"When you're down, run off and join a circus." they say.
But this circus has secrets that violate
the strings of life-
✴︎✴︎✴︎
"We can dance until we die...
Ops! Esta imagem não segue as nossas directrizes de conteúdo. Para continuares a publicar, por favor, remova-a ou carrega uma imagem diferente.
✭I want you to touch me there, make me feel like I am breathing✭
She sits across from me. The file is in her lap but it hasn't been opened once.
It's thick with information about her parents and even her uncle. I can't imagine how she feels.
I reach out, holding one of her hands in mine to tell her that I'm here. That she isn't alone anymore. She looks up at me for a quick moment before she sighs and opens the file, not knowing what to expect.
Looking at the file, we see the same page we saw when we first opened it. This time she turns to the next sheet of paper.
Images.
Of all kinds. Images that look like mugshots. Images that look like they were taken without the consent of the individual. It's like some kind of investigation.
The next page is filled with hospital records. The next looks like personal data. The next one is where she hesitates.
"What is it?" I ask, scooting to her side to see the pictures but once I do, I regret it. Polaroid-sized pictures are taped to the page. They're vulgar, unfiltered pictures of two people in a car. Hot, red, and orange flames engulfing them whole.
There are close-ups of the two people after the fire diminished and I feel my stomach gurgle. I feel nauseous and I look away from the terrifying photos.
"My parents," she whispers and swallows. "These are my parents during the accident." I swallow my revulsion and look at the woman next to me. Tears roll one by one down her cheeks.
I feel the pain radiating off of her in short yet brutal waves. "I thought it was just a crash. I never knew—" I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her closer and pushing down the sensation that burns not so deep within.
"We don't have to look anymore." I try to pull the file out of her lap but her hands tighten around it. She looks up at me and I remove my hand.
"Why do they have," her voice breaks. "Why do they have pictures of this?" her face is scrunched in every corner, and confusion and disdain play on her features.
She shakes her head like she doesn't want an answer and shuts the file. It doesn't stay closed as she opens it to the first page once again.
She zeros in on her— Paris's contact.
When she stares at it for long enough, I decide to do the same. It's an address. A phone number. An email. Ways to contact him.
