The boy lay on the ground in front of me, my cracked violin beside him. He was obviously hurt, although his injuries looked far from fatal.  He had a gash across his face, and probably had a concussion, but nothing worse. Still, the ice in my stomach had melted, and now my whole torso seemed to burn with horror and guilt.<span style="font-style: italic">What have I done?</span>I thought of myself as gentle, but when he had taken my bow, the walls holding back years of collected anger, resentment, pain, and fear broke, washing onto the boy, the crumpled figure in front of me.  My only thought had been to stop him from taking my instrument, my music, my only joy.  But how much would me stopping him cost?  Already, my violin was destroyed, and the irony of that consequence was like acid.  The circus would punish me too.  My mind tallied possibilities. Burning. Cutting. More surgery.  I shuddered.<br/><br/>The speakers blared that it was time for guests to leave.  Brightly coloured clowns bustled out to push everyone through the doors, including my victim's friends, although they protested loudly.  The clowns did their jobs well and soon the tent was empty except for the freaks.  It became very quiet.  Then, a bony man with a grey curled moustache and in a top hat entered.  The Ringmaster.