the joker

This is what the boy said:

A spot of white paint still remains on his chin. He has been distracted the last few days, and a little careless. Everyday, he washes away his painted face, then folds his clothes and puts them into a bag. At work, he wears a tailored suit, exquisite and fine, of purple cloth and buttons gold. A shroud of jasmine perfume envelops his brow. There is silver wire that runs down the sides of his hat.

A joker of some repute, people come in droves to watch his show. Deepest night colours his pupils and the whites gleam under the circus’s harsh lights. The circus has acts aplenty but none as popular as his comical lines. At the circus there is joy, no doubt.

Now he heads home, the spot of white paint still clinging to his withered chin, the faint whiff of cheap perfume whispering to the man who sits to his left, the red lights of the cars hurting his restless eyes. In this city of fast cars and neon lights he is finding it harder and harder to breathe as nights go by. The shining numbers of the clock change shape incessantly, moving slower and slower as time passes.

His heart beats faster and faster every day to make sure that his face is as calm as before. The moon’s tranquil wisdom pours itself onto his drying skin; he watches the ground as he walks.

At home, he sits with a cup of tea warming his clammy palms. He speaks to the others, spies on the words of holy men creeping out of the silver box lying in the corner of the room, watches them drill holes in their skulls. The tea is still hot when he gulps it down.