The Greatest Showman: March One-Shots

17. Book

prompt has been modified bc it was weird lol

this one's a fave... enjoy! ;)

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Anne doesn't think she's ever seen a line as long as the one of people waiting for P.T. Barnum to sign their copy of his memoir, Barnum Humbug. She's sat beside him at the table, hands nervously folded in her lap, as she's sure to smile and greet every person who approaches. She's even taken a few pictures with some overly enthusiastic fans; but she hopes they won't be able to see just how forced her smile is. How it's bound to crack any minute now.

As P.T. opens up the front cover of every book, taking his Sharpie and effortlessly scribbling down his name for eager fans, Anne watches him out of the corner of her eye. Each time he opens up the book, she can't help but think about that one chapter that basically reveals her entire story to the world.

It's not like she hadn't given P.T. the okay, but, at the time, she seemed more ready for it than she is now. Now, the fact that people have actually read it or will actually be reading it scares her. She's never been too good with the public eye knowing her inside and out. It's something she's always struggled with, for as long as she can remember.

Another forced smile. Another camera flash. Page 42.

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It was another regular day. Anne and W.D. were rehearsing their new act while the other oddities took a lunch break. The two trapeze artists had already taken lunch; that was how rehearsals went at the Barnum Circus.

"Ready to try that one again?" W.D. asked, hanging on the rope dangling beside him. A thin layer of sweat shone on his biceps.

"Yep," Anne responded, all smiles. She hoisted herself up onto the rope, then shimmied up to the top. She grabbed hold of the rafters in the ceiling, then comfortably positioned herself on her hoop. W.D. was ready across from her.

"Alright. Let's go!" W.D. shouted.

They both effortlessly began their new act, twisting and turning and jumping from one bar to the next. At one point in the routine, the siblings were to grab ahold of the same bar, and then jump to the next bar in front of them, opposite where they started. It was a fairly easy move, they just had to let go a second apart so that they wouldn't accidentally slam into each other. They hung there for a moment, looking at one another with wide smiles, breathing heavily.

"You ready?" Anne asked. W.D. nodded in reply.

Anne, using her momentum and upper body, swung her legs back and forth for a moment, and then let go of the bar, propelling herself towards the next nearest bar, two feet in front of her.

She miscalculated. Her hand was unable to reach it, and it took a beat for her to realize that she was falling, screaming louder than she ever had before.

Not even five seconds later, she hit the dirt floor.

She was conscious, but barely. Pain flared in her body—especially her tailbone, which took the brunt of the impact, and her elbows, which snapped forward underneath her as they prevented her head from smacking against the floor first. Something she had learned in her first week of trapeze classes, back when she was just a little girl.

Faces surrounded her in an instant. She thought she saw P.T. and Phillip.... oh, yeah, and there was W.D. Talking to her, but they sounded like screams. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to move but found it impossible. A strangled sound got caught in her throat and tears stung the corners of her eyes. She wanted to cry, to scream, but her body was in too much shock. It wouldn't let her.

"Anne," she thought she heard, sounding like it was underwater, and her eyes opened for just a moment. Only two faces surrounded her now, but her mind was too cloudy to figure out which one left.

Two fingers against her neck. She could feel that much. She hoped they belonged to W.D. He would be proud of how she managed to save herself from immediate death...

Her eyes slipped shut.

The next few hours were torture for W.D., for Phillip, for P.T and the oddities. They filled the hospital waiting room, pacing back and forth, tears streaming down some's faces. Most were too petrified with fear to cry, to pace, to say anything. Because they knew that 50-foot falls were not easily survivable.

It was two hours and twenty-seven minutes later when a doctor finally appeared with that sterile lab coat and stupid clipboard. W.D., Phillip, and P.T. were on him in an instant. Not vocalizing anything just yet, but their nervous eyes asked a million questions.

"Gentleman," the doctor began, rather monotonously, his face void of any giveaway emotions, "we are still not 100% certain, as we can never know with these kind of situations, but we believe that Ms. Wheeler will be all right."

There couldn't have been better news, even if there had been a pregnancy announcement. W.D. all but lifted the doctor off his feet in a bone-crushing hug, and tears were finally shed among the oddities as the two ringmasters went around and hugged everyone and each other.

But every happy note must eventually end with a sad one. For the circus crew, it was: "However, I'm afraid that there is no way Ms. Wheeler will be able to do... trapeze work... ever again."

A shattered tailbone. A bruised C5 vertabrae. Potential permanent paralysis from the hips down. Two broken wrists and nearly irrepairable elbows. A minor concussion.

Phillip fell to his knees, burying his tear-covered face in his hands.

"I expect that she will live," the doctor continued, keeping his eyes level as the sound of soft cries filled the room, "but the rest is uncertain for the time being."

"Can we go see her?" W.D. asked through his tears, using the back of his hand to wipe his nose.

"Yes, of course. But only one at a time."

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Another forced smile. Another camera flash. Page 42.

It's not like she hadn't given P.T. the okay, but, at the time, she seemed more ready for it than she is now. Now, the fact that people have actually read it or will actually be reading it scares her. She's never been too good with the public eye knowing her inside and out. It's something she's always struggled with, for as long as she can remember.

As P.T. opens up the front cover of every book, taking his Sharpie and effortlessly scribbling down his name for eager fans, Anne watches him out of the corner of her eye. Each time he opens up the book, she can't help but think about that one chapter that basically reveals her entire story to the world.

Anne doesn't think she's ever seen a line as long as the one of people waiting for P.T. Barnum to sign their copy of his memoir, Barnum Humbug. She's sat beside him at the table, hands nervously folded in her lap, as she's sure to smile and greet every person who approaches. She's even taken a few pictures with some overly enthusiastic fans; but she hopes they won't be able to see just how forced her smile is. How it's bound to crack any minute now.

She just hopes that it's out of nervousness, not out of her insecurities over the fact that she's stuck in a wheelchair.