The thunderous applause shattered her ear drums and her ego, piercing the thick, velvety curtains as they closed.
Darrius slowly walked stage left until he met her in the wing, a disgusting grin on his face as he stared her down, eyes open lackadaisically, as if it all just came naturally to him. He'd finished performing a set of monologues from Oedipus the King, black eye shadow smeared around his eyes and his eyelids. When he had his eyes open, they gave him the visage of an exhausted king hellbent on lifting the curse that had befallen his domain. All he need do was screw his eyes tightly shut and they became the endless black of the king who uncovered the heinous truth and gouged his eyes out.
"Break a leg, Myra," was all he said to her as he passed by, headed for backstage. He didn't need to say anything else, the crowd had spoken for him.
"Go to Hell," she hissed back. He only laughed.
Now it was her turn to walk out on stage, lay herself bare for all of the audience to see, vivisect herself for their amusement. A rush of passion ran through her form, the desire to ascend. Be greater. Be magnificent.
Behind her, another actor waited for her to walk on stage. The two actors on-deck are wearing only black and are barefoot, leaving only the dialogue to pierce the audience's soul as they silently tip-toe about the stage, around each other, practically dancing under the faint, yellowed spotlight, the lamplight of Faust's study. The actor behind her, her subordinate, will transform and become her Mephistopheles, come to grant Faust his utmost desire. For Goethe to see her upon the wood of the stage, a woman embodying his effigy of Faust, who knows how he would have felt? Though being a man of that old, old world seemed evidence enough for her. She never cared for the author, finding them unnecessary in her performance. She breathed her own vision and life into the script, one the author could never have anticipated or hoped for.
When they had finished, they bowed, and the audience stood and clapped, they cheered for her, for Faust. But the sound did not pierce her as it had when Darrius had humbly taken a bow. And when the curtains closed in front of them, the admiration was properly muffled, the noise refusing to do her the service it had done Darrius and worm its way through the thick veil.
The other actor— what is his name? Kent? She can't remember— seemed pleased with their performance. He congratulated her as they hurried off. Complacent, rolling over for Darrius, pissing on his own stomach like a pathetic mutt. The rest of the troupe were just like him, submissive to Darrius. They accepted him as their superior with no hesitation, no question. They strived to be him, not be better. They lapped up the dirt from his feet, cherished every honeyed word he spoke, every sage notion that may spill from his articulate, angelic mouth.
She hated them. Hated Darrius.
But she— she was better than Darrius. They tried to satiate her with endless, hollow praises of her talent. Keep her down, quench any fiery ambition in her. They weren't lies, she truly was one of the greats. Her name was plastered on the advertisements for their show. Come one, come all, come see Flocks of Imbeciles! But her name was always beneath those two wretched words she despised most: Darrius Marrwella. They never came for her, they came for Darrius, Broadway superstar and film magnate. Recipient of Obie and Tony awards, Oscars and Emmys.
Every show had become an effort to topple him, shine the light on truth. Every performance another attempt at revealing it to the masses. When the curtains were drug apart, she would be there, standing, ready to pour forth grand spectacle. She would exanguinate her heart and soul into her performance. They would applaud, oh how they would applaud, but they would never give her the fanfare they gave Darrius. She'd open the newspaper from the city they'd just been in as they travel to their next locale and read the critics' thoughts, opinions, feelings. Darrius' performance was always the highlight, always the stand-out moment.
As she walked into the darkness of the wing, Myra promised herself that she would topple him. How many countless times had she sworn just that? This time was different, this time something lodged itself deep into her core as she made her vow. It was a vicious thing that had been forming for the years they'd performed together. A knot, a tightly-wound bundle of hatred and misery, now calcified. Trapped in her heart, clogging her arteries, rapidly building up a pressure in her chest that threatened to burst forth, coat the backstage in her viscera.
After snatching up her shoes and slipping them on, Myra stormed out of the building, leaving the others to watch the last few acts listlessly, to pass around ass-kisses, congratulations, and final bows. They didn't matter to her anymore, meant nothing. She had only herself to worry about, to bring to the forefront. If the others didn't want to join her, then she'd let them rot in their own mediocrity. It was a thirty-minutes walk back to their hotel, but she didn't care. She'd rather stalk the streets than have to clutter into the van with the others, have to deal with their inane dialogue. Even when they weren't on stage, they performed. Facades meant to portray contentment, trying so hard to convince themselves that they were happy, linoleum flooring made to look like wood, blistering and peeling.
The walk would give her time to think, extrapolate. Find out what the missing piece was. Stop at the package store she'd seen fly past when they'd driven to the venue that afternoon.
Myra paced around her hotel room with a great fervor, taking occasional pulls from a fifth of some strong vodka that she'd bought between frustrated mutterings. Sitting on the nearby desk was a small line of white powder, the evidence of another laying just below it, residue caked under her running nostril. She'd bought the stuff a few weeks back after a show, but had been too nervous to try it until that night. She'd stormed into her room, brimming with anger and frustration, now-lukewarm alcohol in hand. Endless steps down the dim streets, quiet reflection, yet it had culminated in no revelation. The harsh red shapes of the alarm clock had burned into her retinas as she'd stared them down.
