"Abbott," Mrs. Smalls called out as I set up the trapezes high
above the platform. That's what he calls me, and I hate that
name so much... My surename is a burden I carry around, a legacy of betrayal and pain from my father. Smalls was aware of how much I hated it. That was the whole reason why he used it.
"I don't think I need to remind you the matter of this show." You
sure don't. Is there a single being left that you haven't bothered yet? "It is the greatest thing the circus has ever seen! If we are successful, we will reach the places you can never imagine!! Caleb Sinclair, the legendary musician and inspiration to many, has graciously agreed to visit our circus. You should be more thrilled to welcome him."
Of course, music holds a special place in my heart, and I often
find myself lost in song, belting out melodies in the privacy of my
own mind. But these are merely whispers of a deeper longing, a secret passion known only to myself. When I heard tales of Caleb Sinclair, the renowned frontman, I remained skeptical, unsure if the hype surrounding him is warranted. Perhaps the only true measure of his character lies in his reaction to our circus performance. If Caleb proves to be an admirer of our art, he may very well become our most ardent advocate, propelling us to newfound heights of success. Only time will tell.
Wouldn't it be tragic if "the greatest thing the circus has ever seen," was somehow ruined? The moment I'd been waiting for had come, ruining what was most important to Smalls. Haven't I made myself clear? I'm going to commit suicide at the end of my final show. The star of the circus, Ian, falls off the trapeze. Then there's darkness, the infinite darkness. Everyone will think it was a tragic accident. Except for one, Smalls. He raised me as the best, knowing I wouldn't fall. What was I saving myself for? I fought with the thought for as long as I can remember. They say suicide is a hellish sin. Do people commit suicide for joy? Or because of the endless pain that their helpless bodies and minds cannot handle? Life is a filthy swamp where you are dragged deeper and deeper, where hope is nothing but deception. The real hell is on earth.
I'll be performing tonight, for the last time. My eyes will meet
Smalls' as I fall. The last expression, before he sees my shattered head, will be my shit-eating grin. Can there be a better ending?
I finished the stage set up and left the tent, not wanting to be
around people unless it's necessary. I don't like what I see here: Animals are starved before shows to make them perform better, not even mentioning the violence used during training. I wish there was something I could do, but people are monsters. The trainer and our elephant, Daisy, were locked in an intense period of rehearsals. They've been pushing Daisy harder than ever before, ensuring every movement, every step was perfect for this monumental event.
I came face with my bruised body in the mirror as I was doing my makeup. I couldn't bear to see the details so clearly, couldn't stop the tears from flowing. Facing all these bruises, cuts and wounds that hurt. They are a part of me, a trace of everything I've been through. As I said, I've been battling suicidal thoughts for so long; these razor cuts, sometimes a knife, helped. A scratch and the blood starts to flow with sweet pain. The wound is red at first. It fades over time and eventually turns white, but it never goes away. Fortunately, it's nothing makeup can't fix. I wiped my tears, finishing my makeup. It's show time.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages, welcome to the
Greatest Show on Earth, where the impossible becomes possible and the different are embraced! The circus begins!"
I'm backstage listening to Ringmaster Smalls spout his usual
motivational speeches. As I bide my time, I observe the crowded venue – each ticket accounted for, including those offering limited views. This event promises to leave a lasting impression. In the first row, I spot a tall individual radiating self-assurance while exuding a quiet restraint. Based on the reactions of those nearby, I deduce this must be Caleb Sinclair, the esteemed musician whose attendance signifies the magnitude of tonight's production. His outward demeanor suggests confidence and charisma, yet beneath the surface, I sense a thoughtful and reserved individual, a trait I've come to respect in those who command attention.
"The Stray!" My name announced and the curtain fell, I'm already there. The crowd cheered and watched with bated breath as I
performed. I did my final flip, keeping my eyes on the floor, visualizing what's about to happen. The line between life and death is so thin, one move can make all the difference. The question is whether you do it. Death is a gift, so close your eyes and rest in peace...
With a flourish, I execute a flawless somersault, grasping the
trapeze bar with precision. The thunderous applause of the audience washed over me as I bowed deeply, savoring the adoration. As the lights dim and Ringmaster Smalls' booming voice filled the arena once more, I realized it was only the beginning of my night. My true pièce de résistance awaited me in the final act, where I intend to unveil my carefully crafted plan, leaving the audience in thrill.
