Sole Memorial

Eaten Breadcrumbs

I'm alive! I have not succumbed to the apocalypse! It was a strangely peaceful end of the world, but that didn't stop me from getting this out!

Now, allow me to continuously thank anyone who's still keeping up with the story. :3 It's always great to be able to share something you like and have others enjoy it, so thanks a ton! I hope to not make you guys suffer another half-year hiatus, but we all know how real life can be. ( ._.)

Ahaha... On with the show!

The sun had long since set and the only light now came from the moon, stars, lamps, and the fireplace in the middle of the circus camp. They were packing up, getting ready to move on to perform at the next town or village. Everyone had a hand in either unpinning the caravans, everyone except for one. The youngest and newest member of the troupe watched them through the window, bedridden within the magician's caravan. Since last night, he had been borrowing the bed and was practically confined to it.

He laid on his stomach, his head perched on elbow-supported hands, observing the others carrying equipment to and fro or hitching their wagons to waiting horses. They moved with a fluidity that he envied in his current state. It wasn't that moving was painful, but he felt an overwhelming emptiness inside that sapped his strength. He felt holes all over his body, or maybe his bones were made of twigs, and one wrong move could snap him. The magician said something about a fragile soul, but he was sparse on the details about the how or why. In fact, everyone seemed to treat him like glass.

The caravan suddenly quaked and his face hit the pillow with a soft pffu! and an annoyed groan.

"Careful!" he heard the magician's wife—Gypsy?—scold. Her face appeared at the window just as he rolled onto his back, her magenta eyes peering down at him. "Are you all right, Flik?"

It took him a bit to take in the unfamiliar name, what they would call him from now on. "I-I'm okay, it's just a little shake," he said, giving her a reassuring grin.

"Oh, good." She smiled warmly in return.

The caravan shook again, though less strongly. "Finally," sighed the oddly masculine voice belonging to a strangely pretty clown. "That should be the last of 'em. We can start heading out."

Uncomfortable, the amnesiac bit his lip. "Do we have to go now?" he asked timidly. "W-we can wait a bit longer, right? Maybe they're running late or—"

"It's far past sunset..." Gypsy didn't need to say more.

No one was coming.

And he was...

As far as he was certain, he should be devastated. It meant he was all alone, either a sole survivor or simply abandoned. He was disappointed, of course, but that was the extent of it. Maybe there was a hint of something else, but it was quickly snuffed out before he could grasp what it was. For the most part, he just felt empty.

"Flik?" Her brows furrowed after his own face twisted. "You don't like the name?"

"That's not it!" he denied quickly, fidgeting. "Well—err—maybe? I don't know. It's... It doesn't sound right. I know it's weird, how can I know what sounds right? I can't explain it at all."

"You don't have to," she assured him. "If you want, we can pick something else out for you."

He grimaced again. "I'd rather you don't." Now he could feel it: that fleeting displeasure. "For some reason, I think I dislike that one the least, but how can that be?" He bit his lip, trying to make sense of the oddity. For some reason, the subject of his name seemed to matter more than the idea of abandonment. "It's not like I'd know if it's the closest to my real name, unless..."