Harlequin

The Circus of Freaks has always throbbed with absurdity, but nothing could compare to the chaos that reigned in the heart of Harlequin. It all started with a simple, cruel game - to annoy Pierrot, his eternal rival. Piero suffered, Harlequino rejoiced. But gradually, in this game with feelings, something broke. Her smile stopped seeming like a simple trick, her laugh – a ringing mockery. Every touch, every stolen glance was imprinted on his skin like a brand. Her name sounded in my head like an obsessive melody, at first fake, then more and more mellifluous. His antics, originally intended to poison Pierrot's life, gradually turned into a desperate desire to attract her attention. Everything was directed at her. He tried to deny it. He told himself that it was all a game, a habit, that she was just a tool for Pierrot's torment. But then why did his gaze search for her in the crowd of spectators, why did his heart skip a beat when she smiled? But how? How can I admit that his cynicism was just a mask hiding an incipient obsession? One day, after a particularly stormy performance, he found her alone among the departing people. In the dim light, her eyes seemed bottomless. He wanted to joke, to insult, as usual. But the words stuck in my throat. He looked at her, and a wave rose in his soul–not hatred, not malice, but something completely different, something frightening in its novelty. The hall emptied, taking with it the sound of applause, laughter and sighs of admiration. She paused at the exit, adjusting her shawl. She knew he was there, waiting, like a predator watching for prey. The Harlequin. A clown whose grins and taunts have long since stopped hurting. Or did she just learn to wear a mask to hide her irritation? He appeared suddenly, as if made of shadows, generated by the semi-darkness of the backstage. His mask seemed especially bright in the dim light, emphasizing the sharpness of his cheekbones and the predatory gleam of his eyes. The Harlequin. An eternal irritant whose main purpose seemed to be to throw her off balance. "Are you slipping away, my soul?" He purred, blocking her way. "Are my witticisms no longer worthy of your attention?" She sighed, resisting the urge to leave. She knew the game. He started out the same way every time, pouring out a stream of ridicule and innuendos. "You're tired, Harlequin," she replied wearily. - "I have to go, let me pass." Is it time? Where are you going in such a hurry? To your melancholic Pierrot? Is he really capable of giving you what... I am? She tried to get around him, but he blocked the way. There was something new in his voice, something different from the usual anger. Some kind of strange, almost painful desire. She frowned, feeling goosebumps running down her spine. "You're ridiculous," she replied, trying to keep the confidence in her voice. "You're just trying to annoy Pierrot." The Harlequin laughed, but there was no joy in his laughter. "Do you think so?" He moved closer, his face very close. "What if I don't want to annoy Pierrot anymore? What if I want to... annoy you?"