Chapter Text
You are Mestre, a mediocre barista.
What makes your story so bizarre, so ludicrous?
You are not of honorable family—nor of title—
Yet through the gossamer shrouds of night’s gentle veil countless whispers
call for you to approach as if your own mind itself is inflating your purpose
in this world. A pair of eyes, more golden than the heaving throes of dusk’s denouement,
swells with such familiarity, traces your doubtful steps.
You convince yourself it is a mere play of your imagination,
for in the streets you can lay your trust. The shadows do not love you, or so you think.
Because they have always craved your touch.
On the first day since the disappearance of Carol
a performing group —visceral, unlike any you have seen—
is storming your town. Transforming a once peaceful road
into a typhoon of flyers and piercing raised voices. It is a travelling nuisance,
as your Boss believes it to be.
On the way to work, you come across a strange person
donned in checkered red, black, and gold clown attire,
purple-faced and battered— hunched on the abrasive concrete.
A man towers over him, fists bared cruelly,
arms raised – as if prepared to again strike the clown –
So what the Circus is a blight? You should not stand by; you cannot just witness
this vile act. Grabbing the attacker’s arm, you yell ‘Do you know
what you are doing? Don’t harm him! What has he ever done to you to justify this—
this abuse? Look at him, he’s bleeding waterfalls and barely conscious. Why, you should
be ashamed of yourself.’
The attacker scoffs and pushes you away. He mutters ‘His height–
his monstrosity, don’t you believe he is no creature of God?
This clown is a freak – death to all freaks. You know perfectly the women
who disappeared—ran off with her lover, or so they say—
everybody knows it’s the freaks’ faults! To hell with this Circus!’
You must strangle him as he attempts to land another kick at the clown.
‘Go! Return to your mother!’ You let forth your cries, completely aware of the gathering crowd.
‘Confess to her you have beaten up a poor man. Tell me—
will she take such awesome pride in that?’
And so the attacker scuttles away like
the pest he is, spitting vacuous threats. Gasps radiate from the gaggle
of passersby as you offer your hand to the clown,
whose mind is just now returning to light.
At his full vertical prowess, he is a beauty – evident barely from a glance.
Your eyes cannot help but be drawn to that cheshire grin
and painted teardrop on his glistening white mask.
You introduce yourself as Mestre, the barista of local coffee shop – not the favorite
of your Boss, but adequate enough – and he tilts his head
near-sideways in acknowledgement, the smile spreading across his face.
He does not utter a single word before you.
In an attempt to be courteous, you proffer him a wrinkled band-aid from the depths
of your pocket for the slim gash running down his face. Watching curiously as he picks at it
with serrated talon-like fingers, you wonder just how it was created—
his uniform, how it appears so beastly, yet comforting in its
warmish tones and shapes. His yellow eyes through the mask—or face paint,
are mere slits. There’s a teasing glint to them. You cannot bear to avert your gaze
from those depths. What a Circus of Horrors it really is.
‘Has the band-aid eased you?’
you ask the clown. He nods in confirmation, the tiny bronze bells
that swing off his jester-hat trilling barely louder than a browned leaf
falling upon damp earth. You promise yourself that
if you were ever to see his attacker again, you wouldn’t be as forgiving.
As you two part ways, you raise your open hand in a bidding of farewell.
Your morning is all but regular.
A shifty man in blue-toned sartorial wear is perched by a table at such a position that darkness
has consumed a great moiety of his aquiline face. When you ask for his order
he bothers you incessantly and attempts to hand you a gaudy pink Circus Ticket.
You politely refuse and advise him to leave, so he does.
You resume taking orders, brewing coffee, running countless rounds of
small talk with customers. Something shifts in the corner of your eye,
so your head flies to the window. Nothing is there.
Truly the bizarre acts of a Circus do not interest you at the slightest—
You will likely never cross paths with the clown or the unsettling man again.
