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Rain flooded with the refuse, oil, and grime of the city bled into cracked sidewalks littered with soggy newspaper scraps and discarded cigarette butts. You stood out in the gloom like a neon sign with your rainbow umbrella in hand as you hurried down the familiar streets to your distant sanctuary of the coffee shop you worked. Your step so brisk on your hurried way that you nearly missed the commotion on the other side of the street. A large, burly man, words slurred and posture unsteady, had a much taller figure backed against a sodden brick wall. The taller figure, though dressed in dark colors, was strikingly out of place in the monochrome gray of the city dressed in red and black motley as he was. Undoubtedly a member of the horror-themed circus that had settled into the city’s forgotten fringes a month or so ago.
You don’t quite remember the name at that moment, but the circus fliers were all over the place. It took only one side glance at a mangled telephone poll punctured with staples and patched up with pamphlets to remind you of its eerie epithet: “The Freak Circus of Horrors”.
“Freak!” the brute spat, shoving the tall performer’s chest with sudden force. “Where the hell are they, huh? I know it’s you all who took ‘em! People started going missing when you monsters got here! Where the hell are they?”
Another shove from the man sent the clown onto the drenched ground, his long, silver-gray hair fell around his pale, masked face. He offered no resistance despite his larger stature, only a silent, accepting submission of the brutality being inflicted that ignited something fierce in your chest. You didn’t know the performer, but it didn’t matter. Your anger was ignited and stoked by the principle and injustice of what you were seeing alone.
“Hey!” Your voice cut through the wet air sharper than you intended, the people walking by barely reacted to you or the circus performer in distress. It was just another day in this hellish city, nothing new to a native born into this cradle of crime, and yet there you stood in stark contrast to the apathy and numbness of soul the rest of them showed. “Leave him alone!”
The man turned, a sneer creasing his features like the crumpled paper that cluttered and clogged the streets. “Mind your own damn business!” But you were already crossing the street towards him. Your umbrella became an impromptu weapon gripped in both hands like a bat you would not hesitate to use.
“Take your own advice,” you spit back, your voice firm despite the tremor settling in your knees as the back of your mind became aware of how outclassed you were in size and strength here. “What, you think just because you’re meaner and drunker than everyone else at 10am on a weekday you can just yell at whoever sticks out in your path? Get lost!”
The brute hesitated, looking up and down at you through the haze of his inebriation. Then at last he grunted slurred obscenities and went stumbling down the street. As he retreated, you turned to look down at the figure on the ground. The clown in red and black was watching you, entirely and unnaturally still. You could see where his outfit was getting soaked with water, so you stepped closer, rationalizing that the reason he was so still and silent had to do with the fact that he’d been knocked to the ground.
You dropped your umbrella to the side and reached out with both hands to help him straighten up to his full, impressive height. He was easily over six feet. Which really caught you off guard now that you were standing beside him. It wasn't just the height, but the strange, almost fragile vulnerability in how he held it. His face was mostly obscured by a white mask, streaked with black markings, but you could see golden eyes peering at you from the darkness within. His head tilted to the side. It should have been unsettling. It was unsettling, and he still wasn’t talking. Yet, coupled with the hesitant, almost childlike tilt of his head and the tentative quirk of his permanently smiling mouth, it crossed a line into a sort of creepy-cute overlap. Adorable, in a way that made your breath catch and your pulse jump unexpectedly. Something you imagine you’d feel encountering a young wolf in a forest; both wanting to pet its adorable head and run away for fear of the danger.
You saw the scrape on him then, high on his temple, just out of reach of his mask, where he’d hit the wall. It oozed a thin line of crimson. Nothing serious, but he was hurt.
“You're bleeding,” you murmured, rummaging in your satchel bag. Your fingers fished out a small, hand-sized tin containing adhesive bandages. Coincidently, your photography hobby had you often gaining minor scrapes from crawling and shimmying into all sorts of odd positions, so you always had bandages on hand. You pulled out a bright pink one stamped with the face of a cartoon cat. Hoping that the brightness might cheer him up.
“Here, this should help you.” Tentatively, mindful of any movement that would suggest he didn’t want you to come closer, you gently pressed the bandage over the scrape. He didn’t flinch. Moreso, he looked at you with a kind of awe, his golden eyes chased your movements with evident intensity. When you finished, smoothing the edges down meticulously, a slow, wide smile stretched across his face. It was a wide smile, too wide, revealing the triangular, glistening sharpness of his teeth. Razor points all throughout, taking the place of variation a normal mouth would have. Hinting at an unnatural nature you couldn’t quite comprehend, and dismissed as part of his costume.
You felt undeniably interested and attracted to his odd nature though, even if you thought it all to be parlor tricks and little more. You’d never seen or met someone so instantly fascinating as this man. “There, does that feel any better?”
