Cirque des Anges
By Firelight
The candle flickered as if an invisible wind had swept through the open tent flap and tickled it; long fingers of an invisible wind pulling at the feathery flame, pulling it along as if they were dancing to nonexistent music. The orange shadows on the wall flashed and rippled, casting long shadows on the children’s faces and glinting on odd objects heaped against the wall of the tent. Something golden yellow glinted on Mercy’s chest, right above the ruffles at the top of her torn and mangled clothing. As quickly as it was seen, it was gone, hidden once again in the shadow of the contours of her body.
While the rest of the tent was black with shadows, the three kid’s eyes were shining brilliantly out from the gloom. Directly across from Isabella, watching the circus activity through the open flap, was Mercy, purple eyes not just watching but disdaining. To her left was Criss, the boy, whose eyes couldn’t be seen behind his closed lids. One hand was at his breast bone, clutching some object on a chain around his neck. To Mercy’s right was the smallest child, Charlotte, obviously the youngest of the three, and by far the most angelic. Her hand was laying in Mercy’s lap, clutching the folds of Mercy’s dress and trembling, dark golden eyes looking up from under a curtain of light blond eyelashes to watch Isabella.
“We’re the circus performer’s kids,” Mercy said in answer to Isabella’s question. Charlotte’s head whipped around to face Mercy, golden curls seeming to absorb all of the light from the candle as they bounced around her head.
“You said-,“ she started, but was cut off by a hand across her mouth. Isabella was stunned; the hand had been so fast she almost hadn’t seen it. Charlotte earned a disapproving glare from Mercy and a silent look that told her to keep quiet. Isabella heard a sharp intake of breath from Criss, and then a muffled sniffling sound as tears glistened, only seen because of the enhanced reflection of the fire in the glassy film over his eyes.
Someone had said something wrong; almost let something important slip out of their dainty mouth. Something they didn’t want Isabella to know, perhaps something they didn’t want anyone to know.
Behind her, the circus screams had died down, nearly gone altogether, the lights that had made the circus glow with a magical aura were gone, leaving only an empty black canvas interrupted only by the outlines of wooden stands and rides, and there were no people there. Rain pounded on the top of the tent, a hollow mantra, and occasional thunder rocked the earth. Visitors had departed and performers had retired to their tents, but no one came into this deepest, darkest corner of the parking lot on which the tents were set up to greet the children.
“Where are your parents?” Isabella asked, concerned that they had no parents, no caretakers, no supervisor of any sort.
“They work late…cleaning up and stuff,” Mercy replied, “and they wouldn’t like it if we had a stranger in the tent when they come back,” she continued. She stood and pulled Charlotte to her feet, too. Isabella gasped in shock; Charlotte’s paper thin nightgown was ripped more than it was whole and dirtier than the floor of the petting zoo. But even worse were the wounds beneath the filthy garment. Gaping holes in her skin, large as the bottom of a cup, roughly wrapped in cloth which had failed to stem the flow of blood. And the blood! It was the exact shade of the sky if you froze time between dusk and midnight, a dark purple color. Charlotte’s thin arms were wrapped around Mercy’s thin body. She looked like she would fall over at any second; legs too frail, back too straight, ribs could be counted through the holes in her clothing. If you’d only seen her face, she could’ve been a fallen angel, but her body had been tortured by the Devil.
Charlotte wasn’t the only one, Mercy was just as thin, even though the skin exposed below the sleeves and above the neckline of her dress was patchy with scars. Her face, too, was beautiful, but any lower and she, too, had seen her fair share of troubles. Before Isabella got the chance to see the boy’s state of being, she stood and drew her hood over her head and her sunglasses back down on her eyes. Through the tinted glass, she could only see the sheen of the fire on their eyes and the candlestick itself as the wax melted and it grew shorter.
