A Victorian Ghost is in My Mirror

Ringleader's Circus

Chapter Four

Ringleader's Circus

“Johnny. . .”

No answer.

“Johnny. . .wake up. . .”

Still no answer.

“How exactly are you sleeping anyway? Aren't you, like, dead or something?”

This was getting old.

“WAKE UP!”

The redhead snapped awake, eyes still groggy but trying to focus. It was absolutely ridiculous, the fact that he actually slept. It made no sense at all. Then again, the very fact that I expected sense made no sense in itself.

“. . .Memi?” He asked. I sighed, and started to pack my things.

“I'm going to school now. While I'm gone try to think of things you might want, things that could make you pass on. I'll be back.”

Little did I know of the sad expression my friend would make when I slid out that door.

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A still moment came. Excited was not the emotion that Johnny Grimoir felt, though. No, I think not that one's eyes are watered and pouring out tears in excitement.

“You promised not to die,” Said he, clutching at the small hand so similar to his. Promises are stupid things, he thought to himself, so, so very stupid. Why do we make them?

He had no answer to come back to him. He would never have an answer again. No matter how tightly he clutched his fellow's hand, no matter how many tears he shed over his dead body, he would never return. Never, never again.

In ragged sobs and ragged breaths, he whimpered out his last words to his dear friend and comrade, “Remember, Mule,” With one fist he struck the dead body as hard as a boy could, over and over and over again, “REMEMBER, YOU DAMN BRAT!”

He dissolved into tears again, once more, “A. . .circus. . .is nothing. . .without its. . Acts.”

A hand was placed on his shoulder, dainty yet warm. “Come on, Johnny,” its embodiment said, “There's nothing more we can do.” The voice was foolish to try and pretend it was any happier than its Ringleader.

“. . .Right. Bring me my mask.”

The white item was placed before him. Johnny grabbed it with a calm and steady hand and secured it onto his face, breathing in the smell of the salt water that coated it. Little did he know that forever on and forward that smell would haunt him. That smell, and that smell alone, played a very important role in this young lad's fate.

“The circus, my boys!” And from the on, his voice was changed. A voice, no longer saddened and innocent.

A voice, that was now, as manic as the grin of the Cheshire.

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There are times when I worry about Johnny. There are times when I wonder what he even does all day, without me. Does he just sit and stare? Does he sing? What does he do?

I cast my thoughts away to the night I heard him yelling, at himself. The guy was loud enough to wake the whole house, a wonder how it was only me.

Those words that he said as I listened in, motionless, still gave me chills. “You know I'm always here for you.” “You can't hide from her.” Those things that Johnny would never say. What went on? Who was he talking to? Who could he be talking to?