At the cloying cries of evening the café door jingles—
bringing with it a gust of chilly breeze. You are prepared now to close up
the shop, but the uncanny shiver running down your spine stops you dead
in your tracks—and you’re even the more shocked when the lights go off!
Eyes, from every corner, seem to bloom. Hungry, predatory—
you resist the urge to freeze and snatch a blade into your shaking
hands. It’s probably a breaker issue, but you cannot be
too careful. For if there is an intruder, it would be too much of a shame
to be caught off guard—this city is no longer safe. You walk up to the breaker
and revive the lights, bathing yourself again in comforting pale glow. Now
you are ready to leave for the night,
but the door opens again—
welcoming inside a familiar silhouette.
How so? Your Boss declared adamantly to not accept anybody
affiliated with the Circus inside—to deny them service
if they enter with the intention to vandalize and force upon the immaculate walls and tables
their sickly, irritating advertorials. Doubtful, you watch as the Clown approaches—
in his slender hand is a rose the color of the gaping gash dripping fresh blood
on his forehead. The sluggish grime of your exhaustion is washed away at the sight
of his smile. ‘Is this for the band-aid?’ you ask as you take the flower.
Momentarily you are stunned as he leans in and whispers sweetly into your ear
‘Yes, My Lord, this offering
is from to my immense gratitude. Yet I am not permitted to speak
before others. You see, I am the Pierrot of the Circus—
my purpose is to maintain my silence. I will make exceptions when it’s just
the two of us. May you understand, please.’
The petals are soft in your fingers – almost damp. The paper rose is freshly painted.
It smells nearly…metallic—sour.
‘Pierrot. It’s late—deathly so. I was just about to close up the store. But…
I shall make an exception, postpone my egress, and tend to your wounds.’
You set yourself down beside the Clown and begin wiping at his forehead
with a clean rag, wondering if the object on his face really is a mask, or just
sturdy, deliberate face paint. He makes an expression, intended to amuse viewers.
You suspect nothing about his acts are amusing at the slightest. But,
you cannot assume, can you? Pierrot, beaming,
humming softly as you dab on disinfectants. ‘Why do you not wince? Doesn’t it sting—
the alcohol?’ Curiosity has a modicum of decency
to not get the better of you tonight. ‘Tolerating pain is part of my role—for I am
responsible, as a Circus member. Impulse. It’s something we all must control. There’s the
Jester, the Doctor, and—the…Harlequin. We all must hold up this shield.’
As he utters the final name, his expression stiffens into a visage of pure
disgust. Abhorrence. Pierrot seems docile, friendly, almost,
innocent despite the countless disappearances plaguing the city. He is almost too amicable.
‘Do not worry, My Lord. I will protect you from anybody who hurts you.’
Before he leaves, he hands you a gleaming Red Ticket—
for special admission into the Circus, apparently. You pocket it and wave him goodnight,
deciding that perhaps going to the Circus and seeing his act wouldn’t hurt after all.
Stifling the broiling fear in your belly, you return to your home. A waterless vase holds tightly
the rose as a single petal falls—kisses the ground.
Deep night brings with it blood-curdling nightmares—
visions of Pierrot so realistic, so lifelike, that you are convinced
that he was truly there, truly leaning right over you, obscuring
the pallid light of a bulbous moon—hissing horrible, unthinkable
lullabies, promises that he would possess you, your mind, your body—
As dawn’s blue smile paints the sky upon its indifferent canvas,
you awaken to a city devoid of birdsong. Your television buzzes;
you must have left it on before you fell asleep.
You must find your bag. There is no time to stretch your brains out
over an illusion crafted of your skeptical innermost thoughts.
As you move through the flyer-paved streets, something along your spine
prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck are raised—stiff in anticipation
so you turn back, fling your head to the alleyway.
From there a pair of eyes as golden as licking candlelight watch.
And as quickly as you spot them—they vanish into the ravenous shadow.
You feel the Red Ticket in your uniform pocket. Tonight you will go to the Circus
you’re afraid you no longer have the choice to refuse.