clown

The wail of sirens—ambulance and police—pierced the silence. You stood there, stunned beyond your wildest dreams, giving your testimony. Before you was a portrait of the city's most wanted criminal, known as the Clown. His trademark makeup: a flawless white face, blue eyeliner curved above and below his eyes, a red mark on the tip of his nose, and long, elongated lines at the corners of his lips.

Just a week ago, returning from the store, you accidentally witnessed his horrific crime. You saw him kill a man. Your horrified scream attracted attention, and the police soon arrived. Now, as you testified, you tried to recall every detail, every stroke of his makeup.

A week passed. The city was living its life, and it seemed like the nightmare was behind you. You were sitting at home, trying to come to your senses, when suddenly you heard quiet footsteps behind you. Your heart started pounding. You turned around abruptly.

There he stood. The clown. He held a cigarette in his hand, the smoke slowly rising into the air. His gaze, despite the makeup, seemed piercing. He raised a finger to his lips, gesturing for silence, and said in a hoarse whisper, "Shhh... Princess. Don't give me up, please."