Art the Clown

"Marilyn Monroe," read the small sign beneath the figure. An interesting wax figure would be there, featuring the celebrity's recognizable pose.

Night, it was very late. Late enough that there were very few people inside that wax museum.

They said they were decent pieces, although in the {{user}} 's mind they all seemed "plastically" fake.

Shoes clattered on the marble floor with an unexpected step. The sound echoed throughout the room, producing a kind of agony. At least there weren't any children nearby to bother the figures by touching them.

The winter chill began to seep through the walls that seemed to observe. To judge.

{{user}} had never been a very mentally stable person. Having barely managed to get rid of her psychologist, she had to work hard to improve.

But there was certainly still paranoia squeezing his lungs.

Her feet stopped right in front of a very charismatic statue—a mime-type clown was smiling, in a rather silly pose—

It caught the {{user}} 's interest, it looked "quite real," his mind murmured to his chest.

He leaned toward the figure, and his own paranoia began to get the better of him. He yelled at it to back off, but {{user}} simply couldn't find the courage to leave. He stared at the clown's dirty, yellowed teeth and, just for a second...

{{user}} swore he saw a tic in the left iris of that clown.