Circus of Silence

Song of Superiority

 ~*~

A job, she explains.

A job in which the cons pale compared to the gains.

You want to tell her you have a job- but you can't remember what you do.

The bright lights and candy have turned your mind to goo.

~*~

                It's hard to have a commotion without any sound. But commotion was exactly what was going on, atop the mound. Manic panic. The performers, Other and relatively normal alike, were crowding around the Circus gates, pounding at an invisible barrier under the words WELCOME HOME. It would have been a funny sight to behold, had it been a different tale being told.

"Lise," Harrison started, and then he realized that Rosalind didn't understand. She was almost as new to this life as he was. It would take a while to grow accustomed to the buzz. Unlike him, she could not suck information from her subjects' minds. "The sword thrower's assistant," he clarified, pointing at a woman with hair the same dark red as wine. Different than Whisper's brother's. "is quite upset. Her husband- the sword-thrower- just... disintegrated."

"Disintegrated?"

Harrison made a fist and then let it go, not bothering to keep his cry of 'Poof' low. Half a dozen heads swivelled to face him and Harrison's hands hovered over his temples, his eyes squeezing shut. Headaches. "Oh... and so did... a lot of other people."

"They disintegrated?" repeated Rosalind.

"Like Shula, they said. Though I don't know the name. They say that it's his fault- that he is to blame." And then, right before their eyes, the scary clown with the everlasting smile crumbled like a destroyed sandcastle and blew away in the wind.

Towards her.

Rosalind covered her mouth, puffing out her cheeks like she would when passing a graveyard. Would some poor soul plant their flowers in those ashes? She wished they would, when most of them caught in her lashes.

Rosalind sneezed, rubbing the zombie-matter frantically off her face, her dress, her hat. She found with a start that the surface was flat. The ashes had disappeared as soon as they'd come.

Harrison blinked, his face contorting into something awful.

"What?"

"You just... absorbed..."

Absorbed? How appalling! Rosalind gagged like no good lady ever should. She hoped, wholeheartedly, that she'd misunderstood. "Human remains," she coughed.

"Other."

"What?" a rosy-red Rosalind repeated.

"They say they aren't people- or most of them aren't. They call members of the marquee 'Other'. You're a Witch, Whisper is Silent Girl, her brother is a tiger. But you're all under the same tent. That's why they call this troupe the Marquee."

"What are you?" The Marquee members were still dragging their fingers down the invisible wall that kept them inside. They were taking turns, their rotations moving in and out like a shifting tide. She'd help them, if she could.

Harrison heard her hopes. He frowned and the look planted an uncomfortable cold like a seed in her heart. It would grow if she let it- but an eternity was an awful long time to feel sad. "No one gets out of this place, they tell me. This is the Circus Everlasting. While we're here, we last. And if the Witch says our time has passed-"