth it. A slow vengeful smile slithered upon the dying man’s lips, then his heart ceased.

Time slowed. Disbelief and bewilderment flooded the thoughts of the knife thrower as he saw his assistant sink to the ground. He couldn’t be sure, but as the last breathes escaped the weakened man, it looked as if an expression of satisfaction was worn upon his face. The Circus janitor; for which he got his name, “Rags”, had been the knife thrower’s apprentice since he was young. Showing potential in the art, but always ill-tempered and impatient, the knife thrower never exercised upon his wishes to perform. Thinking that his master was holding him back, Rags grew spiteful and swore that in life or death, he would get his revenge.

Bringing himself back to the present, the knife thrower looked around; stillness unlike any other. It was as if the entire tent was possessed with a deadly silence. Then, all hell broke loose. Screams rang throughout the tent as people rushed to the doors. As the knife thrower hurried towards the performer’s exit, he turned to look at his old assistant. The lifeless body crumpled on the floor sent a shiver down his spine. Somehow, he had an eerie feeling that this would not be the last time they met.

That night was unnaturally cold as the knife thrower sat in his tent, trying to forget the previous events. Finally, eluded by sleep, he took to walking around the Circus grounds. Ending his stroll in the show tent, the knife thrower took a seat on the front row of the audience section. The full moon illuminated the tent in a warm glow that cast unearthly shadows on the walls. Rags’ body was gone now, taken by the grounds keeper to be sent away to his family in the country.

A ghost of a blood stain lingered on the ground where the incident occurred. Above was the board that the knife thrower’s assistant would stand in front of during performances. Littered with scars and punctures, the ancient wood gave off an unsettling aura.

Caught up in his own thoughts, the knife thrower hardly noticed the faint tapping echoing throughout the tent. Jolting out of his trance, he looked around, attempting to locate the source of the noise. Fixing his eyes upon the tall panel in the center of the room, he found that one of the daggers used for performances still tarried on its surface. A second look and he discovered that the knife was moving as if someone were standing behind the board and painstakingly hammering the tip of the blade. The weapon continued inching its way out like this until it hit the floor with a clang.

Just as the knife thrower stood to leave, thinking himself mad and in need of rest, the dagger started to move again. This time it began dragging itself across the dirt floor in his direction. Suddenly, as if struck by lightning the knife thrower’s body became paralyzed. Panicking, he tried desperately to move his limbs, but to no avail.

The knife was getting closer now, scraping the ground with a terrible, demonic scratching sound. Finally, it stopped nearly a foot away from the stunned man, and levitated itself about four feet it the air. Turning to face the knife thrower, the dagger bounced over to him, stopping when the tip of its blade was touching the top right side of his chest. Then the pain began.

The knife commenced to cutting into the knife thrower’s thorax, the point of the steel making its way along as if it were writing symbols on a page. Carving about an inch into his flesh, the blade came to a halt on the left side of the man’s upper torso. Abruptly, the dagger wrenched forward burying itself into the knife thrower’s heart.

Finally, again able to move, the knife thrower stumbled his way across the tent stopping with fatigue in front of a large mirror. Looking up, he gasped with even greater disbelief. His shirt torn away, written in bloody scars across his chest was the word ‘Rags’. Collapsing on the ground, he closed his eyes, ready to accept defeat.

A stinging pain erupted over his chest as he felt the knife being carefully pulled out. Looking up he saw the silhouette of a small round man, then blackness.