2:18 AM
The weariness of the day, the weight of the alcohol in her stomach, all of it had been pulling her to the floor, beckoning her into fitful slumber on the ragged carpet. As she had swung her gaze around the room, her vision swirling, the glint of the lamplight on a small plastic baggie in her luggage had caught her drunken attention. Myra had snatched it up as best she could, just barely keeping herself from tipping over. With an unpracticed hand, she'd poured some of the contents out onto the table, using her room's keycard to create two short, fat lines. With unprecedented excitement, hoping to find epiphany in the rush, Myra unceremoniously shoved a nostril to the desktop and inhaled as hard as she could, one finger pressing the other nostril closed.
Part of the way across, she'd felt her nose begin to burn, sharp pins piercing her sinuses, flushing them out with gasoline, causing her to throw her head up in shock. A wave of adrenaline coursed through her, terrified yet so excited for the drug. Just as quickly as she'd brought her head up, she brought it back down and finished the line, leaving the other for later.
Now she was riding the beast as it tried to buck her, a multitude of thoughts racing through her overclocked mind. She took another hearty pull from the vodka, savoring the burning, purposefully shooting some up through her nose, soaking her sinuses again, feeling the prize-fighter hook. She could feel the electricity that was jumping from nerve to nerve beginning to wane, lose voltage. Yet she felt she was on the brink, her mind on fire, she couldn't stop yet.
The solution was obvious.
Myra shoved her head back down onto the desktop and sucked the second line up through her nose, taking it all in one go, dragging her tongue across the surface afterwards to lap up the precious detritus. When she brought her head back up, she kept going backwards, tipping precariously, but was able to catch herself on the edge of the stiff hotel bed just before she bit it. Bringing the bottle to her lips once more, she tipped it back and chugged, trying to sate the thirst that had begun to claw at her throat, her mouth. To her great frustration, the bottle was soon dry, only a few scant drops remaining. With a growl of anger, she flung it at the wall and it shattered, glass shards violently spraying out and falling to the floor.
Myra spent the next hour pacing her room, racking her brain for a solution, but it was too far gone, too polluted to produce any fruit. Exhaustion hit her like a coal train, her mind finally giving up on the task, her will worn to the bone. All she wanted to do was fall into the warm waters of sleep, but she still felt physically amped up, tuned to nine, though it was beginning to wane. But it wasn't leaving her system quick enough for her taste, she was done with the world already, fed up with its continued work against her, her mind addled by the poisons.
Again, the solution was obvious.
Myra sometimes suffered from mild insomnia, so she'd taken to carrying around a bottle over-the-counter doxylamine succinate with her. Pluck out a little blue pill and toss it back to help induce sleep, easy as. Stumbling over to her suitcase, she grabbed the small white bottle. Pressing the cap down with her palm, she twisted it open and thoughtlessly poured a small pile into her hand before closing it and throwing it back with the rest of her belongings. Quickly, she shuffled to the bathroom and filled a cheap, thin plastic cup with water from the sink. Drunkenly wrenching her mouth open, she threw the pile in and chugged the water, sending them all down, down, down.
Myra spent the time waiting for them to kick in giving one last go at trying pry away whatever was keeping her from her discovery, but found no solace as her mind slowed, growing sluggish. Without realizing it, she'd zoned out while still in the bathroom, the buzz of the fluorescent lights hypnotizing her as she leaned on the wall. It was only when she began to tip over that she was brought ever-so-slightly back to surface, enough to be cognizant that she wanted to get to her bed. Cognizant enough to know that she was already falling to the floor. Cognizant enough to know her thoughts were sinking back into the hazy depths.
Myra slipped away into the nothingness before she hit the floor.
The dense sound of applause— muffled, as if passing through a thick veil, her ears stuffed with cotton— jolted Myra awake. She could practically feel the tremor of the applause in her chest, but the second her eyes shot open, all was quiet. Her vision was a haze, everything a monochrome sludge. She lay face down on a cold, hard surface. She slowly sat up, expecting to feel disoriented from the poisons she'd ingested, but her head was clear, not even a bout of dizziness striking as she reoriented.
She brought her fingers to her eyes and rubbed deep into them until she saw flashes of white splotches. Opening them back up, Myra found that she was sitting on the hardwood surface of a stage, the curtains drawn back, revealing the seating of an old, old auditorium, the chairs' stuffing falling loose from burst seams, completely vacant of patrons. The walls of the auditorium, however, were gone, along with the carpet floor. The stage and chairs were seemingly set up in the middle of a dull field, the curtains suspended in the air, no hanging structure in sight. Turning her head, Myra found that even the walls of the stage were absent, no backstage or wings to be found, only more of the small circular field.
Completely bordering the circle were trees that reached up to the black sky above, their points like needles that prodded at the dismal heavens. Their leaves were ink black, trunks like twilight, and they swayed under the influence of some pervasive wind that Myra couldn't hear, couldn't feel, couldn't smell. They danced in the intangible winds of the ether, creating a sound like waves falling onto shore, onto grains of obsidian sand.
Most stunning though, was the celestial body that hung loosely above her, as if at any moment a string would snap and it would plummet to the earth, wiping it all away in hellfire. Nestled into the drink of the sky was a Green Moon, so massive or so near as to allow Myra to bear witness to its pocketed face and the faint green aura that seemed to emanate from it, like radiation.
