Circus of blood and secrets

Blood was spilt again. It could either heal, and be forgotten, or be forgotten and healed. Often enough, wounds are given, and have the wearer not even relize they got it.

Unfortunately, some wounds are inflicted so harshly that one cannot forget how they received it. Untill they do, of course, as they always do.

As if my thoughts were the same around the ring around the fallen tightrope walker, evreyone sighed, adjusting over where the blood lay under whatever shoes the other preformers wore.

The young boy was not much older than thirteen, a recent fourteen year old, with copper brown hair, with whisps of strange black hairs scattered within. His glass mask, much like all of my performers were required to wear, lay in splinters under his head, revealing electric blue eyes that seemed to be pools of youth behind a window, and blood splatters sprayed over his face, blending with the face full of freckles.

“Is he dead?” The jester asked, removing his mask, revealing an excedingly hansom face with a sharp jawline, thin lips, narrow brown sorrowful eyes, and blond tostled hair

All eyes glanced towards the woman with raven black hair, and white eyes, standing in a white and black anckle length dress, and a masqurade mask with crow feathers framing her eyes.

“Why do you look to me? You have the answers written in his eyes.” Evreyone knew her phrase. It was the phrase that she had said evrey day to evrey person wishing to communicate with their loved ones.

Sure enough, when we glanced back, his eyes seemed to have a small black ‘X’ in his pupils. If his mingled body wasnt enough evidence that he was dead, the ‘X’ was conformation.

I cast a quick glance to the others, standing sadly around the boy.

They would heal. As would he. We would make sure of that.