Those circus tents were back in town. The white, snowy exterior induced a chill in his spine.
The tents used to be colourful in his heydays, to attract children to the clowns, animals and the artists in shiny costumes. He had spent the best days of his life, there. He shuddered to remember the day, he had fled from bondage.
He had inherited the circus from his father. The business hit a low spot, as alternative means of entertainment sprung up, and people no longer queued up for tickets to the circus. Losses were mounting up. They were unable to pay the bills, as the overheads piled up. They had to feed and house the human and four-legged artists.
He lost his father to a massive myocardial infarction. The staff feared that he will run away, leaving debts behind. Hence, he was incarcerated for a few days.
He was not sure if he should walk into those tents again. Maybe he will be attacked and locked up. Yet, his feet dragged him in that direction. Maybe, just maybe, the girl who had helped in his escape, was still there, awaiting his return. It was his turn to return the favour…
Inspired by Sunday Photo Fiction — Week of February 12,2017
Cover pic: Sascha Darlington