...

The strangest part of mourning my family was the silence. I had performed in tragedies of men awakening in the night, crazed from relentless nightmares which no presence could cease; men demanding to know how such an atrocity could befall such gentle souls; men distraught to the brink of suicide.

 

Yet my world, through every ordeal, remained motionless, deafened from the roaring silence. I did not dream of the burning theater, I not dream of burning flesh; instead, my nights were emptied of any subconscious imagination. I did not wonder why my family died; I simply accepted that reality. As for suicide, I pondered it solely out of convenience, not in despair. I was, in the most paramount sense of the word,

 dead.

 

...

Chapter 1

The air smelled of yeast, vomit, and shame. I wrinkled my nose as I paid the scowling coachman for the ride from the city. As soon as the six pence was in his calloused hand, he tilted his cap in my direction and set the horse at a slow, rumbling trot. 

 

That seems reasonable, I thought and considered sprinting after him. But I had only a farthing left in my pocket, so I decided against it. Instead, I pulled my worn coat tighter about me and turned towards the foul-smelling circus.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.07.2016

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