Suddenly, Myra felt the sudden weight of eyes on her, thought she caught sight of someone sitting in the audience in her periphery, but when she turned to look, it was still empty. When she turned away, the sensation of being watched returned. Myra would turn to scan the audience and the feeling would dissipate, any vague figure gone, but both would return when she looked elsewhere. The longer she sat on the stage, the longer she felt she was being observed, the tighter and tighter her stomach clenched.
The next time she turned away and felt the sensation return, Myra slowly moved her eyes back, carefully taking in her peripheral vision. Then, she saw it again, the vague shape of a person, seated in the middle of the auditorium, but this time she did not shoot her gaze directly on to it, simply kept still and tried to take in as much detail as she could. The figure was a nearly completely nondescript blur, pale as porcelain, something above them gently swaying like the trees. They did not move, did not speak, did nothing. Just stared, watched. Fear was slowly taking hold of Myra, running rampant through her body. When she couldn't take it anymore, she flicked her eyes directly onto the figure, and they vanished.
Myra was alone again, alone with her breaths and the crashing of the leaves as they were caught in some inexorable, intangible wind. Always blowing, never faltering, yet not there.
Something began to itch in the back of Myra's mind, some vague notion of movement. It didn't feel like the scared prey inside of her calling for flight, it was simply a subtle feeling that she was supposed to be somewhere else, that she needed to walk away from the stage and into the forest. She crawled forward to the edge of the stage and swung her feet over the precipice, shoving herself off and landing on the soft, yet entirely dead grass. Slowly, she trudged up the aisle, eyes affixed to the distant trees whose forms seemed to lean towards her, as if the lens of her eyes were curving her perception. When she left the auditorium, the sensation of being watched vanished.
It didn't take long for Myra to cross the brief length of the clearing, find herself standing just before the treeline. The rustle of the pitch leaves, their forms melding together as they struggled against the formless breeze, was almost deafening, sounding now of a deluge, a cascade. Still some lead was lashed about her throat and heart, beckoning her to wander deeper, deeper, deeper in. A trail to walk seemed to appear before her very eyes, where once the brush felt psychologically impenetrable. Too dense, too frightening, as if it were a place not meant for her ilk. Yet now she'd been invited, the way made clear, though still winding and wild.
So she walked, her mind filling with the ocean that sounded out around her, the sea eroding every rationale that could possible have led her to reject the path before her. Myra had become an vessel, filled with wanderlust and saltwater.
To her left, a flash of pale, the figure appearing once more, but Myra has already passed another tree by the time she turned to look and the apparition was gone. She walks further, deeper. Again, to her right. She looks, but nothing is there. To her left, her right, left, right, left, right, each time getting closer and closer, yet still only in the corners of her sight. They're never there long enough for finer details to be observed, only the faintest wisp of shape to be taken in. Myra becomes so fervorous in the wild swinging of her head that she is surprised to find that she has pierced through the trees, now in another, though much smaller, clearing. In the center sits a rundown gazebo, its supports sagging, roof broken, planks rotted.
The clearing was shone on by the Green Moon, engulfing the area in its dull haze, tinging the scenery a sickly green, and Myra nearly vomited. Bile sits at the edge of her esophagus, at the precipice of where her throat begins, the acrid taste worming its way up to her tongue. Above her, the Green Moon still hung, omnipresent. There was but one thing in her mind, the only remaining inclination, all base instincts dissolved in the drink.
Walk.
The first wooden stair of the gazebo howled under her weight, giving ever-so-slightly. The second wailed, nails threatening to turn to oxidized dust. The third cried mournfully, remembering the trees just beyond the clearing, calling out. With both feet planted on the floor of the gazebo, an electric shock ran through Myra and— as if a fog has dissipated— her sanity and self flooded back into her form. A rush of water, the seas within her falling away, a cadence in the cascade. Then, silence. Not just within her mind, but everywhere.
All was quiet.
The demented forest still swayed under the guiding hand of nothing, but their siren song had been silenced. Fear returned, and Myra rushed over to the gazebo's railing, vomiting over the side and into the grass. The sound of retching pierced her ears, sharp and disgusting, only adding fuel to the fire until she'd finally emptied her stomach and only little puddles of acid made their way up her throat and out onto the ground, vile and acrid.
Vile and acrid.
Myra took a sharp breath in. Something had spoken, yet it came from no direction, as if it had subsumed the very air around her.
Poor, wretched dreamer.
She threw her gaze around the clearing, desperate to find the source.
Up, dim dreamer.
Up.
Myra stumbled back to the center of the gazebo, staring up into the sky through a part of its roof that had collapsed long ago.
How far you have drifted.
Lost at sea, sun-burnt and salt-scoured.
Myra opened her mouth to speak, but her words came out muffled and dense, distant. Where am I?
Deep.
Far, far deeper than those of your ilk were ever destined to go.
And yet, here you are.
How did I get here? I… I can't remember anything.
You arrived here not through your own pomp and circumstance, but through serendipity.
Some toil greatly and sacrifice much to fall as far as you have.
But others…
Others permeate idly, tramp and wander.
Myra stared up at the Moon in horrific awe. Who are you?
To some, a gift giver.
To others, an anathema.
To others still, a facilitator .
To you?
Revelation.
I don't understand.
