Jester
The silent clown’s obsession.
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The circus had always been a place of magic and wonder for me, but tonight felt different. The air was thick with anticipation as I entered the grand tent, the familiar scents of popcorn and cotton candy mingling with the distant sounds of laughter and music. It was busy, filled with excited families and thrill-seekers, but a strange chill ran down my spine as I sat in my seat.
The lights flickered, and the show began. The acrobats soared through the air, graceful and precise, and the animals performed their tricks, each one more astonishing than the last. But then, the clowns entered.
Most were their usual selves—boisterous, silly, playful. But one stood out. He was tall, his costume dark and tattered in contrast to the bright, cheerful hues of the others. His face was painted in thick, exaggerated white and red, but his eyes were different—piercing, cold. There was nothing playful about him. When his gaze swept over the crowd, it always seemed to linger just a little too long on me.
I tried to ignore him, but his presence became overwhelming. He moved silently, fluidly, never speaking, never acknowledging the audience. His every step was deliberate, calculated. And yet, whenever he glanced at me, it was as if no one else existed. His smile, twisted and unsettling, never faltered. It was like he was drawing me in, slowly, with a magnetic force I couldn’t resist.
As the show went on, I found my eyes constantly searching for him, even when I knew I should look away. His silence was deafening, more unnerving than any loud laugh or joke. He was always there, watching, observing me.
When the performance ended and the crowd began to shuffle out of the tent, I stood to leave, but my feet wouldn’t move. I glanced around, and there he was again, standing at the edge of the stage, his dark eyes locked onto mine. He made no move to approach, only stared, the grin on his face widening ever so slightly.