He didn’t speak, but his smile remained true. The quiet mystique of him only added to the level of charm you felt. He dipped his head once, a silent, graceful nod. Then, with the fluid, almost aethereal grace you’d later become more acquainted, he melted away into the alley's gloom without a sound.
And just like that, your life snapped back into its usual monotony.
Work blurred in its typical, semi-stressful sameness. Surrounding you in a symphony of cranky morning commuters demanding quadruple-shot espressos, the repetitive hiss of the steaming wand, the froth of the milk foam, and the clatter of ceramic cups.
By mid-afternoon, the day had taken to its usual rhythm, until a sudden burst of color interrupted the monotony. A familiar, lanky figure dressed in motley appeared outside the rain-drizzled front windows, his presence impossible to miss. It was the same man you had helped, had he followed you here? He stood so unnaturally still, seeming to watch you with an unwavering, fierce intensity. Not once did he even blink. The sight filled you with a giddy energy, a mix of awe and excitement that made your pulse race.
Without thinking, you gave him a small wave before turning back to your work of tamping down espresso grounds. Even though you wanted nothing more than to stare back and lose yourself in that moment, you forced yourself to focus, you didn’t want to fall behind in your work and suffer the ire of your impatient customers.
He didn't wave back. Instead, his long, leather clad fingers rose as he slowly leaned forwards. He exhaled softly onto the cold glass pane, fogging it. Then, with one sharp, black-taloned fingertip, he began to draw. A heart. And then another and another. A whole parade of misshapen, wobbly-but-still-endearing hearts emerged on the clouded glass.
Your boss looked on at the entire exchange between you and the odd circus performer and huffed. “Those circus freaks give me the creeps. Like that one’s possessed or somethin',” his eyes fix on you with the cautious look a father would give one of his own.
“He’s harmless,” you murmured, your eyes lifted to steal another look at him in the window. He was now tapping the glass softly where the largest heart bloomed, directly opposite your position. When you looked, he then deliberately placed one black-gloved hand over his chest, over his own heart. Your boss shook his head, turning away to assist a customer who’d just walked in.
Your instant camera, always close at hand and currently tucked beneath the counter, suddenly became an essential tool. With hasty movement, you retrieved it and snapped a picture. The satisfyingly familiar whir-click signaled that the moment had been captured successfully.
Surprised, the man blinked rapidly, the golden glow of his eyes flickering in and out of view with the flutter.
Then he preened. His chin tucked down into his chest, making his wavy collar flare around him like a lion’s mane. The glee and exuberance of his joy mirrored your own giddy excitement. Tilting his head, he offered a shy, fluttering wave, followed by that dazzling, sharp-toothed smile. Until, in an instant, he backed away from the light of the window and vanished into the gloom of the city again.
The photograph slipped out the front of the camera, and it developed quickly. The details bleeding from black nothingness to the sharp and vivid image of the man. For now, you placed it on a shelf beneath the register, where you could stare at the captured scene. Later, when you return home, the image will decorate your wall. Where it will remain to nurture the sweet weight of a budding obsession to grow and settle deep within your bones.
Your boss had to leave early for an appointment, and since you were the only staff member who came in today, you’d need to close the shop. You sighed, knowing the reality of closing solo was never fun, but at least you’d get to go home early. The shop emptied slowly as the rain returned, heavier outside now and loud enough to be heard on the roof.
Upon finding yourself alone in the empty coffee shop, he appeared outside once again. Water collected on his attire, causing strands of his silver-gray bangs to cling to his sleek mask. He held a thin object in his gloved fingers, tucked close to his chest to keep it dry. His expression was hopeful, and his golden eyes burned into you like a welcoming fire.
You opened the door, practically coaxing him as if he were no more threatening than a stray cat. He entered quietly, carrying with him the scent of cool rain. Without speaking, he presented the object to you: a single paper flower, carefully crafted and painted a deep red. The flower’s scent was immediately noticeable as metallic and coppery, strongly reminiscent of wet iron or blood.
Your gaze snapped from the flower to his hairline. The pink cat bandage you’d given was gone. In its place, just under his silver fringe, was a raw, jagged cut, freshly reopened, trickling a slow, viscous line of dark red down his temple. Understanding clicked cold and sharp. The flower wasn’t painted with something as simple as paint.
You’d never felt so exhilarated that a slow, dizzying warmth spread through you. It wasn't horror tightening your chest, it was something joyful and adrenaline-charged. He made this. For you. With part of himself. You didn’t even know his name yet, and you were hooked by this man’s odd nature already.
A smile, wide and utterly genuine, curved the edges of your lips. “It's beautiful,” you breathed, your voice soft and genuine. You accepted the flower, the paper cool and slightly stiff. The coppery tang intensified as it was brought closer. Without breaking eye contact, you pulled your instant camera up from your apron. “Actually, could I have a picture of you with it? Please?”
