Black Circus

I dressed up to the nines that night. Total black. The exhibition inauguration was at 9 pm. I had been waiting a long time to have the opportunity to look at his paintings. That painter had a hint of damnation, a melancholy hidden behind the mask of joy. He had been abandoned when he was a child, soon finding his place in the circus that brought him up. He became a great trick rider, but something inside drew him to painting. With my champagne glass, I was finally standing there, staring at his clown. I’ve always feared clowns, behind that friendly smile they hide a far too deep anguish. The clown was staring at me, too. I was studying him, so close I didn’t even realize I could almost feel his breath. Suddenly, something clutched my arms, and I was floating in thin air, letting the glass slip from my hand. I had been swallowed up. I found myself on the back of a black horse, panting and running on the circus floor. The audience was clapping. The animal bucked me off. When I woke up, a bunch of weird silhouettes was standing around me. An old dwarf, with a beak where his nose, two girls, conjoined twins - their heads attached - and an old half-face hag. – You’re welcome my dear, welcome to the black circus. You’ll never leave here. They dressed me as a clown. Told me I would see the world. Now, every day I see many new faces. From my painting. My new home. You might hear a scream if you get closer. Circus trap.