Dear Diary,
I write to you again from the confines of Deathrow; that accursed corner of existence where the wicked and the wretched are condemned to waste.
As I prepare to take my next bow, I close my eyes and find myself returning to my beloved circus…
In my former life under the big top, I soared through the air with grace and precision – the admiration of the masses showering upon me like rain.
My fellow performers were my family in a world of wonderment and whimsy, yet now I find myself surrounded by a new troupe of oddities – each of them more sinister than before.
First, there’s the rapper; a man with a lyrical prowess that can mesmerize the most stoic of souls. The circus had its own share of wordsmiths, be that the jesters and clowns who could turn any frown upside down with a clever quip.
Yet the rapper weaves tales of the streets; of a life filled with violence and despair, much like our precious circus, where we danced on the edge of danger with every breath-taking performance.
Secondly there’s the extortionist; a master of manipulation. He reminds me of the circus contortionist, who would twist her body into many a grotesque shape. Just as she twisted her supple frame to wow the audience, the extortionist bends the will of others to his own malevolent whims.
Both possess a talent for bending reality to their desires – no matter the cost.
Next, there is the man who cannot die; akin to the fire-eater who withstood the flames. Both defy the natural order, one with invincibility and the other with an uncanny resistance to fire.
They are anomalies that thwart understanding and beguile those who witness their defiance.
The list goes on, dear diary…
The serial killer; a grim reaper in human form who evokes memories of the knife throwers with his deadly precision.
The scientist; a conjurer of poison and chaos who shares an eerie resemblance to the alchemist who brewed elixirs of great curiosity.
The painter; an unhinged artist of death who rivals the horrors of the sideshow, carousing in the grotesque and using dismembered bodies as his canvas.
The warden; the ex-captive-turned-captor – reminiscent of the lion tamer that once controlled the untameable – who commands the chaos on Deathrow, asserting dominion over its residents.
And last but not least, dear diary, there is I – a man who once defied gravity with his bedazzling stunts – now reduced to a caged lunatic.
As I peer out from my cell, I see the world that was mine; a world of bright lights, applause, and wonder.
Only now… Now I am the ringmaster of this twisted affair, orchestrating the mayhem that unfolds behind these prison walls.
In my ravings, I call it the Cirque du Damné; a carnival of the condemned.
A festival of the forsaken, in which I am King.
For I have come to accept my place on the Red Mile, dear diary.
And come King of the Damned, my fellow inmates will have no choice but to accept the same fate.
For what is royalty in a place such as this anyway…
WiThOuT a ToUcH oF mAdNeSs?!