House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

3. THREE

THREE

JOKER

T hey called it the House of Clowns, but it felt more like a prison to me. A place where people were forced into roles they never chose, a refuge for outcasts with nowhere else to go. It was made for the amusement of others, but never for the happiness of those trapped inside. Slowly, it was draining me—stripping away not just my joy, but the core of who I once was. If I could remember anything from before this place, maybe I'd hold onto it. But all I know now is this—a life of smeared colors, an endless performance for an invisible audience.

They say what doesn't break you makes you stronger. But that's a lie. It doesn't build you up; it wears you down, piece by piece until all that's left is the mask you wear.

I shared a room with two other clowns. Chico, from Mexico, was here chasing a dream—a woman named Rosalinda. She ran off with Luigi, the butcher, but Chico never stopped talking about her. Then there was Bart, an American, who had romanticized Italy, convinced that it was full of beautiful, kind-hearted women. I couldn't help but laugh at both of them. Dreams don't come true, not here. Not for people like us .

Chico found out Rosalinda had married Luigi, and she told him she'd rather be with his dead uncle than him. Bart didn't fare much better. Instead of wooing an Italian woman, he fell for an Indian guy named Sanjay, who eventually shattered his heart. Bart quickly realized that even though Italian women were beautiful, their fiery temper was something he wasn't prepared to handle. He once joked that maybe he'd be better off with Berta, an unattractive girl from his hometown.

And me? I used to have a dream too—that I wouldn't always be the orphan no one wanted, that someday I'd have a family of my own. I thought the world might finally see me as more than a joke. But the world has a way of crushing people like me. It doesn't hate what's different; it fears it. It's afraid that even something broken can still be beautiful.

I've told myself over and over that people will always try to tear you down. It's a reflex—they crush your hopes because they can't bear to see you rise above them. They want you in the shadows so they feel bigger and more secure.

I despise them.

And they call me a clown? No, the real clowns are the ones who wear fake smiles and pretend everything's perfect in their little worlds. It's all a joke—a joke that stops being funny when their world falls apart. And when it does, they'll drag you down with them, taking whatever's left of your smile.

That's the cycle. The never-ending, suffocating cycle of disappointment. If I went to therapy, they'd probably slap a label on it—anxiety, depression, whatever. Truth is, I'm anxious all the time.

"Rio," Chico's voice broke through my thoughts. He stood at the mirror, pressing a thick brush loaded with white paint into his face as if trying to erase himself. "Wanna hear a joke?"

I lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the cracked window, leaning against the sill. "Yeah?"

"Why did the clown get fired from his job?" He was painting blue shadows beneath his eyes now, like bruises.

I already knew the punchline, but I went along with it. "Why?"

"Because he was fooling everyone!" Chico burst into laughter, his deep, hearty chuckle contagious. Bart and I couldn't help but laugh along.

Laughter. It was all we had left in this place. The only thing keeping us from falling apart completely.

"Maybe they're fooling us," I muttered, staring out the window at the dull, gray sky.

Chico turned to me, the red paint on his lips only half-applied. His wig lay on the dresser, a few strands of his hair sticking out wildly. He stepped closer, his voice soft, almost gentle. "Doesn't matter, kid," he said. "We always win."

Bart laughed from the corner, already dressed in his cherry-red suit, the bright fabric a jarring contrast to the bleakness of our room. "I feel a little funny today," he said, adjusting his collar.

"It's the air," Chico replied, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "You coming?"

I stubbed out my cigarette, flicking the ashes into a small tin can. "Yeah," I said, standing up. "I'll get ready."

And just like that, it was time to put on the mask again. Time to pretend. Time to be a clown .

I landed lightly on the dusty floor, feet thudding softly as I leaped from the window. The wood creaked with my weight. Thick age-scented dust and faded memories hung in the air. I moved across the room to an old cabinet; its hinges groaned as I pulled the door open. Inside, tubes of paint stood at attention like so many soldiers waiting for command—white, black, and red. I grabbed them without a second thought.

My reflection beckoned from across the room, the cracked mirror resting atop a battered vanity. I set the paints down on the chair beside it—my fingers brushing against the rough wood—and reached for the white tube. I squeezed it without a second thought, feeling the cool thick paste on my fingertips. They always said to mix it with water or cream to soften the concoction, but what was the difference? I liked it thick. I liked how it cracked as it dried, giving me that nasty look that made people shiver.

I dragged white paint across my face, its color uneven as it pulled across my skin.

Every movement was deliberate, almost a sacrament as I layered myself anew. My fingers smeared the paint right into the lines in the skin, a ghostly mask. I spread on the final speck of white, then tossed on more cream in my hand, slicking it through my hair.

It was stiff and sticky, but I liked the way it pushed my hair back so that I looked wild and untamed. The black paint came next. I dabbed it onto the tip of my finger and closed one eye at a time, dragging the color down from atop my brow. It smeared in jagged lines, falling like dark streaks of shadow, accentuating the exhaustion that already clung to my gaze. The deep blue of them seemed colder now, sharper; the contrast only made them more unnerving.

Next, the red—one needed to carve that smile. But the paint was too bright, not dark, not deep enough. I bit into my tongue, my jaw clenching against the sharp sting of pain and the metallic taste of blood warming in my mouth. I allowed it to pool before spitting into my palm, mixing crimson with the paint.

I could feel a smile spreading across my face from one corner of my mouth to the other as my fingers arced out over my skin, staining my lips and cheeks in an unholy grin of drying blood.

I looked up, catching my reflection in the mirror right as the white paint started to crack at the edges of my mouth and eyes. The laugh that escaped me was low, guttural, and echoed off the tiny room.

There it was, what I'd become: a clown, a monster. Something they loved to watch from a distance but never wanted too close. I turned back to the closet, jerked out the black-and-white suit, and flung it onto my bed. The fabric was tight, almost too tight, but perfect as it sheathed me, echoing each angle of my body. I wriggled into the suit; the material threateningly stretched with each of my movements. The finishing touch, gleaming black shoes, sealed the transformation.

I went out into the cool air nipping at my painted skin. Chico and Bart were standing nearby, talking in low tones about that night's acts. Neither of them noticed me at first; both were lost in their talk. They had prepared routines, but me? I didn't need to—my role was quite basic: terror in the maze of mirrors, fear in the dark rooms. I was the one who made the hearts shriek with rattling, beating loud, the one who savored the gasps, the screams. And I was good at that.