The Showman

A man is most often limited in the short span that may be his time. Either it be his clothing, his hair, his dress, or put rather quite simply; life. This man is most often a showman. He dances and flips and skips. The children laugh while outsiders scowl, but this man knows it’s to be expected. That’s what the others had told him with one small advantage, a payment throughout his troubles.

His chest burns slightly.

What a thing to desire; a prize or a wish. This man doesn’t lust for fame, just a fortune.

This fortune will solitude his hope, become solace to his heart. The simple reminder of what he could earn, and all the things he could lose.

This Showman looks around the room, eyes flickering as he acts. They’re painted with makeup to look like a clown, and on the inside, he feels just as foul. He watches as the children skip, a light expression to his curb-appeal. He thanks them, but only ever silently, with small gifts such as candies.

The burning becomes more intent.

The makeup on his face begins to reside as the day wears on and on; the children leave, the sun droops slightly; and the man lifts a gloved hand to wipe it. It comes away smudged with white and red, brightly contrasting his fortitude.

The burning reaches his lungs.

The Showman packs his things to leave, when a final child comes wandering.

The boy is small, with hair like his own, in a red shirt clutching his mothers hand. The Showman falters at seeing his face, and behind him, a rolling cart of oxygen.

But the boy is smiling, so the Showman masks his own, handing the boy a bright blue balloon before sending him off with a wink and a skip, and a tender smile from the boys mother.

She almost pays him—it’s what the Showman has been waiting all day for—but he can’t find it in him, not quite at this moment, to accept the boys mothers gratitude.

Because of one small reason; he knows this boy.

He was him, only a few years ago.

The burning doesn’t hurt as much, and he can imagine himself falling asleep.

And for all that talk, of finding a miracle, now he’s not so scared. Because he found this boy again, and he’s watching as he walks into the sun. His chest and lungs are no longer burning, and he no longer puts on a mask. The Showman no longer smiles for others, they’ve all seen through his act. So he doesn’t pretend the oxygen mask is something it isn’t, and that his IV’s aren’t a curse.

He pictures the boy—no, himself—once more, wondering all of what could have been. He’s worked and worked most days of his life, maintaining something that turned into nothing. So he closes his eyes, and to the sound of his flatline, lays himself to rest.