Hello, hello! If you’re new to the circus, why not start at the beginning here?
In our last chapter, our hero finally entered the Big Top, just in time for the show. However, the Gypsy had other plans than the normal routine. After having an alarmingly large gift delivered, she reveals it for our intrepid hero…
It's a throne. A gorgeous, six-foot-tall throne, with feet like a lion and arms like elephant trunks and a back with carved eyes that gaze out into the audience. Massive wings stretch out from either side, arching up towards the ceiling. The whole thing seems covered in gold, every detail exquisite, each carving illustrious and perfect. It's the throne of a lord, a ruler, a commander.
And of course, I want it.
The Gypsy glances at me, and again, the expression in her eyes hits me like a ton of elephant feed. She's searching for something. I don't know what it is, but if I did, I wouldn't give it to her. We definitely got off on the wrong foot with the whole prophesying-my-mom's-death thing, but what's done is done. We don't need to pretend otherwise.
Her expression softens, and something in her eyes changes. It's not just sadness in there. There's something sharp, too.
Her skirts swish as she takes a step back, and I can hear her bracelets jingle as she gestures to the seat. She's offering it to me. As an olive branch or a bribe, I don't know. If it wasn't so breathtaking, I'd try to ignore it and just get through the show. Unfortunately, it's a little too alluring for that.
My beautiful coat, made of magic and possibility, presses into my back. It feels like it's encouraging me to walk forward. Make my way to the podium that now graces our middle ring. Take my seat and oversee the rest of the performances.
You deserve this, whispers the voice in my head.
It's right, I do. I've come too far to give up now. Donning the coat was just another step towards my true role in the circus. Now that I've seen the next level, I have to have that, too.
With this thought in mind, I start towards the Gypsy's outstretched hand.
As though by an unspoken command, the performers begin to move. They align themselves into two rows, one on either side of me, carving a path towards the podium. Some kneel, some nod, but they all salute me. The trained bears kneel on their front legs in an ungraceful bow; the acrobats sweep into a backbend and nod; the midgets cock their hands on their hips and tip their hats. Each painted faces honors me. Even the smaller acts, the ones from the party earlier, pay their respects. The Fat Lady winks at me, her gastronomic intestines on full display. The Tattooed Man fists his gigantic hands and growls, but makes no move to attack me. The Gypsy stands in her golden attire, waiting at the end of the line.
The crowd simmers, quietly applauding as I make my way toward the throne. They seem confused, but not panicked. Like it's all part of the show. They're all sharing the same dream, and if they wait long enough, they'll wake up in their normal beds, with their normal family, in their normal houses, where centaurs don't gallop around three rings and the ringmaster hasn't been presented with a throne.
So I smile despite my confusion, wave reassuringly to the crowd. I nod to my faithful performers as I pass by, and I would shake their hands, or at least give them a clap on the shoulder, but I don't want to disturb the dream. Besides, this is their job: to support the circus. And as their leader, it only seems right that they'd do the same for me.
As I approach the end of the line, I see the clown standing at the end. He's dressed in his show costume - a gold polka-dot shirt, matching striped pair of pants that balloon over giant gold shoes, and a gold rubber nose stuck onto his face. He twiddles his hands nervously as I approach.
When I reach him, I pause.
His makeup is gone. Dirt crusts the crinkles beside his eyes, and shadows smudge his cheeks, making him seem hollow and empty. His lips tremble, his shoulders shake, his hands twitch. His bloody face still pours onto the pavement, and out of all of his irritations, this one irks me the most. Filthy blood, leaking out like that. It could drive attendance down. We need these people to like us, to give us their money. We need to entertain them, not haunt them.
He shifts from one foot to another, his eyes on my shoes. I wait for him to do something, anything - take control of my mind, keep me away from the throne, do his dumb little song-and-dance - but there's nothing. Just a soulless, empty little sap who doesn't really belong here anyway.
Just hours ago, I was the strange one. Now I have the coat, I command the circus, and he's the one out of place.
The clown fidgets again, his eyes on the ground. He scuffs the ground with the toe of one shoe, leaving dirt marks on its shiny face, and I fight the urge to scream. Blood and dirt and gold, all in one. The three elements of the circus, it seems. One for each ring.
"Well, Arthur?"
The sound of my own voice surprises me. I've never been formally introduced to the clown, yet somehow I feel in my bones that it's true. His name is Arthur, and he joined the circus after his family abandoned him to his drinking habit, alone. He became a clown because it's the easiest job to do when slobbering drunk, and he was forever late to the shows, but nobody really cared for a long time because that's just Arthur.
I stare at him, all of my confidence and arrogance crumbling into dust. Arthur. He has a name, a history, a past. Before this moment, I never thought of him as a real human. I never considered that he had a life before getting trapped in this horrible place. I never wondered if he had a name.
