Author: JD Edwin

Being born without a reflection did not make Henrietta sad, even though everyone she came across seemed to think she ought to be. It was one of those things that should probably make her feel lesser than, but since she never had it, Henrietta never missed it, much in the way the average human did not miss having wings, and women who never had orgasms found perfectly productive ways to fill their time. 

I think my boss is a supervillain.

It’s not just the way she looks — though the constant parade of high heels, skin-tight outfits, silver hair, and tight red lips don’t help. No. It’s the way she keeps looking at me when I talk about superheroes.

“Bunch of skinflints,” she’d say. “Leave it to the law to deal with the villains. There’s no place for vigilantes in this world.”

Convenient, when you consider that the entire city’s law enforcement was turned on its head when the supervillain Cascade rolled into town last time. Cognitus was the only thing that stopped her, so why wouldn’t she want him out of the way?

I don’t want to talk about the fact that my sister helped herself to my clothes and room the moment she moved back in. I don’t want to talk about the way my mother fawns over her with wet, teary eyes and the way my father holds her and calls her “precious.” I don’t want to comment on her favorite sweets baking in the oven, her old toys dug out and spread all over the house, or her yellow tank top with ducks printed on it, an old gag gift I gave her. I don’t even want to discuss the fact that she’s supposed to be two years older than me, not four years younger.

But I do have to talk about the fact that she died ten years ago.

They arrive at the circus on a cold October day.

At fourteen Annalise no longer finds joy in watching animals and clowns parade around acting the fool. The cold air pierces her threadbare jacket and she keeps a tight grip on Lily’s hand. The two-year-old’s large, innocent eyes dart this way and that, taking in the colors and sounds excitedly.

She wishes they would look back. Maybe they would turn around and say “keep up, Annalise,” or “here, let me take the baby.” But they are, as usual, too wrapped up in their own world. Her father, walking ahead with his broad chest puffed out, hardly aware of his family’s existence. Her mother, frail and simpering, clinging to him with almost pathetic adoration, whispering sweet words and throwing flirtatious glances though he barely gives her a second look. They won’t turn around, and that’s the norm.

She came with the circus.

The weather was always warm in the southern states, or that’s how my memories went. The hot, sticky summer seemed to stretch on forever. No breeze moved the trees. The neighborhood cats lounged lazily in the shadows. Days oozed by slowly and at eight I found myself restless in the quiet nothingness of our small desert town. We had very little to pass the time with, and very little to look forward to save for one thing—the arrival of the circus every July like clockwork.

They always seemed to come on the driest of days, horns honking, jugglers juggling, lions roaring, and clowns hopping through the streets handing out candy and raffle tickets to the curious children. I do not remember when they started coming, only when they stopped—the year I turned twelve. But before that, every year it seemed the highlight of my summer was the circus that rolled into town, bringing colors and dreams in its wake.

He always starts the day having coffee with Lynn and telling her she looks beautiful. Though she hasn’t responded to him in over a decade, he continues to do so without fail, every morning.

He makes himself toast and black coffee, as he always does. Today she smiles at him, and for a moment he dares to hope that she’s coming back to him, but then her eyes wander, following a speck of dust in the air with her smile unwavering, and he knows she is lost to him still. He drinks his coffee as the nurse finishes feeding Lynn her morning gruel. With her chewing questionable nowadays, the best she can do is a nutritious blended mixture. A few dribbles fall from her mouth and the nurse wipes it away roughly. She’s a quiet, burly woman whose presence Joseph has become used to as part of the fixture of his house since Lynn’s stroke. After twelve years they’ve fallen into a rhythm.

“Will you leave her with me a little longer today, Brenda?” he asks.