Theatre Fantastique
The curtains are a burnt orange, but with none of the allure of fire. Yet, staring at the moth-eaten cloth, she is reminded of fire. Many people calculate their lives in months or days, perhaps in victories—but she is no Bonaparte. Her life is marked by fires, from birth to these ragged curtains. She takes a ragged breath and steps onto stage, waiting for applause that would never come. The audience, as she has expected, are no where to be found—other than the wiry old janitor sweeping the aisles (he’s been sweeping for a lifetime, poor fellow), and three fat men in tweed suits. She wonders if, hypothetically, it is some sick joke of theirs—with nothing to do on a Friday evening but to watch a lasting performance. They will get more than they paid for this night in the theatre.
She is dressed in a very gothic black lace, from her chin to her toes. Itchy. It’s just a small sacrifice for dramatic effect, she thinks. She always knew she was a born actress, and now she would have to work harder than ever to prove it. She quietly greets the empty red chairs, a small red smile playing on her lips as she throws her hands out to welcome them. She’ll play along. She hears the slow shuffle behind her, and lets a little whispy breath out and turns to smile coldly at the magician. She tries to make her eyes solid block, instead of windows. Windows to the soul—isn’t that what their called? Such nonsense.
He is fat and balding, a typical greaser. Wearing a thick black suit, his thick face ballooning magenta over his tight collar. Every word is a spit, every spit a bomb. She is fine with everything today; she won’t let his beady little eyes rolling over her tiny frame to bother her. She won’t let his sweaty palms on her shoulder like a heavy weight bother her. Not today. He speaks and it is a shower of nonsense and spittle.
‘Ladies and germs, welcome to the Fantastique…’
There is a giant wooden box with two slits on either side. It is over seven feet tall, but the width goes no further than her little waist. It has never failed her. His creation, but she’s the one that makes it special. She puts the act on perfectly, as he rambles about the old traditions, scoffing at rabbit-in-the-hat as if he’s a hidden genius. He receives a few tight-lipped claps from the men. What a life. It makes her wonder how some people can wake up and prepare for life this way, and endless charade. He is forever entertaining others, but where does his own fortune lie in that? What will happen when the few that come to watch his foolishness leave? Will he even throw his feet out from under the covers, or will he stay forever, dying in a pool of self-pity?
As she enters the box, the second thoughts come to her like a wave crashing onto shore. She has flirted with her feelings like a secret paramour, come close to facing them and then run off like a little girl playing in a field of flowers. She is no longer a child—she has passed that, and passed the stages of middle and elderly, not quite twenty-four. It seems the years deemed for wrinkles and age have approached her through life’s eyes and now she understands how things work. She knows change is for those who are born with the innate ability to become more than destiny designs. She knows, deep where the concaves of her emotions fall, that change is not for her. She has lived past her years, and does not wish to relive them until she dies. One lifetime is more than enough, thank you.
She slips into the cramped space and decides against second thoughts. Second thoughts are nothing but trouble. She should go with the gut, and that brings her to the wooden box. Clever, and sad really, how she’ll die in a coffin—a wooden, splintered coffin, no less. She closes her eyes and focuses. The trap door beneath her feet taunts her with other options. She could run away, find somewhere else to live out her existence—but that would solve nothing. She would be living the same shell of life, shedding the skin does not change the mold.
She does not want to leave with his voice as her last memory, so she thinks back to a time when she could call herself happy. Yes, cliché, but life is nothing but one big cliché. She reminds herself of the times she was called ‘beautiful’. If only skin-deep, it’s worth something, isn’t it? She holds onto this thought and it soon drones out his whiny, wheezy voice.
And when the knives slip into her, it’s like nothing she’s ever felt before.
