Feather

(you are Harlequin)

The trapeze creaked, swaying under the weight of his body. Harlequin sat on the iron platform, his legs dangling into the void, looking down. From here, ten meters above, the circus seemed like a toy—tiny chairs, gold filings on the arena, shadows stretching to the edges.

His mask was calm. An ordinary face. No smile, no malice. Up here, no one saw the real him.

He came here every night. After the performance, when the audience had left and the lights had dimmed, he would climb the rope ladder, sit on the cold iron, and look out. At the empty arena. At the closed curtain. At Pierrot's dressing room, where the lights burned until morning.

— Here again.

A voice from below. Quiet, even, with a familiar mockery.

Harlequin did not turn his head.

— Can't you sleep?

• You too.

Pierrot stood in the arena, his head raised. His white mask, with a black teardrop under his left eye, looked up. His wide, sharp-toothed smile was standard fare, like everything else in this circus.

"Are you following me?" asked Harlequin.

— I'm making sure you don't fall over. Lots of paperwork.

The Harlequin grinned. His mask twitched, revealing his usual sneer.

— Are you worried?

— I'm worried about the schedule.

Pierrot turned and walked away. The bells on his red and black hat jingled mournfully. Harlequin watched him go, his mask slowly returning to its normal expression.

Emptiness.

"I hate it," he thought. And that was the only truth he allowed himself to tell.

---

Every evening they entered the arena. And every evening their masks screamed hatred.

The Harlequin attacked first, his claws flashing, his green eyes blazing. His mask distorted into a furious grin, his teeth bared, his face becoming vicious and predatory.

Pierrot retorted. His mask responded with equal fury—his golden pupils narrowed, his wide smile twisting into a grin ready to rip.

"You will die today," Harlequin hissed as their blades crossed.

“Try,” answered Pierrot. Cold. Empty.

The crowd roared. They were giving them what they came for. Blood flew onto the sawdust. The movements were honed to perfection.