In the spotlight, Daisy and her trainer emerged onto the arena,
mere steps away from the ring. Her weary gait betrayed the toll of relentless practice, her body drained from years of service to the circus. Yet, the sheer magnitude of the crowd overwhelmed her senses, amplifying the already intense stage lighting. Despite her exhaustion, Daisy struggled to perform her tricks, each misstep highlighting the gravity of the situation.
Ringmaster Smalls noticed Daisy's faltering performance and
signaled the trainer to wrap things up. However, the trainer, caught up in his eagerness to impress, overlooked the warning signs. He guidedmDaisy backward, unaware of the danger looming. When shestumbled, he pushed harder, prompting her to lunge back unexpectedly. The blinding glare of the stage light hit her directly in the eye, disorienting her further. The platform shaked violently as Daisy crashed into it, sending shockwaves through the audience. A chorus of boos erupted, their volume echoing the chaos unfolding onstage. I etch the expression
on Ringmaster Smalls' face – a blend of horror and disbelief – into my memory, a lasting imprint of the calamity.
In a desperate bid to regain control, the trainer frantically
attempted to soothe Daisy, but to no avail. The elephant, now
unhinged, remaind unresponsive to his commands. From the adjacent seating area, I spotted two boys engaged in a struggle, one seemingly attempting to restrain the other. Suddenly, the boy leaped onto the stage, plunging the already chaotic scene into pandemonium. Unheeded by anyone, he approached Daisy, employing subtle hand gestures to communicate with her. Turning toward the audience, he implored them to quieten down, insisting that their commotion is frightening the elephant.
As the crowd's din subsided slightly, the boy begam to whistle
his own melody, drawing Daisy's attention. The elephant tentatively moved toward him, but her progress was hindered when she's forced to confront the blinding stage light once more, causing her to squint painfully. Simultaneously, the boy located the source of the harsh illumination and gazed it directly. Seizing the opportunity, Smalls swiftly retrieved a stone from the ground and hurled it with precision, striking the spotlight and plunging the arena into temporary darkness.
With cautious yet confident steps, the boy approached Daisy. As he reached out to touch her, a collective sense of awe and wonder washes over the assembled crowd, including myself. An eerie stillness settles upon the tent, punctuated only by the gentle contact between the boy and the elephant. For a fleeting instant, a profound sense of tranquility enveloped us all, gratitude welling up for the stranger's timely intervention. Yet, as ephemeral as a dream, this respite was short-lived.
Daisy's trainer secured a rope around her flailing trunk, guiding her away from the commotion, the brief interlude of tranquility slipped through my fingers like sand. Reality reasserts itself, it was cruel grip tightening. Meanwhile, Smalls stepped up to the microphone, offering a contrite explanation for the incident. Gradually, the audience began to file out of the tent, their expressions mirroring the myriad emotions that swirled throughout the chaotic spectacle. Caleb, however, lingered, one of the final stragglers to exit the premises.
"Vincent!" With the tent nearly emptied, the voice of the other
boy cut through the silence, calling out to the one who had leaped onto the stage. "Come on, brother, let's go." He urged, coaxing Vincent to follow. The pair retreated as the heavy curtains slowly closed, sealing off the spectacle within.
The cacophony of voices grows increasingly frantic, the air thick
with tension as pulses race and anxiety mounts. Smalls' booming voice resonated throughout the tents. Yet, amidst the turmoil, a nagging doubt persists – will there even be another performance after this debacle?
"Stupid ass, you fucked up everything! Fucked up it all! You can't
even take care of a brainless four-legged animal. We lost the best chance we've had in all these years, and it's all your fault!"
"Come train the old elephant yourself, if it's easy! I've worked for
days and now I'm the one to blame, huh? It was none other than you who set up the lights!"
"Son of a bitch! You are in my circus, in my tent. You should be
apologizing, but you are insulting me. How dare you?!" As far as I understood from the voices I heard, they walked towards each other. Insults and death threats flew in the air.
"You're fired!! Leave this place!"
"I already resigned."
"Then get the fuck out!" And silence covered the night like a veil.