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“See you later.” Might’ve been the most obvious lie he had ever presented to someone. As his hand slipped off Murro’s shoulder he couldn’t bear to keep eye contact anymore. He turned around sharply, sure to maintain a smile till the very second that the other Morton could still catch a glimpse of his face. He wanted his memory to be that of the young star, The Mike Morton.
His steps were heavy, in harmony with his breath. With each he took he indurated that decision inside of himself. There was no way out by now, the exit gate stood wide open behind his back. The whole park still smelled of burnt sugar and a hint of sulfur, home. He shrugged off the uncomfortably fitting yellow jacket. Still walking on he weighed the pouch that hung by his belt in his hands. He had a few, a few was quite enough. His mind filtered out certain words and he just kept placing one foot in front of the other.
He found himself in the corner. Two walls that were a part of a small construction before. Where they met once stood a cage. A few cages, actually, but one was slightly bigger. The boar inside it would have plenty of space, a human child wouldn’t. There used to be a floor and on that floor he would place a pillow. He would sit on said pillow, his back leaning on the metal bars. Sometimes his hands were occupied by books, candy, toys. They were small enough that he could squeeze them through gaps between bars. He would speak, show, give. For hours on end he could sit on that pillow and leave only when called for. As he stood there, in front of the ruin, he could still smell hay and animal feces, he could see the boy sitting in the far corner of the cage, his hand clutching on the fur of a boar. He could not hear the boy, he rarely ever opened his mouth, but he could hear something else. A voice harsh, a voice demanding along with a finger pointing at the enclosure. That child was stripped off the option to deny, he never was. And like all those times before, all he could do was watch. He would wait it out, then he would bring the pillow out and he would sit.
He put his hand on the wall where it was discolored. Filth still imprinted on it, even after the building collapsed. He rubbed the old paint with the tip of his thumb. His hands, then small enough to fit between bars, did also slip into a sleeping man’s pocket without him opening an eye. When the boy stepped foot on the hay it was winter, the last time he did so without a show was in november. And then he watched too. He observed as the boy struggled to stand, his body burned through its mass like firewood. It was visible on his face, it was caved in, dangerously fair. It’s been a month of just bringing the pillow before the key could victoriously grind in the lock. He broke a nail by scraping it too hard on the wall. He retracted his arm and began sucking the blood, his eyebrows furrowing.
He let go of the wall and opened his pouch. A bomb, usually the tool of havoc, in his loving hands - the gift of entertainment and laughter. He carefully poked a hole in it with a pocket knife. It was the first thing he thought of to bring here, never really considering why. Until now it laid dormant, hidden in his left shoe. The powder spread like ash over the ground. First tears pushed through to moist his eyes. Grains fell one by one with his increasingly slow steps.
Before he knew it he was in front of the funhouse. Once he ran through the halls, he made sure everyone was on duty, checked the decorations. When there were no visitors, in the very early and late hours of the day they all would hang about in the building. There was this elevated stage in the middle, sometimes he practiced on it. Other times he would be around the park and hear screaming from inside. It was very loud, especially after closing. If there were screams he would practice in the tent. One time when he headed towards it she fell out of the entrance. Her back against paved stones. There was more screaming, it stopped only when they noticed him. She begged him to stay quiet about this, her eyes swollen against the purple-ish skin, lips trembling, hands victim to nail biting. Fulfill her wish he did.
He closed his eyes for a moment, his teeth grinding in the stale silence. He pushed through the mole-eaten curtains. Inside he skinned another bomb, its contents all over the stage marked with burns from minor explosions. His legs dragged on even when his mind began rapidly clouding up, as if someone lit firewood at the back of his skull. When he crossed the bridge he noticed a small tophat on it. He mindlessly kicked it away into the river’s icy current.
The merry-go-round. Many hours of spinning around. He liked it, the breeze in his hair, the constant bobbing of the world in front of him and especially that funky feeling when he stepped off it. He could get on any time he wanted to, that’s what he loved. He tried to help her up but one of the strings in her costume caught in the mechanism, the wheels stopped turning. The pointer finger, the voice harsh. He observed from behind, hands clutching his hat. No matter how many genuine apologies she uttered she was not let into the tent that day. He wasn’t sure where she spent the night either. All he could manage was to sneak her needles out to her.
Tssssss - the powder circled around the merry-go-round, the music box still faintly playing. He stumbled. Biting down on his lip he took off that clown nose and tossed it away. He harshly wiped the red makeup off his face. His skin stung but he had to remove it. He discarded the dirty gloves.
The tent’s sign shone as bright as he remembered. As bright as it did when it illuminated the clown falling to his knees. He was the first to see the scene, he would never forget the horrible screech of a man burned by acid. With a pounding heart and cold sweat on his back he remembered that he did not lock his cabinet of explosives. He stood in front of the tent now for a long time. The last time he had run into it it was soaring with flames, he might’ve been just as unwell as he was then. He burned both of his arms badly trying to lift the body of an adult man. It stained his costume with blood and his head with inescapable rage. It was gone now, gone with all four of them. Long gone, freshly opened wound. He almost forgot to use the bomb, but he took it out eventually. It was his last one, the trail behind him already painted black.
Tears began pushing themselves out, he didn’t wish to control their flow anymore. With how much his hands trembled he dropped the knife. It rang in his ears, he closed his eyes once more. With heavy breathing, panting, he ripped the bomb apart. A black mist surrounded him. He dropped to his knees into the ash.
Eyes forced open after all this time. This search, it was all a facade. My whole life was Hullabaloo, I ended with it and I should’ve ended in it. My sin was of ignorance. All of us hated it, Mike! All of us but you! You shiny and stupid doll!
He looked at his porcelain hands wielding the pouch stained with powder. Slowly he took out something hidden in the other shoe. His sobs turned into hard cries. He swallowed the tears, choking on the smoky air. Phlegm blocked off the airway, he coughed with his head hung low above the dirt. He clutched onto his shirt with his left hand as he felt the sour acid of his stomach make its way up.
At the end of the day they all gathered in front of one table and ate. He liked it most about not being a traveling circus anymore: the mundane end of the day. And he could see all their smiles then, he could say a joke or two, flash a smirk, they would laugh too. He could pay them a compliment, bring one for a hug, drink to their names. Dinners were lovely. He could forget, they could…?
He reluctantly grabbed a single match and looked at it. Slowly the image unblurred, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his costume. He crawled forward, weak in spite of the years of training his body took. When he reached the real stage of the circus he kneeled on it. Fighting with nausea he picked up the match again. He looked in front of himself. The chairs, now broken and rotting away, once filled with an audience. And they cheered, oh how they cheered.
Mike Morton! Mike Morton! Mike Morton!
He closed his eyes. He stood up. The corners of his lips curled up. He chuckled with his strained voice. When he opened his eyes again he bowed in front of the audience. With one swift movement of his arm he lit the match up, when he bowed again - he dropped it. He had never seen an explosion bring flames so instant, so tall. Columns of fire shone in his big blue eyes.
And through his own pained screams, as they gradually lowered in volume, he could hear a smooth male voice, with a kind of low undertone. It was used to shout his name, that he was aware of. In his last moments everything, every sense mushed together and he could no longer identify the source of the voice. He couldn’t tell if it came from the man he last saw by the gate or the one he unknowingly parted ways with years ago in this same place.