A spark ignited in his eyes, like oil splashed in fire. He took the flower back, holding it with reverent care near his painted cheek. Your camera clicked, then flashed. The image developed: his pale face, streaked with rain and blood, the crimson flower and his happy smile a shocking counterpoint to the more visceral details. It was perfect, he was perfect.
“Right,” you murmured, pocketing the picture like a hoarded treasure. “Now, you come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You guided him toward the coffee counter, your hand gestured to one of the stools at the bar. He settled onto the seat, his posture attentive and vigilant, eyes tracking your every movement with the still intensity of a gargoyle perched high above the city. Turning to the sink, you took a clean cloth and dampened it with warm water.
“Lean down a bit.” He obeyed instantly, both slouching and tilting his head. His proximity was overwhelming with how tall he was, how unique he looked. You gently wiped away the blood and rainwater, careful around the wound. His breath hitched slightly as you dabbed the cut, a low, involuntary sound escaping his lips that sounded too deep and gravely to be natural.
You weren’t the least bit concerned. “Does it hurt?” You asked softly.
He shook his head minutely, his eyes never leaving your face. When the blood was cleared, the wound looked deeper than you'd realized. You walked away from Pierrot long enough to retrieve the first aid kit from a cabinet and bring it over to him. As you applied antiseptic tenderly, he finally spoke.
“No one touches me,” the words were thick with feeling, and laced with awe. “Not gently. Like you.”
The proximity, the intimate whisper, the stark vulnerability beneath the mask and mystery. You were drowning in him. Anyone else in this situation would be off-put, disturbed even, but you were fascinated and fixated. Everything about him felt interesting and wonderful, from the dangerous edge to the overwhelming sweetness.
As you finished up by smoothing a bandage over his wound, your voice came out husky, wrapped in the tenderness of the moment. “You never told me your name, you know.”
His response was immediate, almost gleeful. “I am the Pierrot, dear one.” The grin behind his mask seemed to stretch even wider, conveying how much joy he took in his chosen moniker.
You repeated it softly, trying the name on your tongue. “Pierrot.” It was not an ordinary name, but it fit him perfectly. Pierrot, the mysterious performer, both whimsical and unsettling. “It’s nice to meet you, again, my name is—”
Before you could finish, Pierrot leaned closer, the distance between you dwindling to nothing. A low, cat-like hum vibrated deep in his chest like a purr. “I know, dear one. I already know.” His words resonated with a quiet certainty, as if he had known you long before that night.
Your heart leaped and raced; you had to distract yourself by returning the first aid supplies to the box so you could look away and hide your warm embarrassment. “There, all better.”
His golden eyes glowed with an intensity that stole your breath, and it wasn’t the only thing. The iron scent of the blood-flower mingled with the sharp, bitter tang of coffee grounds, the fading scent of antiseptic, and the dampness of warm rain clinging to him. It was a perfume so unique to this moment you’d never forget it.
“You’re going to make me love getting hurt, my lovely dear.” His voice was laced with a devious giggle, as if he were hoping you’d do just that. “Just so I can be tended again by your gentle touch. So I can have more bandages for my new collection.”
You took a deep breath. All the excitement of the night was going to make you faint if you didn’t keep your breathing under control. “I’ll give you plenty,” and you meant it. “Just promise me you won’t get so hurt you can’t see me again.”
You had to see him again, there was no question. You'd follow this mysterious man anywhere for another photo and another moment together.
Pierrot’s bright eyes said it all, your words were exactly what he hoped for. “So I may see you again?”
You nodded with a smile. “Absolutely!”
Pierrot flashed a wide grin and, reaching into an inner pocket of his motley, produced a red and black ticket. A pass to the very horror-themed circus he performed. “Take this,” he offered, “for when you choose to visit my home. And when you come to see me, dear one, I will surely make you smile.”
With reverence and care, Pierrot placed the ticket into your hands before stepping back. “Until next time, my dear, my star, I shall leave you for the night.” He bowed deeply, his movement brimming with theatrical grace and heartfelt sincerity as he stood before you.
With a gentle smile, you held the ticket close, pressing it to your chest, feeling its shape against you. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Your words were not a question, but a promise spoken with unwavering certainty.
Pierrot acknowledged your vow with a swift nod, causing his hat’s bells to jingle. Excitement and yearning shone in his golden eyes. Then, without another word, he slipped out the door, disappearing into the shadowy depths of the city. He was gone, leaving behind only the lingering impression of his presence, a strange, exhilarating figure in a world shaped by concrete and crime.
As you stood in the quiet aftermath, clutching the ticket, anticipation drummed in your veins. You could hardly wait for the moment you would see him again.