Arthur sniffs, wiping blood off his face. Then he opens his mouth and points to the spot where his tongue used to be.
I recoil, stepping back like it'll protect me from this horrible sight. Arthur. Somebody's father, somebody's son. Now trapped in the lowest level of hell: a circus that only comes to life when somebody needs to die. That stakes its own performers up for outsiders to enjoy. That wants pictures, and recordings, and memories of terrible, awful things, like doves swinging around blood-soaked tents, and Fat Ladies with all of their insides on display.
Something inside me splinters, and suddenly everything feels wrong. That moment that held me - the crowd, all of us - spellbound, is breaking. I can feel it slip through my fingers like shattered glass, each shard drawing blood as it falls away. This is not a magical circus of dreams and possibility. This is a nightmare. People shouldn't be cheering for me, admiring me. I wanted to own it all, but there's nothing here but dust and betrayal.
Betrayal, echoes the voice in my head, but I'm too preoccupied to care.
Just like the audience, I was lost in the dream. I wanted them to love me. Now, I understand that there's nothing real here. This entire place is imaginary. An empty field under the stars. There's no circus, there's no show. All of this - the music, the performers, everything - burned to dust fifty years ago.
There's no show. There's no coat. There's nothing here but me.
Before my eyes, Arthur begins to change. The fear that once drive him to cower has receded, and he looks stronger. His shoulders pull back slightly, and he stands straighter, his fuzzy hair quivering with emotion. The magic hasn't taken away his wrinkles, but now there's something I can't put my finger on. He seems more confident. Self-possessed. Then, when he lays one finger on his blood-soaked lips, I know.
There's more to this circus. Arthur already knows it, and he knows I'm starting to figure out it.
Flashes of memories invade my brain, bursting into life before my eyes. Arthur's fuzzy hair dunking into a barrel of water. Arthur's bottles being thrown, shattering on walls, little pieces of glass tinkling onto the floor. Arthur's arm out, a blazing hot cattle iron looming over his skin, and a panicky voice screaming in the background. Arthur's tongue held with a pair of blacksmith tongs, and someone's approaching shadow reflected in his eyes.
Startled, I blink, trying to clear the visions from my head. When the three rings refocus, I see Arthur - poor, drunk, branded Arthur - smiling, in his bloody waistcoat and muddy shoes.
Blood. Dirt. Gold. The elements of the circus.
Another memory sparks behind my eyes, and I see an overweight man in a red vest with bursting buttons shaking hands with Arthur. He's sad, my clown, and sniffs as he follows the overweight man into a tent with stripes, just like the faded ones outside. The stranger hands him a pen, and with a trembling hand, Arthur signs a piece of paper. Then the overweight man whisks it away, a cold smile on his face, as he lays an arm around Arthur's shoulders and promises he'll take care of him.
I gasp, trembling, as the circus comes back to me a second time. I can't breathe. Who was that? How am I seeing this over fifty years later, after everyone is burned to a crisp? How are the lights still on, and why am I here, when I should be running for my life?
My heart pounds as cold tendrils of fear unfurl in my chest. This circus destroyed Arthur. It stole his life, his sanity, and when it burned, it stole his soul. It shattered him, both physically and mentally, and condemned him to an eternity of performances and slaughter. The same price he had to pay in life, he carried now in death.
For the first time in a while, Arthur winks at me.
I jerk away, my gaze sweeping down the line as if looking for someone to beg for help. Each performer stands out glaringly against the bright performance lights, and somehow, I know them all. Andrew. Gretchen. Mel. Emily. Sarah. Michael. Each one has a name, a history, and I know it like the touch of my favorite camera in my hand. I can feel it in my bones, see their stories paraded in snapshots just outside my reach.
The lights get brighter, and the noise in the room turns up, like someone's adjusting the volume, just like in the small acts tent earlier. The performers shift beside me, their painted smiles murmuring to each other. The crowd hums a delicious note of anticipation, sitting on the edge of their seats, ready to discover what happens next.
I can't. I don't want any of this. No more pretend, no more ringmaster, no more lights. No more being somebody I'm not. No more magic, or bowing to the crowd, or waving my arms and smiling for the cameras.
No cameras. No film. No millions of dollars.
It's not worth this.
Without another thought, I turn away from it all - the Gypsy, the bleeding clown, the Tattooed Man, the lights, the crowd, everything - and start to run.
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Hello, dear reader!
This is my last update before the holiday season really kicks off. In the spirit of… well.. the holiday, why not enjoy a bonus short horror story about sleigh bells?
Anyway, have a great week! To those celebrating, merry Christmas! May it be filled with laughter, love, and (hopefully) plenty of snow!
<3 Olivia