I make my way through an arched door inside an unfamiliar factory, with machines that have cavernous mouths, and shiny countertops that run along the length of the room. I am not sure where I am, but a heavenly smell hangs in the air, of chocolate and strawberry, with the subtle undertones of whipped cream and craving that keeps your stomach growling at night. There are vats of melted flavors lying in sealed containers with glass lids, and I crank one open to dip my fingers into this addicting richness that can heal all woes. I find myself staring at my hands, hands which are encased in synthetic rubber gloves that are far too tight. Why am I wearing gloves? I look down, at my shoes, which are bright golden and above them stretch these long, thick stockings striped in lapis and ruby. I feel dizzy with fear. Who am I?
The awful truth comes at once, as suddenly as the fear. I don’t know what I’m doing here, in this strange place which stinks of happiness but has monstrosities as machines. I decide it’s the smells. They call to me. So I follow its drunken whispers to the second chamber, of which every square inch is covered in flat brown boxes, with labels in a methodical type plastered on top. Some of their lids are open, and brightly colored assortments of candy are spilling out. There are blue and green and orange, pink and purple and brown and all the colours in between. Bite sized beans, which look far too enticing and in number are far too many to count. I rip off my gloves and reach towards the fattest glob of candy I can find and finger its irregular edges. It’s different from the others, colourless and squishy. If I dug my nails into it, hard, I could almost pop it open. I open my mouth, just to taste it, this little candy in a little box in a big factory, in some unknown, forgotten corner of the world. I realize a moment too late that it makes me feel empty inside, emptier than I had ever felt before…
I find myself staring into a mirror. Everything around me is devoid of colour, with murky grey shadows pooling in the background around blurry shapes that look like furniture. My reflection is a ridiculous character, with thick black paint around my lips and on top of them, with a humiliating bulbous attachment firmly stuck on my nose. I wrench it off, but the makeup seems funnier without it, so I jam it back on.On my head is a wig with streaks of ink and white on top, curled ringlets that make me seem like a crazed animal. When I see the diamonds inked around my eyes and wings of eyeliner smoothly curving from above, I know who I am. I close my eyes and laugh. I’m a deranged clown. My furious fingers tighten against the glass of the mirror, and it shatters as quickly as my ego. The fragments frisk around my painted cheeks and fall on an apron draped around my neck. A choked sound escapes. Now its broken, just like me.
The jellybean I swallowed leaves a trail of peppermint on my tongue, I lick the remnants off the roof of my mouth before I allow a devilish tear to scorch its way through my cheek. A sad clown, how ironic is that? It is those who make others laugh that are the saddest of all. This thought registers its way in a flat cardboard box somewhere in my mind, and I tape it shut with the nostalgia of peppermint.I pick up the next jellybean, a queasy lime jellybean that squirms when pinched between my forefinger and thumb. The next thing I know, its sour tinges ripple through me, and I’m suddenly very nervous, because several expectant eyes are looking up at me…
I’m on an elevated platform, which is presumably a broad stage. Above me, dangerously close, is a long, thick rope suspended fifty feet along the length of the stage, on top of which my brother is performing aerobic gymnastics with a breath stopping, light-footed grace. A minute later, a jaunty tune picks up and I suddenly remember what my next step is. I swivel around somewhat self-consciously, before faking a trip and landing, in a rather awkward fashion on my arse. The laughter roars through the walls of the auditorium and reverberates for what seems like several seconds. I keep waiting for it to die down, but it doesn’t, the mocking pitch damningly high. The tune is flushed out in its wake, its waves enveloping me whole. I stand up slowly, for its very difficult to move and continue my idiotic dance routine. I manage to make it up till the last step, but then my eyes find a stranger’s, filled with the frothing amusement of sarcasm, and I realize the head isn’t attached to a body. I jerk my neck around, the silk extensions of itching polyester scraping uncomfortably around my inflamed skin. There are haunted, headless people watching me. They all have that piteous gaze and wide, open mouths. As Matt moves in a pirouette, I jerk my head upwards in a rush of haunted adrenaline. Somewhere in the grand scheme of things, my head collides with his foot, and the toes fumble, unable to land on the rope. The eyes don’t stop laughing, and it is too late by the time I realize that we’re performing on an elevated platform.
The nausea builds up in my throat, slowly at first then faster by the second. I spit out the jellybean and empty out the box I had been eating from. Hundreds of the mysterious miseries, pieces of my past life, spill out on the floor.
Odd thing, candy. Destructive bombs wrapped in beautiful colours of love, delectability, and happiness.