You were never meant to.
Understanding, however, is unimportant.
Desire, that is what runs through these trees.
Want.
And you, you are a creature with voracious desire.
Suddenly, it came back to her. The jealously, the anger, the frustration, the need.
The question.
What do I have to do to captivate? Better than he does?
You wish too little, belie your heart's malcontent.
It is not enough to captivate.
You need to bring enrapturement, make them yours.
To begin, you must begin again.
At Myra's feet there was suddenly a small book, Goethe's Faust. As she reached down to pick it up, it erupted into blue flames, hollow and cold. The fire quickly consumed the book until there was naught left but ash, swept away by the same intangible winds that stirred the flora.
As she wrestled with the meaning, Myra felt something sharp pierce her inion and pull, jerking her head back, bringing her to her knees. It continued to pull, the rotted floorboard beneath her beginning to creak and strain until they all gave out at once and she was drug into a black abyss. What began as a downward motion quickly morphed into a tug upwards, as if being reeled in like a fish.
Up, up, up…
"The hell did you do to your nose?" a thin, wiry woman asked Myra.
"Just answer the question, Whitney," Myra spat at her director.
Whitney huffed. "Shouldn't even have to dignify it with an answer. You already know what I'm gonna say."
Myra groaned. "Stop being such a prick, Whitney," she said through gritted teeth, standing in the breakfast bar of the hotel, sunlight spilling through the nearby window, its blinds partially opened. Myra's head was being split by a fire axe, the consequence of her Dionysian night, and the sleeping pills were still in her system, leaving her groggy and disoriented. Her patience had little give. The only saving grace was the revelation she'd had while lost in the depths.
"I'm the prick here?" Whitney asked as she poured batter into a waffle iron and closed it. "You're the one trying to screw around with our show."
"I'm not 'screwing with our show,' I just want to change my part of it."
"It's not just your part, Myra, it's also Kurt's. I'm not gonna leave him out to dry just so you can do some solo act. Besides, what would you do instead? Do you even have anything prepared?"
"Not yet, but—"
"I figured. Myra, I'm about at my wits end with you. You've not done much aside from fight with Darrius, torment everyone else, and buck any semblance of authority. I can't direct you if you never listen to me. You're a stellar actor, but that's not enough for me to keep you on with us down the road."
The words were lost on Myra as she stared forward into Whitney's eyes, trying to keep her sight still, her mind suddenly awake, her heart throbbing in her chest. She could see them, out of the corner of her eyes, and she knew what would happen if she turned her gaze. That pale figure, standing just off to the side in the hotel lobby, was staring at her. Even here, whatever stretched above their head seemed to gently sway, as if the infernal breeze had followed them.
"Myra?" Whitney snapped, "Are you listening?"
Myra couldn't help herself, she looked over to the figure, but the jump of her eyes was enough to send them back to the ether.
"Myra!"
Her mouth hung open as she looked back to Whitney, trying to find words to speak.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm— I've gotta go," Myra muttered before walking away to the elevators and pressing the call button, taking deep breaths. When the elevator arrived with a gentle ding!, she walked in, barely thinking, running on autopilot as she picked her floor. It was as if her mind was so stunned that it simply refused to process what had happened, take the easy way out and just shut down.
When the doors opened again, she mindlessly shuffled to her room, slotted the keycard, and walked in. Immediately, she was confronted by reality again as the scent of vomit pierced her nose. To her right, just by the entryway, the bathroom door was open, and Myra could see where she'd been pulled back to life by the incessant buzzing and ringing of her phone in her pocket as her alarm went off. She'd woken up laying face down in a pool of vomit and blood, her nose broken. She could vaguely remember the sensation of tipping over, but nothing of her hitting the floor. On one hand, she'd been grateful that she'd fallen like she did and hadn't suffocated on her own puke, on the other…
Myra gently touched her nose, quickly drawing her fingers away as a spike of pain was sent running through her skull. She'd have to see a doctor if she didn't want it to heal crooked. Maybe a psychologist too. She hadn't remembered any kind of dream when she woken up, only the solution to her problem, that she needed to ditch Faust and do something else. Then she'd seen the pale figure and everything came rushing back. The auditorium, the clearing, the trees that pressed against the sky, the gazebo, the m—
Another bolt of pain ran through her head. Too much hurt. Myra trudged over to her suitcase and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen, opening it and shaking two of the rust-colored tablets into her hand. She walked back into the bathroom, nearly stepping in her own mess, and turned the sink on before setting the pills in her mouth. She leaned over into the sink and stuck her mouth under the faucet, her mind so addled and lost that she didn't even care that she'd turned the knob for hot water, the flesh of her mouth protesting as she gulped down the pain relievers, steam beginning to rise from the basin.
Myra didn't have time to contemplate the existential. They'd be leaving soon, headed off to their next destination, the next venue where she'd be humiliated all over again. In all likelihood, something was still running afoul in her system, leaving her to fend for herself as it conjured up fragments of nightmares. She cleaned up the blood and vomit as best she could before stripping and stepping into the shower, letting the warm water ease her tensions, the steam clearing her mind and nostrils. She let the horrors of the night melt away and swirl down into the drain. The only worries she had left were the worries that she'd be designated as a driver and what new act she would soon put on.
