Flash Fiction: The Aging Clown

A Former Prisoner of War Experiences A Flashback

At a certain point, you just can’t clown around anymore.

Dave grabbed a baby wipe and scrubbed his face. Forehead. Nose. Right cheek. Left cheek. Lips.

The neck came next.

He grabbed another wipe. Rubbed some more. He splashed some cold water and lathered in face wash. Then, he rinsed it.

He repeated a few times until, looking in the mirror, he saw a man. Gone was the big red smile. The white face. Well, he was still white, but not WHITE white. Just caucasian.

He noted the wrinkles. The scars. Ran his finger down the jagged one by his ear.

“I’m an aging clown,” he thought to himself. He wasn’t being morose; it was a fact. The truth.

In pajamas now, he sat on the living room couch and stared at the silent black screen of the television. Watching kids fight over balloons for two hours was exhausting.

And when they popped…

His eyes began to close now, and he heard more pops. Shooting. His body stiffened. His breathing sped up. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest.

A scream emanated from his gut. Thankfully, it woke him up.

Like this, almost every night. No wonder he was aging.

“Some gunshots are good,” he reminded himself. “The gunshots that freed you from prison.”

He didn’t want to ruminate, but he couldn’t help it. The story played out in his mind. The war. The bad directions. The terror of his capture.

“Beach…” he whispered to himself. “Palm trees. Puppies. Sweet roses…candy…hot dogs…”

His body shuddered. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Slushies. Hot pink bikinis. Waves…”

Slowly, he began to count his shaky breath. Used the pressure points on his hands his therapist showed him.

He sat there, staring again at the black of the TV screen. Numb.

Like that, he fell asleep.

This time, he dreamed of happy kids and cotton candy.