Dark Perceptions (Mystic's Carnival Collective) by Debra Kristi Page B

everywhere there were clowns.
    My entire body turned to fortified lead. Weighted into my seat.
    Clowns flipped on the trapeze. Clowns danced on the wire. Clowns played friendly in the mouth of monsters.
    Or unusually large lions, in this case.
    Ever since my dad took me to the circus when I was six, I’d avoided the too-happy comedians. A white-faced, red-nosed, pointy-haired buffoon had scared the pee out of me ― literally ― slamming his face in mine and asking to lick my candy. My rainbow-swirled lollipop. Not cool, crazy Ronald McDonald.
    Shivers. My heart jumped like a jackrabbit off a burning skillet, my knees jerked, and my hands flinched. Popcorn flew over the bleachers. Something fluttered in my stomach and my chest tightened. I looked down at the empty bag in my hand. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding anything. Not until I’d spilled crunchy treats all over the dark filth at my feet.
    I hated clowns!
    Hated them with a passion.
    The thought absorbed me, soaked through me like water to a sponge. And yet, I couldn’t tear my gaze from the multiple freak shows occurring in the ring. From the clowns ― the disturbingly macabre clowns.
    Why was I here, staring at clowns?
    Drab red and white striped walls. Creepy, delirious music. Pungent kernel corn and sweet cake aroma. Twisted carnival acts. Where was here ? I couldn’t recall. And that, quite possibly, disturbed me most of all.
    Think, dammit, think.
    Everything, getting here, where here was, my memory, was a black swirly mess. A big nothing . At best, blots of recall were all I had from before the lights had come on in the Big Top. Smoke and cigarettes ― a mist of escapism mingled with pot.  
    I sat beneath a colossal striped tent. It draped above and fell around an enormous oval space, trapping everything, everyone, me, within its clutches. It looked old, tattered, and stained. The light within, dim, with the exception of the various spotlights dancing on and around the ostentatious clown acts.
    The air weighed upon my body, like someone was pressing on me, pushing the oxygen out of my lungs.
    I coughed, struggled to breathe.
    I was alone, the space beside me empty. I searched again for someone I knew but saw no one. Fear bubbled up inside of me and I fought to maintain control. My eyes narrowed in on the girl sitting in front of me. A blonde, the girl’s hair brushed up into a pony high on her head, exposing her long neckline and an unexpected glow there.
    “Is that a tattoo?” I mumbled and leaned forward. I’d never seen a tattoo glow before. Shaped like a symbol, it reminded me of a letter from the Islamic alphabet.
    A shimmer ran over the odd shape and my breath caught in my throat, an awful sour taste lingering there, until I let it out in a long wind. Without thought my hand reached out, wanting to touch the marking, run my fingertip along the glossy lines. But I stopped, hesitated, my gaze darting to the side and the man sitting beside her. The couple had their hands intertwined in a hold resembling an infinity knot. The sign of affection shot a pang to my heart, and lit an image of my parents at the back of my mind.
    If my parents couldn’t make it work, what chance did Matt and I have? I blinked the thought away and averted my gaze from the couple’s hands. Maybe what I should be considering is what it meant that Matt wasn’t here with me now. My stare settled on another glowing mark ― this time at the back of the guy’s neck.
    He had one too!
    I looked down the row, along the backs and necks of all the people crowding the long bench before me. So many people marked with symbols, glowing in various colors, shapes, and sizes. Not everyone, but enough. My insides stirred like a nest of hornets had been set loose to swarm wildly within my gut. My hand rubbed at the back of my neck, trying to determine if any symbol existed upon my own skin.  
    “Hey, Saraaaa.”
    The voice wheezed frighteningly-frisky at my side. At my ear.
    A