Page 6 of House of Clowns

The reflection facing me began to blur again as renewed tears spilled over, running in black mascara streaks beneath my eyes. It was a little like having that high school version of myself staring back at me. I could almost hear the snickers, and feel the sting of that boy's voice from the table beside me when he called me "fat" so viciously that shards of it continued to cut into meall the way into adulthood. He was heavier, heavier than me, but that did not matter. His words were knives, said to cut me down so he could build himself up. And each tear I cried in those days had only spurred his strength, while I withered inside.

Why people are so cruel, I don't know. Standing here at the moment with this maze around me, broken reflections of who I was and who I could never be, one thing still echoed in my mind; people always seem to see others first—to compare and judge—never satisfied, not enough, not perfect.

Turning again, there he was, just beyond the glass. His figure half-concealed by the mirror stared at me with eyes of piercing blue that followed every movement I made. The white-knuckled hands gripped the wooden frame of the mirror against dark wood. I felt his presence, thick and far away at the same time as if a shadow were standing at the edge of reality.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but something caught him short. The clown mask he wore, bright colors covering the face, masked these words well and truly. It was as if he had hidden from the world for so long that he forgot how to step into it. I also wanted to say something, but the silence between us lengthened, heavy and unspoken. We stood there, two broken pieces staring at each other—fractured and incomplete, like jigsaw puzzle pieces that had never quite fitted into any picture.

"It's okay," he whispered, words almost lost in the space between us. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice louder. "To be like this."

"Like what?" I asked, wiping the smudged mascara from my eyes, the makeup blending with tears.

"Imperfect," he said softly, the outline of his body receding behind the mirror, as though the word itself was glass.

I smiled with a bitter edge to the curve of my lips. "But isn't it easier to pretend?"

He didn't answer, just turned away, the sound of his footsteps fading faintly as he vanished into the maze. It was as if I had said too much, and crossed some line I hadn't meant to cross. But before I could ponder that, he spoke again—this time from behind me. I whirled, startled, to see him behind me, a red rose in his hand. He offered it to me, the roped petals still catching the dim light outside from the carnival.

Pleased yet curious, I took it from him. As my fingers wrapped around the stem, I felt a sudden sting. A thorn pricked my skin and a drop of blood welled on my finger.

"Ouch," I muttered, instinctively bringing my finger to my lips to stop the bleeding.

"Roses have thorns, darling," he said softly, low and moderate. "Nothing perfect is beautiful."

Bringing the rose to my nose, I inhaled the sweet scent even as my finger throbbed in a dull ache. I wanted to thank him, to say something—anything—but looking up, he was gone by then.

"Chiara," Carlo's voice echoed through the maze, distant but clear, calling out my name. I spun around, searching for him. All I saw were mirrors reflecting my confusion back at me, distorted images of myself, and the red lights overhead started to flicker. The maze closed in tighter, mirrors multiplying, lights flashing like warning signals. I was running in circles chasing a voice that seemed to vanish in high-heeled silence with every step.

"Chiara, where are you?" I heard Carlo's voice again, this time more faint, swallowed up by the maze.

"I'm here!" I yelled out, my voice echoing back from the walls, but nobody answered.

I ran, desperate, through reflections of myself that fluttered in and out of existence, always taking me in the wrong direction. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how fast I moved, I wasn't able to find him.

"Carlo?!" I screamed, my voice raw, torn from a deep part of me. Finally, I could see the end of the maze, the exit, but something was wrong. There, beyond the last few mirrors, stood a man. His figure was hunched under a wide-brimmed hat, its brim shrouding his face. He walked very slowly towards Carlo, proffering something from the pocket of his red coat, whose golden buttons shone like so many lamps in the gloom. He stooped towards my brother, holding out his hand with a piece of candy.

"Want to play?" this man asked; his voice was smooth, too smooth.

Carlo hesitated, his small hand reaching out.

"No!" I screamed, my legs kicking into motion finally, but my body felt like it was trudging through the water, every step slow, dragging. He turned far enough that I caught a glimpse of him. It was his jaw hidden beneath a mask—a twisted, crooked smile, white teeth sharp and uneven. The rest of his face was shrouded in darkness, but those eyes, those wicked eyes, locked onto mine. I sprinted, my heart racing as I closed the distance. Still, right before I reached them, two clowns appeared. One of them was tall, his body wrapped in a blue suit, a green wig covering his head, face painted in the exaggerated smile of a clown. He stepped forward and pushed a mirror in front of me; the distorted reflection blocked my way.

The other clown was short and round in his red suit, with a wild mess of black curly hair, and ran another mirror into place and sealed me in.

"Carlo!" I screamed, beating against the cool glass with my fist. My reflection stared back, twisted and distorted, my desperation a mockery of myself. Between the narrow gap between the mirrors, I saw the man start to drag Carlo away, his small hand disappearing in the stranger's. I pushed harder, rocking my weight against the clowns.

I couldn't reach him.

I pushed the taller clown—my body slamming into his—and sent him tumbling to the floor. The mirror fell with him, landing with a dull thud but not shattering. I scrambled over him, but the shorter clown grabbed my arm, yanking me back.

"No!" I screamed, thrashing in his grip. The hand flew out in a panic, catching his face, and my nails dug into his painted skin, dragging through the white grease paint. He let out a sharp yell, the paint smeared under my nails.

"You bitch!" he snarled, voice dripping with venom, as he let me go and stepped backward.

I barely noticed. Already running, my eyes had locked on the spot where Carlo had been. The rose that had been in my hand fell, crushed under the clown's boot as I pushed forward; petals scattered across the dirt. A burst of pain shot through me at the thought of them trampling something so fragile, but I didn't stop.

My brother. I had to find my brother.

I ran through the maze, through the carnival—in all directions, it seemed—pushing past strangers. The faces around me were a blur of wide eyes, judgment, and watchfulness as I stumbled and screamed for help. I grabbed at people, pulling at sleeves, and hands, desperate for someone to care, for someone to stop him, but they looked at me like I was insane. They shook me off, their faces blank, indifferent. No one cared. No one ever really cared.

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