Chapter 6: Every Last One

People always laugh when they see the jars. That's my favorite part.

They crowd around the display outside my wagon, pointing through the glass at the little shapes inside. Some recoil immediately. Others lean closer, fascinated by the details. Eventually, someone always says the same thing.

"They look so real."

I smile every time.

Because they are.

My name is Snippy. At least, that's what they call me now. I had another name once, before the paint, before the carnival, and before the shears. I don't use it anymore. That name belonged to someone who spent his days behind the cold stone walls of the Boron Asylum.

I don't remember exactly how many years I spent there. After enough time passes in a place like that, one day becomes indistinguishable from the next. Breakfast. Medication. Silence. Dinner. Sleep. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

They said I didn't belong among ordinary people. Maybe they were right.

You see, I've always enjoyed collecting things. Little reminders of people I've met. Souvenirs from particularly memorable encounters. Something physical that ensures a person isn't completely forgotten after they've left my company.

The doctors never appreciated my hobby.

They confiscated my collections, locked the doors, and told me repeatedly that I needed to control my impulses. For a while, I tried.

Then one autumn evening, someone forgot to lock a door.

Such a tiny mistake.

It's remarkable how much one unlocked door can change a man's life.

By sunrise, I was miles from the asylum. I had no shoes, no belongings, and nowhere particularly important to be. All I carried was a pair of gardening shears I'd picked up along the way. At some point during that strange night, I'd found some old face paint and smeared it across my face.

That's how The Carney found me.

I was sitting alone beside one of Boron's forgotten roads when his wagon came rumbling around the bend. He could have continued driving. Most people would have.

Instead, he stopped.

The Carney climbed down from his wagon and studied me. First the smeared paint. Then the gardening shears resting across my lap. Then my face again.

"You need somewhere to go?"

I nodded.

He thought about it for a moment.

"I need another act."

Funny how life works.

The carnival became my home, but there was one condition.

The Beard Master delivered that condition personally.

He stood over me beneath the towering canvas of the Big Top and made himself perfectly clear. I could stay. I could perform. I could travel with them. I could eat at their tables and sleep beneath their tents. I could even call these strange people my family.

But if I ever stepped too far outside the boundaries of the performance, The Beard Master promised that he would take my life himself.

I believed him then.

I believe him now.

So I became Snippy.

The strange little clown with the oversized gardening shears.

My act started innocently enough. I'd snip flowers from their stems, slice ribbons from the air, cut playing cards in half and chase performers around the ring while snapping my shears behind them. The audience screamed, then laughed when everyone escaped unharmed.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

They loved me.

Then I introduced the collection.

My little jars became part of the attraction. Fingers. Teeth. Locks of hair. Other peculiar trophies gathered during particularly memorable adventures.

The crowds adored them.

After every performance, people gathered outside my wagon to inspect the specimens. They complimented the craftsmanship. They asked how I'd managed to make the fingers look so convincing or how I created such realistic blood.

Sometimes I even told them exactly where a particular trophy came from.

They laughed even harder.

That's the wonderful thing about a carnival. People arrive expecting to be deceived. Show them something impossible, and they'll search for the trick. Show them something horrifying, and they'll compliment the special effects.

Tell them the truth...

and they'll assume it's part of the performance.

It gives a man certain freedoms.

So now I wander the midway while the carnival lights glow overhead and music fills the autumn air. Parents smile when they see me coming. Children dare one another to approach. Teenagers ask me to snap my shears for photographs.

Everyone thinks they understand Snippy.

He's a character.

An act.

A harmless little piece of carnival horror designed to make people scream before sending them away laughing.

And I behave myself.

Mostly.

After all, I rather like it here. The Carney gave me a home when no one else would. The Beard Master gave me rules. The carnival gave me an audience.

And Boron?

Boron gives me so many interesting people to meet.

Tonight, I sit outside my wagon cleaning my shears beneath the warm carnival lights. Another wonderful day has come to an end. Another delighted crowd has gone home. Another memory has found its way into my collection.

A family stops beside my display.

The father laughs. The mother grimaces. Their little boy presses his face against the glass and stares at one of the jars.

"Are those real?"

I lean toward him and smile.

"Every last one."

His parents burst into laughter.

They pull him away, disappearing into the glowing midway without giving my answer another thought.

I watch them go for a moment before reaching into my coat pocket and feeling today's newest little trophy.

They always think it's part of the act.

That's my favorite part.