Page 4 of House of Clowns

"Why did the clown get fired from his job?" He was painting blue shadows beneath his eyes now, like bruises.

I already knew the punchline, but I went along with it. "Why?"

"Because he was fooling everyone!" Chico burst into laughter, his deep, hearty chuckle contagious. Bart and I couldn't help but laugh along.

Laughter. It was all we had left in this place. The only thing keeping us from falling apart completely.

"Maybe they're fooling us," I muttered, staring out the window at the dull, gray sky.

Chico turned to me, the red paint on his lips only half-applied. His wig lay on the dresser, a few strands of his hair sticking out wildly. He stepped closer, his voice soft, almost gentle. "Doesn't matter, kid," he said. "We always win."

Bart laughed from the corner, already dressed in his cherry-red suit, the bright fabric a jarring contrast to the bleakness of our room. "I feel a little funny today," he said, adjusting his collar.

"It's the air," Chico replied, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "You coming?"

I stubbed out my cigarette, flicking the ashes into a small tin can. "Yeah," I said, standing up. "I'll get ready."

And just like that, it was time to put on the mask again. Time to pretend. Time to bea clown.

I landed lightly on the dusty floor, feet thudding softly as I leaped from the window. The wood creaked with my weight. Thick age-scented dust and faded memories hung in the air. I moved across the room to an old cabinet; its hinges groaned as I pulled the door open. Inside, tubes of paint stood at attention like so many soldiers waiting for command—white, black, and red. I grabbed them without a second thought.

My reflection beckoned from across the room, the cracked mirror resting atop a battered vanity. I set the paints downon the chair beside it—my fingers brushing against the rough wood—and reached for the white tube. I squeezed it without a second thought, feeling the cool thick paste on my fingertips. They always said to mix it with water or cream to soften the concoction, but what was the difference? I liked it thick. I liked how it cracked as it dried, giving me that nasty look that made people shiver.

I dragged white paint across my face, its color uneven as it pulled across my skin.

Every movement was deliberate, almost a sacrament as I layered myself anew. My fingers smeared the paint right into the lines in the skin, a ghostly mask. I spread on the final speck of white, then tossed on more cream in my hand, slicking it through my hair.

It was stiff and sticky, but I liked the way it pushed my hair back so that I looked wild and untamed. The black paint came next. I dabbed it onto the tip of my finger and closed one eye at a time, dragging the color down from atop my brow. It smeared in jagged lines, falling like dark streaks of shadow, accentuating the exhaustion that already clung to my gaze. The deep blue of them seemed colder now, sharper; the contrast only made them more unnerving.

Next, the red—one needed to carve that smile. But the paint was too bright, not dark, not deep enough. I bit into my tongue, my jaw clenching against the sharp sting of pain and the metallic taste of blood warming in my mouth. I allowed it to pool before spitting into my palm, mixing crimson with the paint.

I could feel a smile spreading across my face from one corner of my mouth to the other as my fingers arced out over my skin, staining my lips and cheeks in an unholy grin of drying blood.

I looked up, catching my reflection in the mirror right as the white paint started to crack at the edges of my mouth and eyes.The laugh that escaped me was low, guttural, and echoed off the tiny room.

There it was, what I'd become: a clown, a monster. Something they loved to watch from a distance but never wanted too close. I turned back to the closet, jerked out the black-and-white suit, and flung it onto my bed. The fabric was tight, almost too tight, but perfect as it sheathed me, echoing each angle of my body. I wriggled into the suit; the material threateningly stretched with each of my movements. The finishing touch, gleaming black shoes, sealed the transformation.

I went out into the cool air nipping at my painted skin. Chico and Bart were standing nearby, talking in low tones about that night's acts. Neither of them noticed me at first; both were lost in their talk. They had prepared routines, but me? I didn't need to—my role was quite basic: terror in the maze of mirrors, fear in the dark rooms. I was the one who made the hearts shriek with rattling, beating loud, the one who savored the gasps, the screams. And I was good at that.

FOUR

JOKER

The circus only opens its gates six days a month, just enough time for us to scrape by, trying to make enough to last the rest of the month. It's a hard way to live, scaring people for a living. Don't get me wrong—I love what I do. But when you need to eat, it's hard to frighten the same people you're relying on for tips. And tips... they're rare.

I walked down the dusty road that led to the woods. The hum of the carnival was behind me. A few tents were scattered here and there, but one huge one loomed ahead of me with its bold sign declaring,"Welcome to the Freak Show."I could feel eyes on me—children clutching their mothers' hands, peeking out from behind them, fear and curiosity threaded together in their huge-eyed stare. One small boy tugged at his mother's sweater, thumb firmly in his mouth, as if holding on to her would protect him from whatever he thought I was.

I wasn't sure whether their fear made me proud or sad. Maybe a little of both. Part of me was jealous if I'm honest. I never had a mother to hide behind. Instead, I had priests who would shield me whenever those nuns became a little too adventurousin giving their punishments, branding boys like me"wild"and"untamed."They tried to beat that out of me. But if there is one thing I learned, it is how to keep one's head high, no matter what. Conceal the pain behind a mask—a poker face nobody would ever know.

We were in front of the mirror maze, through whose entrance a blur of reflections and flashing lights pulsed. I reached for the flap, and a strong grip pulled me backward. I turned to find Rocco, the boss, standing in front of me. He was wearing his old red coat, its gold buttons shining like conkers in the gloom, and his hat pulled low over his greying head. His face was lined like the bark of an old oak tree, save that his eyes told stories, not of wisdom, but of failure, destruction, and pain spread to others.

He jammed a wad of flyers into my chest. "Get these out there. We need new people."

"I thought we had a full house?" I replied, trying to pace the situation accordingly. Something didn't feel right.

"Clowns are missing," he growled, his eyes narrowing. "No one knows where they went."

He looked at me like I might know more, but the truth was we didn't really know each other here. Not really. Everyone was hiding from something—running from something—and no one ever asked too many questions. I nodded as he walked away, shaking his head in frustration.

---