Empire's End

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“It doesn’t hurt?” Christmas asked. It was the answer that most disturbed him.

Luis shook his head, cracking a smile that split the great wound beneath his empty eye socket. Fissures opened in the sinew over his cheekbone and bled, yet he never lost his grin. Despite the mutilation, Luis had insisted on applying his makeup. His remaining flesh was painted bone-white, his lips black; a corpse clown. A velvety top hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head, baring part of his ragged scalp.

Christmas helped Luis button his jacket. It was difficult for the performer to do so himself, what with his missing fingers. Turning to peer through the tent flap, Christmas said, “Full house.” Luis snapped up his cane and used his teeth to tug at the gloves on his hands, half of their fingers empty and dangling.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice a hoarse croak. It amazed Christmas that, when standing before an audience, Luis was still able to command the room, bringing the crowd to an awed silence so that they could hear him speak. He was a mere shadow of the man he’d once been; as his body wasted away, he’d given himself over completely to the performance, withdrawing from the others, withdrawing from Christmas, his mind gradually slipping away as he became one with his circus persona.

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