• “Wolfcub… Clowns, will never be truly happy…”
    I remember Fredrick looking at me with his sad, grey eyes as he said those words to me. He had been with the troupe since he was young, they had caught him stealing from the crowds who passed through the circus, he was a mere pick-pocket, and they decided to keep him. They decided to keep him as a clown.
    The circus was a dazzling place, if I think back now, I almost feel like returning to it, but then again, the circus was a lie. The place was full of phonies. I remember the lion tamer, out on stage, everything looked so glamorous, the crowds ‘oohed and ahhed’ in all the right places, the lion tamer was a hero, an incredible person, the crowds respected him, he had skill and talent. I always thought so, until I was finally allowed to venture out on my own. He kept the lions in cramped cages, the man was drunk, there was a stench of day old rum about him, and the poor creatures lay in their cages watching him with their steady sad eyes, so similar to Fredrick’s grey ones when he said those haunting words to me. The tamer lumbered about from cage to cage, poking the beasts with a stick, laughing when the lions growled. They could have ripped him to shreds, he wouldn’t have even seen it coming, but they never moved more than their big, sad eyes. I would never know what had made them so cautious of the man, I hope I will never know.
    I grew up in the circus. I never knew my dad, and I have the faintest memory of my mum, but there were stories, there were always many stories. My dad was one of the greatest stars of our troupe, he was known as the wolf-man, that’s why my name is Wolfcub, it was what everyone called me, so it became my name. Dad was there before the lion-tamer, and the lion-tamer didn’t much like him, because dad was better with animals than he was. And dad was kind, people only ever had nice things to say about him, I bet if the wolves could have talked, they would have said nice things about him too. My mother, her name was Estelle. People loved her, she was the main attraction, the flying beauty. I was always jealous of the acrobats; all they seemed to do was have fun. Mum really was beautiful, in my memories she had always seemed so fragile though, so small, engulfed in a halo of silver hair, and glittery outfits. While every one else told me my eyes, dads eyes, were the color of blood, mum always said they were the most beautiful color of vibrant rubies. I think Fredrick loved her, but he also loved dad, and he hated himself, I knew that. All the clowns hated themselves. The reason Fredrick always took such great care of me was probably because he loved mum and dad so much. I remember on the night my mum died, he sat in his bunk and cried, for hours upon hours, I couldn’t see him, I stayed out of sight, I didn’t want him to know I was there, I didn’t understand what was wrong.
    I didn’t know that mum had committed suicide. She had hung herself on the trapeze. I was four at the time.

    Fredrick had wanted me to get out, to run away from the circus, he knew they would make me an acrobat, other than my eyes, I looked just like my mother. As soon as I grew up, I would be the new flying beauty, the new attraction. I didn’t want to leave Fredrick, I wouldn’t leave. I stayed. But I couldn’t swing on the trapeze. I wasn’t afraid of heights, it was just that I had seen mum. Lifeless, cold, disfigured… I was there when they took her down. I couldn’t grab the bar, my hands would sweat and my heart would pound. All I could recall was the horror I felt when I saw it. People told me she had changed after dad died, she had become lifeless, withdrawn. Now that I think of it, every time she smiled at me, it was always a sad smile; she always gazed at my eyes, and smiled a secretive, sad smile. People always seemed to smile sadly at me.

    They made me a clown. Fredrick begged them not to, he got on his knees and clasped his hands together and begged. But that just seemed to fire up their motivation for me to become a clown. I finally understood what Fredrick had meant when he told me that clowns would never truly be happy.
    Our job as clowns was to entertain, but it was also to cover up death.
    On the night my father died, Fredrick had to perform to distract the audience from the sight of father’s death. Someone had fed the wolves something that was making them go wild. They ripped dad apart, the wolves that usually nuzzled their soft wet noses against the palm of his hand, tore him to shreds. The clowns were sent out, as they always are when death occurs. Fredrick juggled balls, got hit with pies in the face, all while holding back tears as he watched the backstage crew move fathers unrecognizable body from the cage of sedated wolves. The audience always fails to notice; they just laugh and jeer at the performance. They think everything that occurs is a well practiced part of the act.
    Fredrick made sure I never became attached to anyone other than the clowns. Just so I wouldn’t have to experience what he did. I think he still feels guilty that he was entertaining a crowd while his best friend was shamefully dragged out of the limelight. Dead.

    It was still horrible. No matter what, the people who died were still people I knew… people I grew up with. Clowns will never truly be happy. All clowns hate themselves. It drove me crazy.
    The depression, the phonies… I hated the liars, the actors, I hated that people laughed and enjoyed themselves while we had our backs turned to yet another dead member of the troupe.

    Fredrick made me run away. He could tell it was devouring me. The darkness, the depression, the loneliness, the guilt, the hatred… It was all too much. He knew, so he made me leave, he said he would kill himself if I were to return. I wish to see him again. But I know that isn’t possible.
    So here I am. Just wondering, hoping that one day I might atone for my sins. Hoping that this cold loneliness will someday ebb away, hoping that somewhere inside me, somehow, I might still have the capacity to love.