John Wade

He sat on his bed in his small room, holding a clown mask in his hand as he stared at down at it in his scarred hands. Half of his hair was in his face, his emotionless face. His brother, Martin, was out getting beer for their father. He had no idea where his mother was. His father was an abusive piece of shit. He hated him. . .

He slipped the clown mask over his head slowly, putting it on over his greasy black hair. Once on, he looked at himself in the mirror. The pale grin on the mask, the soulless eyes. He narrowed his eyes at himself. He was so fucked up, and he knew it

It was Christmas Eve and he was wearing this mask like it was Halloween. But he wouldn't have it any other way. . .

But tonight, he was outside in his clown mask, looking out the window. Your window, which was on the ground floor and wasn't covered by a curtain.