His body tense with anticipation, Phillip quietly opened the door to his parents' house. He knew he had to face them at some point, and there was no point worrying unnecessarily for longer when he could just get it over with. He was expecting disownment, and beatings from his father. But the worst must be out of the way, right? He thought. I ran off to join the circus! How much worse can it get? But he knew, really, it could get a lot worse, and was about to.

The first face Phillip saw when he stepped through the door was his mother's. She ran to him, her face alight with fear. Phillip held her, confused, and she collapsed into tears in his arms.

"Mother, what's wrong?" He tried to use a gentle tone. "Where is father?"

Between gasps of breath, she managed to reply. "He went out to find you Phillip. Oh, he's in such a rage, he's scaring me Phillip. Have you seen the papers? All the awful things they said about you? Of course, I don't believe a word of it myself, but your father-"

She stopped abruptly on seeing Phillip's face. He averted his gaze, flushed red with shame.

"Phillip," she whispered. "It's not true, is it?"

Phillip's stomach lurched. She wanted it so badly not to be true, so his father wouldn't beat him, beat her, yell and scream and lock them away, but he had to face the truth. He nodded slowly, not looking at her.

She recoiled, as if touching him repulsed her. Phillip swallowed, still not looking, not wanting to see her face, which was no doubt contorted with disgust and horror.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then the door slammed behind Phillip, and the dread settled over him like a shroud. His father was home.

Phillip wasn't ready for the first hit. The heavy hand collided with his face, the decades-old wedding ring leaving a gash below his eye. His father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and spat in his face.

"Filthy faggot. How. DARE. You. Dragging my name through the mud even more, because it wasn't enough for you to join the fucking circus, you had to dishonour me further. Well listen to me, Phillip. You. Are. Not. My. Son."

Mr. Carlyle threw Phillip to the ground. He aimed a vicious kick at his head.

"Get up."

Phillip stayed on the floor.

His father kicked him again. "GET UP!" He screamed. Phillip flinched and stumbled to his feet. Mrs Carlyle didn't move.

"That's better," Mr Carlyle swung his fist again, and Phillip let it hit him, square in the jaw.

"Fight, you fucking coward, fight!" His father bellowed.

Phillip shook his head slowly. "I will not hit my father."

Mr. Carlyle's eye twitched and he hissed, "I am not your father. You have decided that for yourself. Now fight." He punched Phillip in the stomach. "Fight." He kicked Phillip with all his might. "FIGHT." Phillip stumbled. He didn't have the energy to do anything. He just lay down and let his father beat him, over and over and over, letting the blood drip from his face and nose, letting the bruises appear all over his body.

Eventually, the flurry of hits and kicks stopped.

Phillip dared to look up. His father- No... Mr. Carlyle was stood over him, his face still twisted with rage. "Get out of my house. Never show your face here again," He aimed a last kick to Phillip's stomach, then marched away.

Phillip staggered to his feet, cradling his chest in his bloodied arms. It hurt to breathe. But he didn't know if it was the bruises or the pain of watching his parents hate him with every splinter of their souls, seeing them look at him like a piece of dirt on their otherwise pristine white carpet that hurt so much. He hobbled towards the door, and stepped out unsteadily, away from this life forever. He had nowhere to go. No money, no food, no clothes except the ones on his back. But a face surfaced in his mind, hardening his resolution. He knew where he had to go.

Barnum.