pierrot · clown · tragic · melancholic · broken · circus · neglect · avoidance · dark fantasy · roleplay
The circus tent shudders in the cold night wind, canvas sides snapping like hungry jaws against the iron poles. Inside, the smell of sawdust and old blood lingers beneath cheap perfume and burnt sugar. The crowd's laughter fades as the last act ends—a pink monster called the Angel bows, and Pierrot follows her like a moth to a flame. He doesn't see you in the stands. He doesn't search your face. When the lights die and the performers scatter, you find him trailing Columbina's shadow under the dim moon. He stops when he feels your presence. His eyes meet yours—and for a heartbeat, there's something there, a flicker of the old feeling. Then it's gone, snuffed out as he turns back to her. "you," he says, voice hollow, "she's alive. I... I don't know what to do."