“Right, I’m leaving,” she said and turned to rush through the opening. Fresh air soothed her lungs like ice and the cold wind fingered her face gently as she turned to it. Beneath the dark glasses, she openly weeped. Hot streams rushed down her cheeks, though she made not a sound. She put her hands on the cold metal poles of the fence and pulled herself up and over where she hurried off into the darkness, hands shoved deep into her pockets, shoulder huddled up against the wind and rain.
While the rest of the tent was black with shadows, the three kid’s eyes were shining brilliantly out from the gloom. Directly across from Isabella, watching the circus activity through the open flap, was Mercy, purple eyes not just watching but disdaining. To her left was Criss, the boy, whose eyes couldn’t be seen behind his closed lids. One hand was at his breast bone, clutching some object on a chain around his neck. To Mercy’s right was the smallest child, Charlotte, obviously the youngest of the three, and by far the most angelic. Her hand was laying in Mercy’s lap, clutching the folds of Mercy’s dress and trembling, dark golden eyes looking up from under a curtain of light blond eyelashes to watch Isabella.
“We’re the circus performer’s kids,” Mercy said in answer to Isabella’s question. Charlotte’s head whipped around to face Mercy, golden curls seeming to absorb all of the light from the candle as they bounced around her head.
“You said-,“ she started, but was cut off by a hand across her mouth. Isabella was stunned; the hand had been so fast she almost hadn’t seen it. Charlotte earned a disapproving glare from Mercy and a silent look that told her to keep quiet. Isabella heard a sharp intake of breath from Criss, and then a muffled sniffling sound as tears glistened, only seen because of the enhanced reflection of the fire in the glassy film over his eyes.
Someone had said something wrong; almost let something important slip out of their dainty mouth. Something they didn’t want Isabella to know, perhaps something they didn’t want anyone to know.
Behind her, the circus screams had died down, nearly gone altogether, the lights that had made the circus glow with a magical aura were gone, leaving only an empty black canvas interrupted only by the outlines of wooden stands and rides, and there were no people there. Rain pounded on the top of the tent, a hollow mantra, and occasional thunder rocked the earth. Visitors had departed and performers had retired to their tents, but no one came into this deepest, darkest corner of the parking lot on which the tents were set up to greet the children.
“Where are your parents?” Isabella asked, concerned that they had no parents, no caretakers, no supervisor of any sort.
“They work late…cleaning up and stuff,” Mercy replied, “and they wouldn’t like it if we had a stranger in the tent when they come back,” she continued. She stood and pulled Charlotte to her feet, too. Isabella gasped in shock; Charlotte’s paper thin nightgown was ripped more than it was whole and dirtier than the floor of the petting zoo. But even worse were the wounds beneath the filthy garment. Gaping holes in her skin, large as the bottom of a cup, roughly wrapped in cloth which had failed to stem the flow of blood. And the blood! It was the exact shade of the sky if you froze time between dusk and midnight, a dark purple color. Charlotte’s thin arms were wrapped around Mercy’s thin body. She looked like she would fall over at any second; legs too frail, back too straight, ribs could be counted through the holes in her clothing. If you’d only seen her face, she could’ve been a fallen angel, but her body had been tortured by the Devil.
Charlotte wasn’t the only one, Mercy was just as thin, even though the skin exposed below the sleeves and above the neckline of her dress was patchy with scars. Her face, too, was beautiful, but any lower and she, too, had seen her fair share of troubles. Before Isabella got the chance to see the boy’s state of being, she stood and drew her hood over her head and her sunglasses back down on her eyes. Through the tinted glass, she could only see the sheen of the fire on their eyes and the candlestick itself as the wax melted and it grew shorter.
“Right, I’m leaving,” she said and turned to rush through the opening. Fresh air soothed her lungs like ice and the cold wind fingered her face gently as she turned to it. Beneath the dark glasses, she openly weeped. Hot streams rushed down her cheeks, though she made not a sound. She put her hands on the cold metal poles of the fence and pulled herself up and over where she hurried off into the darkness, hands shoved deep into her pockets, shoulder huddled up against the wind and rain.