If you look close enough, you might be able to see the echo of a laugh in the creases around his eyes.
His colourful clothes have been replaced by motley rags, dirty tatters and patchwork.
He paints his smile upside down, opting for blue instead of the traditional red.
He doesn’t tell jokes.
He doesn’t fall down or use gags.
He just sits on the stage and cries.
…And the people laugh and laugh.
His tears streak his makeup.
He carries a locket that holds a picture of a woman and two infants.
A train blows its whistle in the background and his body begins to shake.
The kids think it’s all part of the act and cheer him on. Kids love a sad clown.
You can tell by his movements, his shoulders, that he’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t have the heart anymore. His inner child was burned and crushed in the train wreck that took his family and his friends.
Out of his make up he dreams of death, dreams of dying with his family.
He longs for the crash, steel twisting, acrobats and clowns screaming, the heat from the flames.
He’s repulsed by bright colours. He feels more comfortable in dirt and rags than in anything else. The dirt feels like home for him. Ever since they pulled him out of the wreckage and he saw his family, his entire family, covered by sheets and still smoking…
…he can’t bring himself to paint a smile.
The pain inside is too great, even for a clown to hide.
He sobs and swears, the children laugh.
He’s a sad clown.