The troupe drove two vehicles wherever they went: a van that carried the actors and a small moving truck that carried their props. They cycled through one another as they went, trying to spread out the workload, though some drove more than others, citing an enjoyment of the mindless, menial duty. If they were solitary people, they would offer to drive the moving truck and say they would be fine on their own, just them and their music.
Ultimately, it didn't matter too much. She would find a way to worm out of driving if it was decided to be her turn. She hated driving.
And as for the act, Whitney had said no, but Myra knew she would eventually say yes. She was a giant amidst a group of third-rate community college actors, her only real competition Darrius. She would get her way.
Though she tried to convince herself she was past it, that she was no longer thinking about it, she still found herself scrutinizing her periphery, some deeper, more base part of her terrified.
Faust paced his study, "… Thus life has taught me, with its weary weight, to long for death, and the dear light to hate."
Mephistopheles was quick to interject, a wiry grin on his face. "Yet death's no welcome stranger at the gate!"
Lightly shaking his head, Faust continued on. "Happy the man, on whose heroic brow he binds the blood-stained wreath, the victor's palms; or rapturous dancer, whom the fates allow to meet the call within his loved one's arms. Would I could know that lofty spirit's might, to sink my soul, entranced, in endless night."
After languidly shifting to be abreast with Faust, Mephistopheles turned his head ever-so-slightly towards Faust's, nearly resting his head on his shoulder, his smile somehow widening further. "Yet, at a midnight hour, the chance was wasted, when someone left a phial go untasted."
Faust retreated from the Devil, recalling the night before where he'd found himself drawn away from suicide, stunned at Mephistopheles' knowledge. "By spying, your all-knowing wit is warmed?"
Mephistopheles laughed, falling away too. "Omniscient? No, not I," he said lightheartedly, his head held aloft, facing Heaven, before turning it back to Faust, staring into his soul, "but well informed."
Faust, still taken aback, took to contemplating the night before, anger rising in his throat. "If from my soul's bewildering maze a sweet remembered echo drew me, if lingering trace of childhood's ways, sent thrilling, cheating memory through me, my curse on all that guides the soul, with wiles and witchery…"
The flesh of Faust sloughed off of Myra as she faced Kurt, still Mephistopheles in spirit, a playful look on his face, though some worry could be seen in his eyes as Myra's words faded away. She stood facing stage left, standing across from Kurt, as a panic and terror surged through her. Out of the corners of her eyes, that smear of pale sat amidst the audience who patiently waited for Faust to continue his monologue. Even though the house lights were all completely down, even as the stage lights shone into her eyes, glare flaring in her vision, the pale figure still somehow seemed utterly present, as if unaffected by light and shadow.
The words were caught in Myra's throat as she felt bile rise to meet them, her legs shaky, suddenly unable to support her weight with ease. When she blinked, she could swear that the yellow light had turned to a venomous green, but when she blinked again she found that they both were still enshrouded in the facsimile of lamplight. Just as before, she cast her sight directly onto the pale figure, desperate to banish them once more.
Staring out into the audience, the pale figure still sat, silently watching as always. It was a woman, naked and pale, her flesh like porcelain. Her eyes were glassy cue balls that pierced Myra's, a petrifying chill running down her spine as she tried to meet them, but found only emptiness and sorrow. Her hair flowed upwards from her scalp, gently, subtly waving to and fro, the winds of the lands she'd fallen into rising up to meet her.
As Myra made eye-contact with her, her throat constricting, tears flooding her eyes, her heart squeezed and torn from the veins that held it aloft within her, muscle and sinew shredded, the pale woman's mouth began to move, muttering. The words turned to a haze in Myra's ears, incomprehensible and so quiet as to be a whisper, so loud as to be the only aural sensation to Myra's ears, the interior organs writhing in pain and some untold catharsis she was never meant to know of.
Then, with a blink, she was gone. Myra was left staring into a confused audience as the sudden silence deafened her, the blood rushing through her skull sounding a torrent that was all too familiar, that damnable cascade of the sea hidden within the trees that held the sky aloft through pain as they pierced its flesh with needle-like crowns.
Myra looked back to Kurt who was stuck in confusion, never knowing Myra to slip, unsure of what to do.
"With- with wiles and witchery surrounded, and sets her in this dismal hole with flashing flattery confounded. My curse upon the high intent with which the mind engulfs itself," Faust stumbled back into his words, never quite able to fall fully back into place, ever skewed.
When they finished, Faust and Mephistopheles falling away, leaving only Myra and Kurt on stage, the audience applauded and the lights dimmed to darkness. Both actors quickly fled the stage, retreating to the wings as the curtains closed behind them, hands still coming together in the crowd.
Myra wanted to run away, wanted to do as she did the night before and just walk out, but she was exhausted. They'd driven all day, stopped at the hotel only to drop off their luggage and change, and then hightailed it to the theater. Absconding was not realistic nor all that appealing, only the end result of it seemed lovely. She leaned onto a wall backstage and slowly slid to the ground, tucking her knees up to her chest, staring dead ahead, looking at the painted brick wall in front of her, taking in every detail she could. She was afraid of what lay just beyond her direct line of sight.
