☘︎ Jᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ Rʏsᴏɴ ☘︎

"There is no clown, Miss Violet." Pushing the glasses up her straight nose, Dr Hareith Wilkins, my psychologist and mom's close friend, enunciates in a calm tone, "What you're experiencing is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Seated on a plush velvet chair in front of the floor-to-celing length vanity mirror, I pass a quick wave to the maids ushering out the door after cleaning the mess I'd created in my room with the party dresses.

Lifting my arms in exasperation, "I'm not imagining things. If it was PTSD, I'd have gotten over it by now. It's been a year."

My mother brushes my hair back with a sigh, bounding the thick brunette strands in a large crystal bow hairclip. Picking up the ivory colored silk sash with the words 'Birthday Girl' printed on it in gold, mom shrugs the sash over my head and fixes it on my shoulder with a diamond brooch.

Dr Hareith leaning against the mirror, shakes her head, exchanging a loaded look with my mother, "PTSD isn't something you just get over. Also yes, its been a year and it's time you accept the fact, the clown isn't out here anymore. Your parents have confirmed countless times. He's in the prison, Violet."

My throat clogs with emotion.

I get up from the chair and turn to mother dressed up in a similar white tulle gown as mine, "I'm not making it up. It's real, mom. He's real. I've seen him. He's been following me in the villa at nights." I intone desperately, wanting for her to believe me.

I hate how none of them get it. How I know after the kidnapping, each of those times I'd run in the hallways away from the clown at the dead of nights as everyone slept, it'd been real. But no one believed me. Because there wasn't a single proof of it.

"We checked the cameras, sweetheart. Your dad confirmed with the security, took up measures so there are no intruders. The clown can't get to you even if he wasn't in the prison, which he is." Mom scoots down to my height and brushes my bangs from front of my eyes, "I know it's a terrible nightmare and letting go is hard, but you have to, darling girl. Your dad and I are worried for you."

My fists clench at my sides and I look into her amber eyes, "But mom. . ."

"Stubborn lady." Smiling, she pats my cheek, "Fine, let's not talk about this today. It's your birthday and birthday girls ought to be happy. No clown talks. Let's go cut that ginormous cake, everyone's waiting."

"And dying to eat the cake!" A cheery voice quips.

Whisking my head sideways at the entrance, I find Mia poking her pretty head from the doorway, grinning from ear-to-ear. She was in a frilly bloodred tulle frock, large black goggles shielding her pretty brown eyes and making her look like a punk fairytale princess.

"Mia, you're here!" My own lips pull into a wide smile.

We attend the same home schooling here, but the days her mother allowed her to stay back at the Davidson villa after classes, solely to play with me, were on rare occasions. But I suppose birthdays were rare enough occasions to be granted permission.

Giving mom a warm hug, I rush towards my bestfriend whose petite form collides into mine halfway as she squeezes me in an one-armed embrace, her other hand holding a gift bag.

"Happy birthday, Violetttt!" Mia sings, tightening her hold around me.

We're wrapped in our own little bubble; Mia and me hugging, mother and Dr Hareith watching us adoringly, when the lights go off.

The situation is so foreign in the Davidson Villa because even in case of power shortage, there are inverters always keeping the electricity going, that a chill sweeps through my blood stream. This isn't normal.

I hear the sound from the corridor before anyone else, the familiar thud thud thud of heavy footsteps on tiles.

Mia goes utterly still, her limbs falling loose around me. I can't see her in the darkness, but I didn't need the light to read the panic in her movements when she abruptly steps out of my embrace intaking a sharp breath.

Mia takes a step back then another then another as if afraid of me, as if she takes me for the clown, thinks I'm him.

"Kids, stay put. Don't move, you'll hurt yourself." Mom instructs, "Hareith, are you here?" When the psychologist announces her presence, mom continues, "Try to get to the kids. The lights will be back up in no time."

Swishing aside the elder's talks, I blindly reach out in the dark, trying to assure Mia it's me and not the clown even though my heart drums ominously at the nearing footsteps. Why can't no one hear him? Do they think it's just other servants and guests in the hallway?

