The Well of Death

What was the last live performance you saw?

I’ve never been one for live performances. Crowds, noise, and over-the-top theatrics don’t usually appeal to me. But a long time ago — so long it feels like a faded chapter from a distant past — I saw a live show I’ll never forget. It was a Gemini Circus.

Like most circuses, it had the usual excitement — animals performing tricks, acrobats defying gravity, and clowns trying to stir laughter. But what stayed with me wasn’t any of those acts. It was the final performance — something they called the Well of Death in my mother tongue. And it lived up to its name in the most heartbreaking way.

The structure was massive — a huge wooden well. It was built like a cone — narrower at the base, expanding toward the top where we, the audience, stood gripping onto railings and peering down into what looked like a wooden abyss.

Then came the riders — boys and girls, most of them teenagers. What struck me were two girls, small, lean, and almost fragile-looking, standing beside bikes that seemed too large for them. They didn’t look like stunt performers, but they were about to do something that demanded immense courage, balance, and sheer nerve.

The engines roared to life, and one by one, the riders began circling the bottom of the well. With speed and precision, they scaled the steep walls, riding horizontally, tires gripping the vertical wood. It was hard to believe my eyes — I’ve ridden scooters for years, and even on a flat road, maintaining balance can be tricky. But these riders defied gravity, weaving in and out, turning sideways, stretching limbs, and performing acrobatic drills — all while speeding along the wall of a giant wooden well.

At one point, they joined hands in formation, riding in sync. The crowd was breathless. Then suddenly, it went horribly wrong.

One of the girls missed the hand of the rider beside her. In that tiny lapse — just a fraction of a second — balance was lost. Three bikes collided violently. We heard the crash, saw the metal fly, and then — silence. One girl’s foot was broken, dangling unnaturally. Others were bruised, bloodied. The chaos was instant. Spectators screamed. The performers were rushed out to get medical help. The show ended in panic and disbelief.

I never went back to a circus after that.

Even now, whenever I see a circus tent or hear the word “performance,” that scene flashes in my mind. The deafening crash, the broken limbs, the dream of a young rider possibly ending in that well. What began as a thrilling spectacle turned into a tragedy. That one performance etched itself into my memory — not because of its brilliance, but because of the pain it left behind.

Some performances are unforgettable — not for what they show, but for what they take away.