The wind blew fast outside, creaking into the roof. I felt the wind over my arms, trying to push me down. The speakers rang, “He will NEVER be stopped! The greatest, and the only, The Dancing Mice!” I struggled on the squirming rope, trying to find the end. The one-wheeler bike tossed roughly, losing balance fast. I felt my skin drop, the bike falling with me. The mice running around, the tank of water splashing. Everything became blurry, like I was sinking. I needed the air, I needed to breathe. Although, I sunk and never got my wish for it.

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I visited the haunting place decades after, to see the great once again. It was ruined from memories both good, and bad. I walked to the backstage with cobwebs, dust, and animal dumps. The mice food, rotten, the rope, forgotten, and the tank of water, cold. I wore a hazard mask and suit cautioned. I prayed to myself that the scene of the memories would stop, all my friends, all the screams, the faces. Everything shakened, and bad. I remembered stretching, hyping others up, and being happy. All the memories were lost, but then found.

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I suffered from brain damage when I fell. The hospital thought I wouldn’t survive. I pushed through, and made it. The years and decades later of losing those memories, I regained them slowly. I got the memories flowing in the building. The red and white striped ceiling and clothes, the dusty benches with popcorn underneath them, the broken light that screamed our names, the speaker of loud. The mad house was our name. We yelled for it, we cared for it, we laughed with it. Everything ended afterwards, called them off, and ran away. The music never played again, only sad crickets in the night. I wish I could go back, and try again for a night.