A dreadful thought consumes me, making me step backwards myself, making my vision be filtered with the images of freezing rooms, abandoned warehouse and surgical instruments. What if he's here for us again?

No. I won't let that happen. Can't let that happen.

Sheer memory guides me in the dark; ten steps to the right from the vanity mirror in the desk drawer, the weapon I'd hidden after sneaking it from Dad's licensed gun collection he keeps in the shooting range mini-house.

I know my way around a gun, I'd been thought by the experts. If situation called for it, I wasn't completely unarmed. Or defenseless.

Taking a deep breath, I move. Step-by-step I make it to the desk, manage to pull open the drawer and take out the weapon.

Prespiration lining my temples, when my fingers coil around the cool metal of the gun, the footsteps grow so impossible close it renders me frozen.

Arms clasp my shoulders in a vice grip. My fight-or-flight instincts kick in with unprecedented vigour and I frantically throw my arms out in defense.

"Get away from me!" I scream, pushing at the figure hovering over me.

The clown had grabbed me by the shoulders in a similar way, before he'd thrown me into the refrigerating room.

"There's no one here, Violet!" Someone was yelling, shaking me.

There were noises. Someone was asking, spewing words I couldn't fathom. All I could focus on was the person trying to grab me, and the barrel of the gun in my hand.

The gun. . .

"GET AWAY!" I shout in unbriddled trepidation, despite mentally telling myself I need to calm down, that I had the upper hand.

The figure standing over me shrouds my form, trapping me in the circles of their arms, making my mouth muffle against the soft fabric of their clothes, my words lost against the torso my face is glued to.

The clown had forcefully held me like that, then lain me on the iron bed and clasped my wrist and ankles to it with iron handcuffs. The surgical scissors had been in his hands.

The person tries to lift me from the floor, whispering something that doesn't make sense past the ringing in my ears.

The spurt of fear and raw panic has me kicking my legs and pushing, with the complete force a eleven-year-old could muster against a grown adult.

My feet makes contact with his midsection and the clown stumbles back a step, releasing me.

I couldn't see anything in the dark except those cemented walls and neverending corridors of the warehouse. Couldn't hear anything except the haunting lullaby echoing in my mind from memory, the slish-slash of the surgical scissors.

He was going to attack me again. Take me away. Take us all away.

I can't let him do that. Can't let him take me or Mia or any other kid ever again.

A sudden calm envelopes my veins as I close my eyes. My mind is a mess. I couldn't make right from wrong. All I know is I want this to end, once and for all.

Bringing my arms up, I hold the gun in front of me like it's my anchor to life. End this. End this. End this.

My eyelids flutter open. The grip on the gun tightening, I take off it's safety lock and pull the trigger, letting the bullet take aim.

Two gunshots fire in the darkness. I know there are two because I feel the other bullet cut through air, missing my earlobe by a milli-centimeter and the sound of it mix up with the bullet I shot.

Lights flicker on that very moment and it's like my entire life flashes in front of my eyes. The calm, the dread, the panic, everything evaporates to be replaced by a deathly numbness.

The gun is a heavy weight resting on the palm of my hands, the horrified stares pinpricks of accusation drilling holes into my soul.

A pair of footsteps enter into the room, but I can't focus on who it is. I can't focus on anything other than what I'd done. Other than the person lying on the floor, crimson blood staining the white of her gown, a bullet etched deep between her forehead as glassy lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling.

The bullet had taken its aim, only there was no clown.

It was my mother I'd shot.

--------᪥♔︎᪥-------

Are your questions regarding the incident answered now or did it leave you with more questions?👀

Remember when Jenna had mentioned she wasn't 'completely as innocent as one would think'? There was also times where I'd specified "gunshots" with the 's' as in plural. I'm not saying it paints her as the culprit, because that's what SHE thinks about herself but like meh.

This is a book I've actually mostly planned before writing. So y'all have no idea the amount of hints I'd left all throughout. But fear not, EVERYTHING will click into place the moment ALL the secrets are revealed.

Now now, my humble hooman beings, I shall take my leave. Tata! Until next time! <3