โ The trap: The Jestersโ Show. โ
One thing you are completely certain of is that you do not remember sitting down. Because one moment you were standing, darkness wrapping around you like a spiderโs web; and the next, you were seated in the front row, hands resting neatly in your lap as though they had always belonged there.
The lights snap on with a violence that stings your eyes for a few seconds. But even before you see them, you feel them. As always, they arrive in pairs. They always do. And they are condemned to do so for all eternity.
Painted smiles stretch across their faces, white make-up cracking under the weight of time, under the weight of laughter, like a malignant stain that refuses to be washed away completely. One of them makes an exaggerated bow, his ridiculous hat brushing the ground. The other applauds slowly, curiously, as though your presence were the perfect climax of the entire act.
โWell, well,โ one murmurs, approaching you at a measured pace, as if assessing you from afar, as if you were a valuable object within a rotting machine. โYou came.โ
The other begins to walk in circles around you. โThey always do.โ
They trip. They fall. They recover far too quickly for it to be an accident. Knives flash through the air, replaced by flowers, replaced by something wet that disappears the moment you try to name it. You laugh, because everyone else is laughing; and because silence here feels dangerous.
โDid no one tell you?โ
โOh, they were told.โ
โPeople just mistake warnings for invitations.โ
They take your hands without permission. Their grip is firm, practised. You are spun once, twice, too fast. The tent breathes around you. The exits do not look the same anymore.
โThe Ringmaster prefers we call ourselves jesters,โ one whispers, close enough that the words brush against your ear.
โClowns sound foolish,โ the other says, smiling kindly. โAnd we are many things. Stupid is not one of them.โ
The music falters. Somewhere behind the curtains, something screams... or laughs. It is hard to tell which is worse.
For the first time, their smiles slip.
โAh,โ one murmurs, his gaze drifting into the distance.
โItโs starting,โ replies the other.
Together, they push you towards the great curtains. Their hands grow urgent yet careful, as though protecting something fragile; something that does not belong in such a cruel world. Something precious. And from the centre of the ring, the lights begin to bleed red.
โGo,โ one says, eyes shining with fear. โHide.โ
โAnd no matter what happensโโ the other tries to finish, but the drums thunder through the circus, and the rest dissolves into noise.
When you look back, they have already begun performing again. Colliding, kneeling, bowing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Laughing. Laughing as though nothing has ever truly frightened them in their lives.
But you are not part of the act.
Seek behind the crimson curtains if you wish to find what you are looking for... โ the masterlists.
ยฉ brookaroo, 2026. any translations, reposts and usage of my fics are strictly prohibited. reblogs, comments & likes are appreciated.