The clapping had long stopped, the next act likely already on stage, but she couldn't hear their words as the cacophony of applause still rung in her ears, echoing, her head pulsating with every heartbeat. But it wasn't her applause, it was Darrius'. Still he was lauded as the greater show, the one whose acting resulted in an upheaval of the crowd, eyes aglow with amazement as they clapped and clapped and clapped.
She was haunted. That phantasmal projection of her own inadequacy thrown out by a populous who knew little of what constituted beauty. It continued to dig into her. What should have been shrugged off as a product of idiocy had driven her to the brink, truly drug her to the cliff's edge. The sound reverberated still, slowly morphing into a white noise, on loop, never ending, perpetual, ad infinitum. Her breaths were coming short, her eyes wide, following the minute pathways in the paint set on the bricks, created as it had sank into its contours and grains and dried.
She was haunted by that figure, reminding her of how she'd come so close to revelation. She was something deeper, an instinctual manifestation of the indignation that plagued Myra. Her nightmares had followed her into the waking world and yet offered her no substantive use, only serving to further torment her. Nothing had changed for the better, she was still being crushed under Darrius' heel. All that was new was the figure who preyed on her, that frightful terror of a woman.
Who was she?
Myra's hands reached up and clung to her hair, lightly tugging, savoring any sensation that ground her to reality as weariness and anger roared through her body.
Weariness.
Of course.
The pills had still been running through her system at the other hotel, her mind still sodden with medicinal sleep. And here, she was exhausted, her mind in a limbo, only focusing on acting. Her nightmares had followed her simply because she was straddling the line, halfway between the waking world and slumber. She let out a sigh of relief as logic and reason finally penetrated her fears and irrationality.
As she calmed down, time seemed to slip by, Myra losing herself to nothingness. Before she knew it, it was time to go, everything packed up in the truck and van. They made it back to the hotel in silence, everyone on the brink of collapse.
She walked into her room, discarded her clothes, used the toilet, and showered. She dried off, brushed her teeth, pulled on fresh underwear, and mindlessly slipped under the stiff covers of the bed, flicking the lamp off, engulfing the room in darkness. She should have been comfortable as she felt herself begin to drift off into sleep, her juvenile fears of nightmares eased, but something lingered.
The sound of the crowd adoring Darrius was still raging through her mind. The white noise had evolved further in spite of her realization, the dull, featureless drone turned to a rhythmic cascade of water, of waves crashing onto shore.
Myra felt like she was entombed in some fluid, suspended, her fists curled up to her head, her knees to her chest. Her mouth opened and closed rhythmically, small, unpracticed breaths that took in no air, only the fluid that surrounded her, salty on her tongue. It was peaceful, warm. She was more content and secure than she'd ever felt before. So she accepted where she was, letting her stresses and fears melt away.
Before she could truly savor it though, she felt a hand lovingly brush her cheek, startling her. The fluid fell away, taking Myra with it. She fell for only a brief moment before landing on her back, wood creaking beneath her. Opening her eyes, Myra felt all the breath in her lungs escape through her pores, unable to even gasp as she stared up through rotted wood and shingles into the encompassing green light of the heinous moon that shone above her, leering, dissecting.
She stumbled up, finding that she was back in the gazebo from the night before, her back running into the railing, Myra nearly toppling over the side. Her breaths had finally come back to her, but they were shallow and hurried, her heart wrenching. She stepped out of the gazebo, taking in the forest that surrounded her once more, pitch leaves and dark trunks, lengths that pierced the dour heaves above. And the sway, still they swayed, sounding out the ocean, but the wind that weaved through them was still absent. Myra ran out of the gazebo, remembering how the floor had collapsed under her, fearing the pierce of the hook. She stood in the grass of the clearing, her head once again tilted upwards, unable to deprive herself of the Green Moon's visage any longer.
Why am I here? she asked, her voice once again lost in the haze.
Once you are lost, you cannot find the way back.
It clings to you now, to your spirit, like a fluke.
And likewise, an inexorable part of you clings to this place–
Clings to me.
Every bargain has two ends, every coin two sides.
The hand shakes the hand that shakes it.
Soon, the two will be one.
You need only embrace me.
Peel away your flesh, let your organs slough out, fall apart.
Then begin again.
The treeline, once so thick as to discourage any trek, parted before her, a sea of their own, split open either by some unseen hand or their magnificent axe. The green aura that surrounded her beckoned, leading her through the forest with a guiding hand, the same that had pulled apart the tumultuous, inky foliage, or cut it down. The nature of force was not so clear to Myra anymore, every subtle movement filled with untold kinetic energy and the most forceful pulls sourced from waning nothings. Her legs felt like lead weights, her feet dragging through the forest's floor, fallen entropic leaves heaving apart like sand around her ankles. The force that surrounded her— the overwhelming and commanding presence— was nothing but a shallow tide, gently pulling her along as it ebbed.
Finally, she broke through and found herself back where she started: in a clearing, an open air auditorium sitting in the grass. Only this time, the curtains were closed, and the guiding hand of the Green Moon led her like an usher to her seat. In the center of the row just behind the middle row; the best seat in the house.
As Myra stared forward, eyes fixed on the curtains, the endless noise of the shore suddenly stopped, a heavy quiet blanketing the world around her. There was no residual ringing. She couldn't even hear her own breaths, her pulse. It was utterly silent.
