Page 5 of House of Clowns

Smoothing my blazer, I stood in front of the maze entrance and pulled a cigarette from my pocket. Lighting it up with a slow drag, smoke filled my lungs and cooled the restlessness inside me. I watched people passing by, kids still snuck a look my way; their eyes wide with that kind of wonder bordering on fear.

Then this boy ran toward me, about eleven years old, wearing a jean jacket and a black shirt. Pants that were just a little too small, frayed at the knees with holes in them. His enthusiasm was infectious, yet I hardly cracked a smile.

"Chiara, look!Il labirinto!" he exclaimed, gesturing to the entrance with wide, eager eyes.

I cocked a brow, tapping my chest as my smirk appeared. "I'm wearing makeup, okay, but I'm not Chiara."

"Huh?" he said, confusion crossing his face.

Before I could explain, a young woman appeared, breathless as she caught up to the boy. Her face was bruised, makeup failing to fully mask the swelling around her eye and cheek. Her hair was tangled into a messy bun; despite the pain etched into her features, there was something softly beautiful about her. Wearing jeans and a white shirt, the hollow of her waist was impossibly small against her hips and chest—so perfect, something fragile that had been mishandled.

She didn't run, but she slowed as she approached, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looked away, pulling the boy close by the shoulder. I had to say something. She looked so familiar, like I'd seen her before, maybe in another life.

"New in town?" I asked, my voice softer than usual.

She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm local."

The boy tugged at her arm. "Can we go in? Please?"

She looked at me, her teeth clenched, lips barely parted as if the words were hard to form. "How much is it?"

I could see her discomfort—it was plain as daylight that she was misusing money that wasn't hers. Her silence spoke louder than what she said. And yet, despite all that, here she was for him—for the boy.

"Ten euros," I said, knowing it was probably too much for her, but also knowing I needed to make something tonight.

She fumbled with her wallet, worn leather peeling at the edges. She pulled out two five-euro bills, hands shaking slightly as she placed them in my palm. "Here. Thanks."

Her smile, though small, was genuine. It was all she owned, all the money she had left, yet she did it without hesitation. Not forherself. For him. And somehow, it felt as though she'd given it to me, too.

I stepped aside, placing a hand against my chest and bowing slightly, as they passed through the entrance of the maze. Just before she crossed the threshold, I handed her one of the flyers Rocco had pressed on me earlier.

"We're looking for people," I said softly, more offering than asking.

The boy darted ahead, already entranced with the mirrors. "Look, Chiara! I'm this short!" he shouted, giggling, as he stood in front of the one that made him squat and chubby. He moved to the next, waving his arms as if dancing, the reflection stretching his limbs out like rubber.

I just stood and watched. The way they moved, the boy's carefree joy, the woman's quiet relief as she followed him deeper into the maze. Their laughter tumbled off the glass, and bounded in strange directions, twisting around me. I didn't move right away, just let myself get lost in the sounds, in the way they seemed to drift farther and farther away, swallowed by the shifting lights and reflections.

The entrance loomed behind me as I finally stepped inside and on the creaky wooden floor. They were placed in a manner to twist reality, with walls and corners that seemed to make it impossible to get your way. The lights, shining red, then fluttering to an eerie blue, bathed everything in their glow, casting distorted shadows across the glass. Every few feet, one of those illusionist mirrors would distort your body in some odd jarring way—stretching you out or squeezing you down—until even your reflection was unrecognizable.

I watched them disappear further into the maze, my eyes following the steps as I remained motionless at the entrance. With every step, they vanished a bit more, consumed by the labyrinth of ever-shifting lights reflecting on each other. The boylaughed and his laughter echoed feebly and then became distant, lost in the hollow maze.

And as I watched them disappear into the house of mirrors, a quiet unease settled over me. The thought wouldn't leave my head—would I ever see her again? The maze just had a way of swallowing people up, especially those who took too much comfort in theHouse of Clowns.Mesmerized by them, they often went in and never came out.

FIVE

ACE

Ihad stepped into the maze, and with each cautious step, the wood would complain. The mirrors around me were twisting and distorting the reflection of my body into postures that it never wanted to take. Every glance seemed a trap as it drew the mind further into the maze of illusions. I kept my eyes down, terrified that if I looked too long, I'd lose myself in the reflections, in the maze.

I forced myself to look upward, praying for an escape from these distorted versions of me. Above loomed the three carnival tent roofs, their peaks ablaze with the flicker of red neon lights. These lights blinked rhythmically, almost tauntingly. A perfect distraction, but not enough to pull me away from the growing anxiety.

The laughter of Carlo resounded around me. I saw him dart between the mirrors, playing, having the weird funhouse amuse him, while I inched my way up, catching my breath with every step, claustrophobic. I could hear his voice, the sound bouncing off the walls, distant now, but no matter which way I turned, Ionly saw me: just me, surrounded by these unkind mirrors that refused to be kind.

I stopped and stared at a reflection that managed to stretch me out thin, like a toothpick. My body was unnaturally stretched out, almost disappearing into the mirror. Tears welled in my eyes. This was the version of me that I had always wanted—a version thin to the point of pain it was to look upon. I had spent years fighting my body, wanting to be this fragile, this weightless. And here it was, but it felt so much more like a mockery than a dream.

I blinked away the tears, turning to face another mirror and finding my breath catching in my throat. This time my body ballooned outward, chubby and wide, filling the frame from edge to edge. I pressed my palms against my face, the points of my nails digging into my cheeks as I stared at the person in view in every reflection, every day. The version of myself I hated more than anything else was this—the one I was stuck with, inescapable. The one that would always feel unacceptable.

My heartbeat quickened and the weight of a lifelong struggle weighed down upon me from this funhouse and its twisted images. Spinning again, wild for something different. But the mirror now framed a version of me that others still envied: small waist, thin arms, round hips and legs. It was the shape they told me I was supposed to covet, the body others might dream of. But not me. I stared at her—at me—and felt nothing but emptiness. I had never been able to love this version either. And deep down, I was afraid I never would.

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