Siva

A night under the big-top turns into a horrifying peek into the mind of nineteen year old child.

My father was a clown. Once hailed as 'the best in the west' by P.T. Barnum himself, he clawed his way to the top and was the most wanted performer in the circus world. My father's skills were so vast that often after his own act he would jump in with the trapeze artists or take center ring to one-up the strong man. Once he even made an attempt to jump thirteen buses on a motorcycle after 'Ed the Brazilian Biker' injured himself while practicing the same stunt. Unfortunately, Daddy only jumped six and ended up busting a few ribs. Oh well, part of the job, as the old man always would say to me. My father was everything a circus, and a daughter, could ever hope to ask for.

Mother died in a horrible accident when I was only five. Yes, she died working for the circus but not while performing. Believe it or not, an elephant sat on her and if it weren't so tragic the whole thing may have been comedic. No, I would rather not go into details as I still become very upset over the ordeal. Needless to say, I don't remember too much of my mother but I know that she loved me very much.

Me? My name is Siva. My father gave me this name because it means 'good omen', or so he said. Siva is the god of the eternal dance and that was what I did for the ringmasters. I danced. Sometimes the dance seemed eternal too, let me tell you.

From early on my father trained me hard to accomplish all the skills of the circus life. With his lifelong comrades aiding his efforts, I learned many things through the years. Pierre, the strong man, gave me my strength and my endurance; his teachings were relentless and uncaring. Kabayeva, the Russian gymnast, not only trained me on the trapeze and high-rope but also taught me to be a superb aerial acrobat and somewhat of a contortionist. I learned the art of illusion from the world renowned circus magician Ali, and I learned quickly because not only was Ali an excellent and kind teacher but magic was the subject I loved most of all. I've met every sort of person and performer in the world and l have learned many things from so many of them. My father, though, taught me how to survive in this chaotic and dangerous world we both have loved so much.

What happened last night? What town is this again? We travel through so many that a lot of times I don't even know where we are anymore.

Last night? Well, I suppose that is why I'm here, isn't it? Last night was the first night of performances here and we were all pretty excited about it, as we usually are. The big-top was packed as it usually is on the first night and I could see all of the children's' excited and expectant faces. I could also see all of their mothers' faces smiling, happy to make their children happy. There were a few fathers out there, in the crowd, annoyed that their wives dragged them along to the circus hoping that their husbands would enjoy themselves and their children but knowing they would not. The ringmaster, Big Billy, came out into the center ring to introduce the circus as he usually does. Out came the clowns, as they usually do, and there in the middle of the mess of make up and wildly colored clown hair was my father. In all his glory.

You see, performing was what my father was born to do, and every fiber of him loved performing as much as he loved his own daughter. No matter how many times he did the same thing, day in and day out, his eyes twinkled and his grin was so wide that the corners of his mouth would actually reach the two black stripes running vertically over each eye that was his trademark in the clowning industry. He reminded me of a child on his birthday, waiting with bated breath in anticipation of the beautiful toys laying under a fabulously ridiculous pile of gift-wrapped boxes. Last night was no different as my father sullied forth from a row of about ten other clowns, puffing his fuzzy red-buttoned chest out with a pride like no other man has shown before or ever will again. Daddy looked over the crowd with a slow and caring gaze and then lifted his arms high above his head laughing with the laugh of a crazy man. The crowd went wild. I think if you would look closely you may have even caught his eyes tearing up a bit.

I didn't even hear anything when it happened. I just saw everybody running all of a sudden. Everyone. Like a stampede. I've never seen anything like it. Everything went crazy. The crowd became like ants on honey and I didn't know if they were rushing the rings or trying to get out.

Madness. I watched as people ran over other people, trampling them as if they weren't even there. I saw mouths wide open but heard not a sound. Children were being pushed and tossed aside as men and women frantically clawed their way to the exits. Madness.

It was in slow motion that I turned my eyes towards Big Billy, who was lying in a heap in the center ring, blood pooling under him. I started running towards him, my legs feeling as if one hundred pound weights had been strapped to my ankles. That's when I saw the clowns. Something happened to them. I knew it was bad because all of them were bloody and on the ground. I started hearing things then: screams from the crowd, confused voices from the back wall where the performers were lined up, and these ghastly horrible moans from the pile of clown carcasses. A few of them were clutching the ground and trying to drag themselves somewhere. Most of them were already dead at that time I think. Desperately I searched for my father and finally found him laying where he had been standing only a few seconds earlier. He was twitching really bad and groping at his neck. Running to his side, tears began gushing down my face as I realized that someone had opened fire on the performers and that my father had been shot and was hurt terribly.

Before he died in my arms, his head lolled over on his shattered and open neck. His eyes, twinkling no more, searched mine for an answer I did not have. Daddy clutched my jaw and pulled me close to his face. I thought I would puke as the blood pouring from his neck violated my senses. He reached with his other hand into the gaping wound that would kill him and proceeded to wipe his bloodied fingers across my eyes, passing his famed trademark onto me before he took his last breath. I began to sob wildly and I couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop. That's all I can remember, other than waking up outside of the big-top this morning.

"What the hell do we got here?" The detective turned from the mirrored window outside of the interrogation room to his partner. "What in the hell happened here?"

"What we got here, Fred, is a helluva mess." The older man took a long draw from his cigarette before tossing it on the floor and meticulously stamping it cold. "One hundred forty-eight men, women, and children trampled to death." The man lit another cigarette, taking another long draw. "Seventeen circus employees shot and killed." The detective began to cry. "Goddammit, Fred, my wife and kid was there! It's a god damned miracle they got out."

"What about the twenty six others? Jesus, Don, they were butchered. The coroner says by just looking it's like their throats were ripped apart. What the hell did that?"

Don coughed, stamping out his smoke. "Look at her hands."

The two detectives looked through the glass again, staring at the nineteen year old girl that was one of the small handful of survivors of last night's catastrophe.

"Look at her god damned hands."

Her hands were broken and battered, and though the blood had been washed from her, one could see where her nails had pulled back and peeled off, as if she had been desperately clawing her way out of a wooden box.

"When they found her she had actual chunks of those people in her hands. Son of a b***h, man! She had pieces of these folks in her hands!"

Fred cleared his throat, quickly turning away. "What about the gun they found in her pants?"

"It was a match." The old detective pulled his pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. Quickly lighting another. "Her gun was a god damn match to every god damn bullet fired in that god damned tent."