Then, the curtains pulled apart, the gentle sound of pulleys and wires sounding out. Standing at stage center was the corpse of a tree, its trunk black as soot, dying limbs with no leaves left reaching upwards, as if crying out for help. It wasn't black like the trees of the land she found herself in, it wasn't made up of some substance that drank light and hope. No, this tree had once been a thing of beauty, its color rich, laden with fruit, full of… not life. Something else.
Staring at the scorched remains, something deep in the recesses of Myra's mind twinged, as if it recognized the thing, from another time, another life, though not quite anamnesis. It was another life, but one she'd never lived, it simply resided somewhere deep within her. It was something primordial, almost instinctual. And it was fearful, sodden with dread.
Though it is long dead, its fruits are still plucked, slices cut from their flesh.
The phantom that had been plaguing Myra sauntered onto stage, like a ballerina. She elegantly tip-toed her way in front of the tree. Her hair still floated upwards, her eyes were just as empty, but now a smile was on her pale face. With a bow, she began her performance, reciting the lines she'd been speaking for millennia, rehearsing over and over and over, performing again and again and again. The words she'd spoken to Myra, the ones that were incomprehensible, unknowable.
The part of her that resided deep within awoke, hearing the out-pour and responding in turn, shuddering and hiccuping through sobs, infantile and afraid.
Myra watched in awe.
Myra wept.
Myra soaked in the performance, drank deep.
Elicit reminiscing.
Drive them to the brink.
Revel in their languishing.
And let none stand in your way.
Surrender yourself to the Green Moon.
The troupe's next performance was the next evening, so they decided to wander the city for the day and drive off in the night, getting to the hotel in the early morning and resting until it was time to leave for the venue. Myra was happy to tag along, standing at the back of the group, walking behind them, watching in silence. Thinking, planning.
When they returned to the hotel after eating dinner together, Myra opened the back of the moving truck, trawling through the mess of props in search of three particular items. One was easy to spot, a leftover from when two of them had been performing Beckett's Waiting for Godot. While she'd originally been annoyed with the accuracy of the prop, she was thankful now that they'd built it large and sturdy, very much unlike what the play intended to portray it as. Soon after, she found the other two things she needed, snatching the pair up and taking them to the van. Myra opened the back door and shoved them in next to the luggage that had already been stowed away, excited for the night.
As she was going back to lock up the moving truck, Darrius walked out of the hotel, rolling his suitcase behind him. "What're you doing, Myra?"
Myra turned and smiled at him, "Just checking to make sure we brought some props I was thinking about."
"Why? Your scene doesn't use props." The cold of the night left his breath a fog, billowing out from his mouth.
"I've been talking with Whitney about changing up the act."
Darrius furrowed his brow, "Really? This late into the tour?"
"Maybe, maybe not," Myra shrugged, still smiling.
She could see that her lighthearted nonaggression was confusing Darrius, seemingly unsure how to approach the situation, staring at her in silence while she walked back to the moving truck to lock it up. As she closed the padlock, scrambling the numbers, she turned back to Darrius. "Why're you out here?"
Darrius blinked. "I was just gonna throw my suitcase in the passenger seat. I'm driving it tonight."
"Oh, I know. I heard." Myra continued to stare, to smile.
After a moment, Darrius held his hand out. "Can I have the keys?"
The sliding door entrance of the hotel opened, the rest of the troupe walking out in a group, some carrying last-minute-packed bags and carry-ons. Myra half closed her eyes and dropped the keys into Darrius' awaiting palm. "Have a safe drive," she whispered before walking away, headed for her director, who led the exiting group.
"Whitney!"
The director broke away from the conversation she was in and stopped in front of Myra. "Yeah?"
"Want me to drive tonight?"
"It's Cecil's turn, you don't have to."
"Hey, Cecil!" Myra called out to the group, grabbing the actors' attention.
"Yeah?"
"You want me to drive for you tonight?"
There was a silence, most conversations stopping as confusion spread. After a moment, Cecil called back, "I mean, sure! Thanks Myra!"
Myra shot him a thumbs up and everyone continued on, muttering to one another. Myra could hear them, could hear that they thought she was trying to win them over for some reason, but she didn't care.
"Awfully kind of you," Whitney said as she watched Cecil lob the keys to Myra.
Myra sighed and turned back to Whitney, lowering her voice. "Look, I know I've been an asshole to everyone lately. Guess it just finally hit me how scummy it was. All of it wasn't making me feel much better either, so I'm trying to do better by the group."
Whitney raised her eyebrows. "Alright. I'm glad you feel that way Myra. I'm… happy for you." She pat Myra's shoulder a few times before walking on to the van and climbing inside, the side doors already open as the troupe had begun to file in.
With a grin, Myra walked over to the driver-side of the van, tossing the keys in the air and catching them a few times as she went, savoring the subtle jingle of the metal. It would be a good night.
The gentle hum and vibrations of the van as it raced down the highway eventually lulled all of its passengers to sleep, Myra at the helm, quietly humming and murmuring a song to herself as she stared down the dark abyss in front of her, broken only by the headlights, trees engulfing either side of the road.
Myra looked into the rear view mirror, scanning the interior, watching the sleeping passengers in the darkness. Twelve people total, including her. One in the moving truck a bit behind them, its headlights like ghostly pinpoints in the mirror, making for thirteen. Their little troupe.
