Page 2 of House of Clowns

"Hey, Mom," I said softly, dropping to my knees beside the grave. "Happy birthday."

I leaned the sunflowers gently against the base of the stone and watched as raindrops trickled down their stems and pooled into the creases of the petals. They looked as forlorn as I felt. A tear slipped down my cheek, its warm sting a contrast to cold rain. I hunched down broader, knees sinking into the wet earth as sharp pointy pebbles and blades of grass dug in—but I didn't care. The pain had grown just another element of me—something I hardly noticed any longer.

"I miss you," I mouthed softly, my voice breaking. I closed my eyes and tried to envision her smile, the way her eyes crinkled in the corners when she laughed. "I'm lost and I'm hurt… but I still love you."

The words spilled, each one a thread pulled at the frayed edges of my heart. I sat back on my heels, boots wet from the rain mingling with my tears as I did so. "I wrote you something." I unfolded the soaked card, holding it up with shaking hands. Theink had bled, words running together in dark smears, but I could still make out the lines I'd carefully penned.

"Every day when I open my eyes, I see you," I began, my voice a strained whisper. "And every night, when I close them, I feel you fading away. I still feel your hand on my shoulder, and still taste the apple strudel you used to bake… but the scent ofyouis slipping away. Fading."

The card shook in my hand, the paper so wet it threatened to rip. I blinked onto my chest, forcing myself to continue even as the words blurred. "When you left, a piece of me disappeared too. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say…I love you.But I won't forget you. I can't forget the way you made everything feel safe, the way you made life seem bearable because you were the best, Mom.The best.And I'll always be your little sunflower."

I choked, my voice breaking on the last word. A sob tore through me, raw and ugly, and I crumpled forward, clutching the card to my chest. Rain continued to lash down, relentlessly, washing away the last traces of ink, erasing the final, fragile words I'd tried so hard to keep.

Slowly, I straightened, my knees aching as I stood. My fingers brushed the headstone, tracing the inscription:

"Arianne Serra, Nel cuore di chi l'ha amata, vive per sempre."

(In the hearts of those who loved her, she lives forever.)

I laid the card softly against the base of the stone, smoothing it as best I could, knowing full well it would be ruined by morning. I bent down, kissed my fingertips, and pressed them against the small photo set into the stone. Her face smiled back at me, forever young, forever beautiful.

"I wish I could hug you again," I whispered—voice swallowed by the rain. "I wish… I wish it didn't feel like nothing's safe anymore."

But wishes were useless. She was gone, and I was here, and all I had left was memories slipping like sand through my fingers. Slowly, I turned away, the ache in my chest expanding, threatening to swallow me whole. I made myself walk, one foot in front of the other, until the grave was just another shadow in the mist, and I was alone again.

The park was a blur behind me; the wind cut at my face. Somewhere, the red balloon was blowing aimlessly, caught in a branch—its bright color a jarring splash against the gray. I tore my eyes away and kept walking, clutching the empty ache in my chest.

No one would ever love me the way she did. No one could ever love me that much. And that thought was sharp and bitter, yet somehow keeping me on as I walked in the rain, promising me with every step, promising me with every heartbeat.

Just a small sunflower wilting in the rain.

TWO

ACE

Iwalked home, step by step, along the same cracked road I always took. My feet followed the familiar path on their own, but my mind was heavy, burdened with the weight of it all. Carlo was only two when Mom vanished, and it became my job to take care of him. Our older brother, Christian, had made his escape to New York the moment he could, leaving us behind. He promised a thousand times he'd come back for us, but he never did. He got away, while Carlo and I were stuck here, in this wretched place where sin had a tighter grip than hope, and good days were a rare blessing.

When I reached the front door, I turned the handle slowly, slipping inside like a shadow, hoping to go unnoticed. This was supposed to be our safe place—mine and Carlo's—but it never felt that way. Deep down, I knew it never would.

The first thing I saw was the brown sofa, still swaying slightly. A crumpled lace cloth was thrown over the top, still warm from where my father had been. An empty bottle lay beside it, with just a few drops left at the bottom—never enough to drown his sorrow or his anger.

"Oh, look who decided to show up," he sneered from the kitchen, leaning against the worn countertop. His body swayed a little, just like the sofa. The kitchen was in shambles—the cabinets barely hanging on, some missing doors completely. We could hardly scrape together enough for food, let alone fix anything.

My eyes went to Carlo, huddled beneath the table, his small body curled into a tight ball. Angry red welts from the belt marked his skin. He was shaking, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth as tears slipped silently down his face. Eleven years old and already being taught what it meant to be a "man," according to my father. But no real man teaches through fear and pain. No real man breaks his child to prove a point. My father had never been a man, not in any way that counted. Just a bitter, cruel stranger we had to endure for the sake of having a roof over our heads.

Carlo didn't know how to be a man yet. He hadn't even been allowed to be a child.

I stood frozen in the doorway, glancing between Carlo and my father, trying to figure out what had triggered him this time. But I already knew. It was always the same—drink, rage, and that twisted sense of power he clung to.

"Where the hell have you been?" he barked, his voice thick with anger.

I stayed silent, my heart pounding in my chest. There was no good answer. I didn't want to provoke him, didn't want to give him more fuel. All I wanted was to grab Carlo and get us out. But keeping quiet never stopped him. Silence only seemed to make things worse.

"You think this is funny?" he growled, his belt cutting through the air before it slashed across my back. The pain was sharp, immediate, like my skin was on fire. I gritted my teeth, holding in the scream that built in my throat.

"You think you're smart, huh?" he sneered, stepping forward. Before I could react, his boot connected with my ribs, sending a shock of pain through my entire body. The kick knocked the wind out of me, and I gasped, feeling the ache spread through my bones.

"You think this hurts?" he spat, standing over me as I crumpled in the corner of the living room, curling in on myself, trying to shield what little of me remained intact. My vision blurred with tears, my body trembling as he loomed above, waiting for me to break—waiting for an apology, a plea, anything that would make him feel like he was in control.

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