It's always been an easy calculus. A collapsed building miraculously leaves no dead, and I only have to bury one body. A child goes missing and a hundred people walk away from a derailed train without a scratch. One family mourns so that a hundred can live. Simple. But today I have a harder choice to make.

​

I stare into the bloodshot blue eyes of a young man, barely 18. A kid, really. His wrists are chafed and bloody from where he's tried to escape his restraints. His tears have carved lines through the dirt on his face. I force myself to listen as he begs for his life. I've become so good at tuning out the cries, the begging, the screams of the people I take here. This one I need to feel. I try not to roll my eyes as he repeats the same platitudes they always say.

"Please" He says. He struggles to talk through the sobs. His voice catching in his throat. "I have a wife." He finally chokes out.

"No you don't" I tell him. He blubbers again. I try to keep my voice flat, my face neutral. I don't want to give him hope.

"I might," He says, trying a new tactic. "I might meet her tomorrow. We might have kids next year, you don't know. I'm young, I don't want to die please."

"You won't. Because you're going to die here." He falls to his knees sobbing.

"Why?" He wails. From across the room I pull his chains tight, pinning him against the wall. Then I move close and I wait for him to calm down and look me in the eyes.

"I need you to die. I need you to suffer, first. Because the universe needs balance. I can't just erase people's pain, I have to inflict it on someone else. The good new is you're not suffering for a hundred, or a thousand. People have been less lucky." He doesn't need to hear the rest of what I have to say, so I stab him hard in his abdomen. The knife is small, it barely makes it through his skin. He screams.

"I love my wife. She is going to die well after I am gone, and it will be absent any pain. That's all thanks to you."

​

As I wash the blood off my hands I look out the window at the sky turning blue with the rising sun. Not enough time to sleep before I can go to the hospital and pick up my wife, so I take a walk through the park and force myself to remember the boy's face as it was before I started cutting. I hope that I'll feel the sickness I used to feel, when I started the practice. The sickness that made me put boundaries on when and how I used my powers. I search myself for any hint of guilt, but all I can feel is relief. I try to think of a way to explain her sudden health. How the pills she took were suddenly flushed from her system, and her wrists healed overnight. I can't think of anything, but it won't matter. I'll have my wife back. And she will never, ever leave.

I actually wrote two, the one below I wrote first but I liked that other scene so much I wanted to send it first. Here’s the other scene:

My arm ached with a deep thrum that kept time with my pulse. The burn ran deep, but I wouldn’t let the paramedics touch me. Let it burn. It would serve as a reminder of what they’ve done. I sat on the curb as the firefighters worked, hoping they wouldn’t put the fire out in time to save the building. Let it come down, let me start fresh. I could see my wig in the entrance, the bright green reduced to a dull gray. I hadn’t even realized I’d lost it. I fought back flashes of an hour ago. The window fully ablaze, mannequins melting against the blackening glass. The screams from inside.

I was interrupted by a reporter, ambling over notebook in hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Ulavale, I’m from the times. I’m so sorry about your store, would you mind talking with me? I heard you single handedly rescued some of your employees, what happened?”

“Fuck off.” I flicked my cigarette at him half heartedly. Without my face, or my hair, I didn’t have the energy for anything more.

“Ok, I’m not trying to harass you, I’m sorry.” He started to walk away, but paused at the corner. “You’re a hero, you know.” I felt a surge of rage.

“The fuck did you just call me?” I ran after him, but the little fucker was quick. He had a point, though. Heroes were murderous, selfish little cowards, and here I was. Hiding behind my mild mannered alter ego. Wading in self pity. I was acting exactly like a hero. Id never killed anyone before, but it was high time I learned how.

Back at my house I worked to become myself again. The grease paint slid on like a second skin, cool and comfortable. I took my time painting on my mouth, making it deeper and redder than I ever had before. I slid into my shoes and pulled the suspenders tight over my shoulders. I took a deep pull from my pocket flask, let the cheap vodka make my insides match my outside with a deep burn.

No more ruining kid’s birthday parties. From now on, Bobo the Clown was coming for blood.

HONK HONK “I heard there was a birthday here. A birthday where? A birthday here! I heard there was a birthday here and I’m Bobo the Clown!”

The man at the front door looked confused and angry, his muscles bulged out of his stupid little tank top and his eyes darted around furiously, scanning the space behind the clown.

“What the fuck is this, do I look like I’m having a birthday party? Who sent you?”

“I’m a special kind of clown for a special kind of boy. Here to say ‘Happy Birthday Billy’ just for you.” The clown reached out to boop him on the nose but the man grabbed his arm and twisted it hard behind his back. The clown gave a hearty chuckle and the man hesitated. “That’s not very nice, Billy.” The Clown’s arm broke off in his grip and the clown spun around to hold the man in a bear hug.

“Birthday hugs are the best hugs!”

“Who the fuck are you, what do you want?” The man dropped the fake arm.

“I want to say hello to Mr. Dangerous.” The man’s composure slipped. It only lasted a second, but it confirmed everything. The clown’s voice changed suddenly, dropping several registers.

“Oh Mr. Dangerous. You’re my hero.” His lapel flower sprayed into the man’s face and he began to scream. The clown let go and watched him collapse to the ground, the skin of his face melting into a puddle. “That’s for LaSondra. She didn’t make it out of your cute little fire.” The clown said, circling the man as he slowly melted.

“I did a little money laundering, sure. You burned my wig shop to the ground. You killed my employees. You ruined my life. You call yourself a hero?” His oversized shoe landed hard on the man’s back. A rib cracked like splintering wood.

“I’d better be careful, Mr. Dangerous. I’m acting more like a hero by the minute, wouldn’t you say?”

The man’s left arm was liquifying into a reddish brown mucous. The man was pressing a button on his shirt furiously with his one good hand, though it too was beginning to melt.

“Don’t bother.” The clown said, “the ‘super squad’ won’t be coming. But I’ll pour you into the container I’m keeping them in if you want. Well. Whatever bits of you I can scoop up.”

The man’s screaming stopped. The clown gave another chuckle and skippped his way into the kitchen.

“I heard we have a birthday here! A birthday where? A birthday here! I heard we have a birthday here and I’m Bobo the Clown!” He sang as he scooped what was left of Mr. Dangerous into a Tupperware container.