Bobby the depressed clown.

My name is Bob, Bob Sandron, or as my coworkers call me: Bobby the clown. That's right, I am a clown. I get paid to humiliate, embarrass, and hurt myself. I put make-up on my face, create a fake smile, put on a redicilous outfit and huge shoes, and then go to children. They laugh as I throw a pie in my face for the third time that day, I can hear their laughs as they punch me, and I hear their mothers laugh because 'it's all just a show!'. It's not a show, the pain is real, even those tiny hands can hurt, if they hit in specific places. And when the workday is over, and I've got paint all over my face to 'not ruin the illusion', people make fun of me on the street. Underneath I am a normal person, I enjoy things that everyone enjoys, reading, music, tv, sports, that kind of thing. I am sitting in my room, and in my normal clothing. I don't look stupid all the time, I look like you, a normal person. In my hands is a knife, I am ready to slice through my wrist. As I'm about to push the knife through and end it, the door opens a little bit, and a little voice calls for me. 'Daddy, what are you doing?' I quickly throw the knife under the bedsheet. 'Nothing, what's wrong son?' the door now fully opens, shining the light from the hall into my room. 'I'm bored, will you cheer me up?' he knows about my job, but he doesn't know that I don't enjoy it. 'I'm sorry, but I really don't want to put the suit on right now.' he looks at the suit, thrown in the corner of my room like a useless object. 'That's alright, I like you better without suit.' those words put tears in my eyes. 'Daddy, why are you crying?' my son then asks. 'It's alright, come here.' I get on my knees, spread my arms, my son runs in, and we hug. 'Will you stop crying, and cheer my up now dad?' he asks, as we are still hugging. 'Yes son, ofcourse I will.'

Author's Note

In no way, do I have a job as clown, I'm not trying to offend any clowns out there that may be reading this, I'm simply trying to write a story with emotion in it.