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Children were a given in the circus. Half of the visitors were kids, brought by their parents to take in the bright lights and colours, the sticky food, the deafening music. And when the guests left, the children of performers would run around helping where they could: carrying tent pegs, giving out food, sweeping up trash. Everyone was used to them – one big happy family.
The circus wasn’t ready for the Valeska twins.
From the moment they could toddle they were trouble. And the trouble only grew as they got older. Pickpocketing guests, teasing the caged animals, moving things so they couldn’t be found when they were needed. Their mother’s punishments didn’t teach them to stop; they just learned how not to get caught.
Their most recent project?
Cookies.
The plan was simple: Jeremiah, the more likeable, more “innocent” of the two, would distract the cook – Uncle Zach – while Jerome, the more devious one, would climb through the window and steal as many cookies as he could fit in his pockets. If they got caught? Big trouble. If they succeeded? Cookies and bragging rights.
Jeremiah knocked on the door. Zach answered immediately, towering over the ten-year-old with his greasy hair and stained apron.
“What?” He grunted.
“I wanted to ask-” Jeremiah tried to keep his eyes on Zach while Jerome clambered decidedly ungracefully through the small window. Luckily there was a sofa underneath to cushion his landing. “- What are we having for dinner? Cause Mom wants to know if she needs to give us something now, and you know how she gets…” He drew out some tale about their mother, which Zach listened to him with glazed eyes. Behind him, Jerome was practically shovelling cookies from the jar and into his clothes.
“It’s just the usual, kid. Surprise soup.” He groaned, rubbing his eyes against the bright light. “Get your mom to give you a sandwich or something if you’re hungry.” Jerome was scrambling out of the window headfirst.
“Okay. Thanks!” As soon as Jerome was out Jeremiah turned around and ran from the caravan. They met behind the big top; Jerome already sat smugly on top of a pile of crates when Jeremiah arrived.
“How many did you get?”
“Twelve, and some broken ones.” Jeremiah climbed up to sit beside his brother and was handed a cookie.
“I don’t see how that could have gone better.” As he bit into the soft cookie, a yell of anger echoed across the circus.
“VALESKAS!”
*
As soon as they turned eighteen the two of them were out of there. They wouldn’t put up with their mother’s abuse any longer, so they took every dollar they had scrounged over the years and moved into a small apartment in Gotham. Only a few weeks later, Lila Valeska died in what people who didn’t know her called a “tragic accident”. The brothers didn’t grieve.
Jeremiah went to school, majoring in architecture – he always had a brilliant mind, wasted in the circus, and he put it to good use, quickly reaching the top of his class and gaining the attention of all of his teachers.
Jerome was never one for classrooms and blackboards. He got a job in a bar, charming the customers with his charisma and easy grins, even if there was something behind his eyes that put people on edge.
Life was good, for a while.
Until Jerome inevitably got into a fight. A man had been harassing a group of girls at the bar. When he was finally kicked out, Jerome followed him. He made the mistake of turning down a dark alley.
When the police asked, Jerome claimed that he had only spoken to him, that it was the man who had started the fight. But Jerome had been the one left standing while he coughed up blood on his hands and knees.
Somehow, he got away with a caution. Nobody involved felt that bad for the man. But Jeremiah wouldn’t let it go that easily.
“You can’t pretend this didn’t happen, Jerome.”
“Yes, I can.” Jeremiah was stood at the door of the small kitchen, arms crossed, while Jerome opened and slammed closed cupboard doors, looking for something.
“I’m serious!”
“And so am I,” He groaned, finally turning to his brother. “It won’t happen again.”
“It shouldn’t have happened once. I know you’re angry, our mom-”
“Don’t.” Jerome growled.
“You need an outlet for your anger,” Jeremiah tried to reason. “The police won’t be so lenient next time.” Jerome rolled his eyes. “Dammit, Jerome!” Jeremiah slammed his fist into the wall – the plaster cracked.
“I need an outlet for my anger?” Jerome asked sarcastically.
“Look – you’re my brother. I don’t want to lose you.” The sincere words made Jerome pause; neither he nor Jeremiah were particularly sentimental. They knew they cared about each other but they never said it.
“You won’t lose me.” Jerome sighed. “I’ll figure something out.”
“You better. Cause I’m not paying your share of the rent if you go to prison.”
The two brothers hugged, a rare event, and hoped that the promise would be kept. That it could be kept.