Page 3 of House of Clowns

But I gave him nothing. Not a sound. Just the rasp of my breathing as I held onto the one thought that kept me going: one day, I'll get us out of here.

One day.

He raised his hand, and I barely had time to brace myself before his palm connected with my face, delivering a blow with all the force he could manage. My head snapped to the side, and the familiar taste of blood filled my mouth from the split in my lip. The sharp sting radiated through my cheek, but in the midst of the pain, I focused on one thing—counting to three. It was my only escape, my small ritual. One, two, three... and I'd close my eyes, pretending I was somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Even if those places were born of nightmares, they were still better than this.

I didn't move. I didn't speak. I barely even breathed. With my eyes half-closed, I glanced at Carlo, still curled up under the table. His small body shook, but he didn't make a sound. He knew the rules of survival better than anyone—stay hidden, stay small, stay quiet. He wasn't trying to be brave or tough. He knew that at eleven, he couldn't fight a man so broken, so drunk, that he'd lash out for no reason at all.

I looked at Carlo briefly, then turned my head away, my heart racing as I shut my eyes again. I heard the soft click of the door lock. Carlo had done what I couldn't—he'd found a way to protect himself.

I wrapped my arms around my head and surrendered. The blows came, each one hitting me like a wave crashing against a cliff, relentless and unforgiving. The pain merged into one dull throb as my body bruised, swelled, and went numb. I let it happen, giving up the last bit of resistance, as his fists kept raining down, lifeless thuds against flesh that had stopped feeling.

"You're pathetic," he spat between strikes, his words like poison. "Just like your mother. Fat, stupid, useless."

His words cut deeper than the blows ever could. They were sharp, seeping into my mind, festering long after the bruises would fade. Words didn't just hurt—they destroyed. Coming from him, they were worse than the beatings. Each syllable tore at me, reopening wounds that never fully healed. I had learned to numb myself to pain, to people, even to time itself, but his words stayed. They made me believe I was worthless, unworthy of love, unworthy of happiness, unworthy of anything.

I woke to the cool touch of a wet cloth pressed against my forehead. The relief from the burning on my skin was immediate, soothing, though the rest of my body still ached deeply. Gentle hands moved over my face, wiping away the driedblood. I could hear quiet sobs, the soft sound of tears hitting my hair.

"Dad said we can't take you to the doctor," Carlo whispered, his voice small and fragile. "And he doesn't want me going to school either."

The bowl of water beside him was stained red, and the cloth in his hands was soaked with my blood. He had been cleaning my wounds for who knows how long, doing what little he could with what we had. This wasn't the childhood he deserved. Carlo deserved so much more. I wanted to reach out, pull him into my arms, tell him I was okay, that everything would be fine. But I couldn't. I had nothing left in me. No strength, no energy. I was hollow.

"You're safe, Chiara," he whispered as if trying to comfort me. "I locked the door. Dad can't get in here."

A single tear slipped from the corner of my swollen eye—the one I could still open. The other was bruised and swollen shut, probably a sickening purple by now. I couldn't see much, but I felt Carlo's small weight as he rested his head gently on my chest, listening to the steady beat of my heart.

"Do you think she pretended?" His voice was soft, fragile, full of innocence that nearly broke me. "You know, to be happy?"

My heart clenched at his words, memories of our mother flooding back—the way her smile never quite reached her eyes, her laughter that always seemed forced, and the way her hands would tremble when she thought no one was watching. Carlo had been too young to remember the worst of it, and in some ways, I envied him for that. But he knew enough to ask the question. He understood.

I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat as fresh tears welled up in my eyes. "I hope not," I whispered back.

But deep down, I knew the truth. She had pretended, to wear a mask, just like I did now. She had tried to convince us thateverything was okay, that happiness was something we could still reach. But it never was—not for her, not for us. She had been trapped, just like I was now, and pretending was all she had left.

THREE

JOKER

They called it the House of Clowns, but it felt more like a prison to me. A place where people were forced into roles they never chose, a refuge for outcasts with nowhere else to go. It was made for the amusement of others, but never for the happiness of those trapped inside. Slowly, it was draining me—stripping away not just my joy, but the core of who I once was. If I could remember anything from before this place, maybe I'd hold onto it. But all I know now is this—a life of smeared colors, an endless performance for an invisible audience.

They say what doesn't break you makes you stronger. But that's a lie. It doesn't build you up; it wears you down, piece by piece until all that's left is the mask you wear.

I shared a room with two other clowns. Chico, from Mexico, was here chasing a dream—a woman named Rosalinda. She ran off with Luigi, the butcher, but Chico never stopped talking about her. Then there was Bart, an American, who had romanticized Italy, convinced that it was full of beautiful, kind-hearted women. I couldn't help but laugh at both of them. Dreams don't come true, not here. Not for people likeus.

Chico found out Rosalinda had married Luigi, and she told him she'd rather be with his dead uncle than him. Bart didn't fare much better. Instead of wooing an Italian woman, he fell for an Indian guy named Sanjay, who eventually shattered his heart. Bart quickly realized that even though Italian women were beautiful, their fiery temper was something he wasn't prepared to handle. He once joked that maybe he'd be better off with Berta, an unattractive girl from his hometown.

And me?I used to have a dream too—that I wouldn't always be the orphan no one wanted, that someday I'd have a family of my own. I thought the world might finally see me as more than a joke. But the world has a way of crushing people like me. It doesn't hate what's different; it fears it. It's afraid that even something broken can still be beautiful.

I've told myself over and over that people will always try to tear you down. It's a reflex—they crush your hopes because they can't bear to see you rise above them. They want you in the shadows so they feel bigger and more secure.

I despise them.

And they call me a clown?No, the real clowns are the ones who wear fake smiles and pretend everything's perfect in their little worlds. It's all a joke—a joke that stops being funny when their world falls apart. And when it does, they'll drag you down with them, taking whatever's left of your smile.

That's the cycle. The never-ending, suffocating cycle of disappointment. If I went to therapy, they'd probably slap a label on it—anxiety, depression, whatever. Truth is, I'm anxious all the time.

"Rio," Chico's voice broke through my thoughts. He stood at the mirror, pressing a thick brush loaded with white paint into his face as if trying to erase himself. "Wanna hear a joke?"

I lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the cracked window, leaning against the sill. "Yeah?"

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