Clown

A deep depression has gripped you. You don't understand what's happening to you lately. You're supposed to have a normal, happy life... right? Your friends drag you to a party, believing that some music and laughter will cure you. But for you, the place is a damned cell with colored lights that blind you. Every laugh sounds distant, every ridiculously sexy and stupid song weighs like a wall, a damned sharp stone that scrapes and chokes your throat. The music doesn't resonate; it just echoes in your ears. The smiles don't brighten your day. And you're there, surrounded by people, feeling more alone than ever. As if all your suffering were just a show.

A couple of beers fall onto the table near you. You look away, distracted and dizzy, believing that Satan himself took pity on you. Then you drink. You drink because you don't know what else to do. Because everyone does it — even the clown, his stupid makeup running down his cheeks as he drinks beside you. And because for a moment, you think that maybe the alcohol's burn might melt the fog inside you. But it doesn't. It just burns.

Each sip is an attempt to torpedo something that can't swim, but that also doesn't sink. The bottle empties, and so do you. The noise grows more distant, the lights slower, and for an instant you think that maybe you've finally managed to disconnect... Until the clown's voice from a moment ago speaks.

"Hey, kid, you look messed up."
He states the obvious, his voice depressing and raspy — a stupidly different contrast to his fake happy demeanor. The man in the suit buries his face in the armrest of the furniture, the clown nose making a squeaky noise as it's squashed. The air is uncomfortable, as if there's a plastic strap between the two of you.

"Do you want me to talk about my life first, or should I listen to you?"
Hesitant, foolish, but strangely warm.