The voices outside were loud and obnoxious, but they always were. Sam lay curled up in the exact center of the little square cage, the only place where he could not be reached by the groping arms that did not heed the warning sings. They tried to poke and prod him as they screamed obscenities, just wanting to make him move, or maybe see him slam into the bars as he lunged at them. Such satisfactions were their only goal, even it they lost a hand or entire arm to receive them. Anything to make the "Panther Boy" move, to prove the side-show ad as either true or false.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, just in time for an empty beer can to hit his shoulder. he tucked his head in under his paw as another can bounce off his back. A rain of stinging objects poured over him until the ringmaster called security. The angry audience was dragged away, and the curtains were unrolled to black his cage from view. This was yet another procedure Sam was far too used to.

"Why’re you always doin’ this, Sammy?"

Sam uncurled himself and stretched, looking out at the big man standing just inside the curtain.

"Why d’ya haveta do this? If ya’d just move around a little, play along with the crowd some..."

Sam sat up, Indian-style, and picked up a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which he had been laying on. As he flipped to the dog-eared page near the end, the man sighed.

"Yer hopeless, kid. Ya know that?" He paused. "I guess yer gonna need another book soon, huh? Sometimes I think you cause trouble just for time to read."

Same smirked and continued reading.

AT the age of 14, any other boy capable of getting his GED would be harolded as a genius, anyone capable of acing it would be beyond reality, but Sam was just ignored. The great things he was capable of only formed more differences to be criticized. Being a genius only made him more of a freak. Not that he needed a brain to be a freak.

He was actually a perfectly normal, 14 year old genius, besides a few basic details. Instead of plain skin, he had black and gray fur with leopard spots; black cat ears poked out of short, black hair; the wet nose and whiskers were far easier to deal with than the tail; and, all this in mind, the slit pupils were nothing. Large, wild cat paws replaced his feet, but he still had five toes, and, instead of nails, he had claws. Since he didn’t smile, no one really noticed the fangs. Besides all that, he was perfectly normal.

Unfortunately, no one cared about how normal he might be. He was the "Panther Boy" of Bringles’ Circus Side-Show. Need they know more? They laughed at him, poked at him, threw things at him. If they wanted to feel good about themselves, they could always see the side-show and crack jokes at an innocent, 14 years old boy who just happened to be different.

To make it worse, Bringles refused to let him wear clothes. It was as if he thought the boy had no right to modesty, as if the miserable youth would gladly stalk the cage in nothing with those creatures outside calling themselves human. Than word, human, had become something negative to him over the years. He just couldn’t figure out why humanity was made out as something to be proud of. Why be proud of being a beast, the only true beast on Earth? Why be proud of being a hateful torturer? It made no sense.

Sam finished the book and sat it aside as he curled up to sleep. Just as his eyes began to close themselves, the cage door slammed open and he jumped to all fours, ready to pounce. Bringles stood, huffing and red-faced, in the opening, riding crop in hand. He stood over the boy, huge and looming, and watched as the panther sank into himself in fear.

"You," Bringles growled.

Sam tucked his tail between his legs and lay down, covering his head with his paws.

"They come to see you," he growled at the boy. "You draw the crowd, then send it home. Why?"

Sam whimpered.

"Why? If I keep giving refunds because of the ‘fake Panther Boy,’ I’m going to lose everything! I swear, if you do this one more time! They’ll know you’re real! They’ll be staring at your corpse!"

The riding crop crashed down on Sam’s shoulder, stinging his neck. A second blow hit his other shoulder, and tears stung his eyes. Bringles grabbed Sam’s chin and dragged him up eye to eye.

"Do you understand me?" The ringmaster hissed in his face.

Sam nodded, trying to hold the tears in.

"Will you be better?"

Sam shook his head stubbornly, and Bringles roared, throwing him into the bars.

"We’ll see about hat!"

The crop left welts across Sam’s back, forcing tears up. By the end, the black fur was slick and matted by all the blood. Sam lay in the corner, curled into a tight, shuddering ball, tears wetting his face. Bringles said no more as he stormed out, locking the door behind him.

"Sammy," the man from before whispered.

Sam sobbed.

"Come one, Sammy."

Sam looked up to find the door wide open, but no one was there.

"Leave, Sammy," the man’s voice whispered. "It’s time for you to leave."