Once an hour had passed, she began keeping an eye out for exit signs that advertised a gas station. It took only ten more minutes to spot one, a single, small gas station on the outskirts of some town she'd never heard of nor would hear of again. As she neared the exit, she flicked on the turn signal, ensuring that Darrius was following close behind. Myra slowly merged into the exit lane, drifting off into the other path carved through the trees, a small road that quickly degraded in quality compared to the highway, seemingly having gone decades without a repaving of any kind. A few of the actors grumbled and woke up as they hit the bumpy road, wondering what was going on.
"Sorry, I know we basically only just got on the road, but I forgot to use the restroom before we left."
A few people groaned. Throughout their trip, they'd tried to make a conscious effort to go to the bathroom before they left to go anywhere a distance away, but it seemed like at least one person always forgot. Tonight, that one person seemed to be Myra. Upon hearing this, the ones who'd woken up closed their eyes again, resting their head wherever they could, grumbling slightly as they readjusted. Looking in her rear view mirror, Myra could see the headlights of the moving truck following behind her.
Finding the gas station in the black of night on some back road wasn't difficult, the bright lights that hung underneath the awning signaling to her where to go, the red-orange plastic siding also lit up, displaying the station's logo proudly. To Myra's surprise, the lights inside the store part of the gas station were still on, some poor minimum wage worker forced to work the night owl shift. It would certainly make her task easier on her, being able to actually go inside. Not that the people in the van were paying enough attention for it to matter.
Myra slowly pulled up to a pump, quietly stepping out of the van and gently closing the door. Right behind her was the moving truck, Darrius parking it next to the adjacent pump. He quickly got out and walked over to Myra. "Why'd we stop? Still got plenty of gas."
"I know, I just, ah…"
Darrius closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, forgot to use the restroom. Alright. Guess we may as well top off."
"Just what I was thinking," Myra replied.
They both turned back to their respective vehicles, slipping cards into them, picking out their gas, and sticking the nozzles into their tanks, gas caps unscrewed and left dangling by their little plastic hangars. They both depressed their handles until the metal underneath caught, keeping the gas flowing without needing them to hold it. Both leaned back onto the back of their vehicles, staring off into the night together in silence.
Darrius was the one to break it. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why do you hate me?"
The smile Myra had been wearing all night dropped. "Come again?"
"Why do you hate me? What did I do to you?"
Myra scoffed. "Are you serious?"
"I know I'm not totally innocent, I've been a jerk right back, but why were we fighting in the first place? I know I didn't hate you from the get-go. I don't think I hate you now."
"Don't try and be so high and mighty, you know exactly why."
"The 'being a better actor' stuff?"
Myra nodded.
Darrius sighed. "Really? That's it?"
Myra shot him a confused look. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry I've been retaliating on that so much then, I didn't realize it was the core of your issue with me. Thought it was just a symptom of something more, I dunno, substantial."
Myra scowled. "Whatever."
"Myra, you're an excellent actor. I'm not out to get you, I'm really not."
"Then why do you keep fighting me?"
"Because you keep antagonizing me! I'm sorry I'm not some Good Samaritan who takes every blow with a smile and a turn of the cheek."
"Go to Hell," Myra hissed, already sick of the conversation, wishing it had never happened.
"I'm trying to be amicable about this, but you've gotta meet me halfway!"
Myra stuck a finger out towards Darrius, emphasizing her words with a jab. "I don't have to do anything for you. I owe you nothing. You owe me the world."
The handle on Myra's side clicked as the nozzle automatically stopped pouring out gasoline, the handle dropping. A few seconds later, Darrius' clicked too, effectively ending the conversation.
"I'm gonna go use the restroom. You can go on ahead," Myra said as she walked back to the nozzle, tapping it on the rim of the tank before pulling it all the way out and setting it back in place on the pump.
"Already planned on it," Darrius muttered back, following suit. Myra watched him climb back inside the truck and drive out of the gas station, back out into the night, quickly disappearing around a corner of trees. Climbing back into the van, Myra cranked the engine, letting the warm air flow again, much to the satisfaction of a few of the mostly-asleep passengers who sighed in contentment. She drove the van away from the pump, parking it beside the gas station, in a little corner that ended in woods where no lights were shining. Then, she left the van again, this time leaving the engine on, and walked to the rear, quietly opening the back doors.
Myra reached up and opened one of the back windows as much as she could, creating a good inch of open space, an attached hinge keeping it from opening any more. It was open enough for what she needed to do. From amidst the luggage, Myra pulled out the two items she'd taken from the moving truck at the hotel before they'd left: a garden hose and a roll of duct tape. First, she walked away from the van and quietly tore off a multitude of strips of duct tape, placing a small section of each end on her arm, letting them dangle in the gentle wind of the night as it rolled past and into the trees.
Once she was confident she had enough, Myra walked back to the van and picked up the garden hose, pressing one end up to the cracked window. Using some of the duct tape she'd collected on her arm, she secured it in place, sealing off the space around it. Then, she knelt down and connected the other end of the hose to the van's exhaust pipe, creating a complete seal with most of the duct tape she still had. With the leftover strips, she closed off more of the back door's cracked window.
Satisfied, Myra walked inside the gas station. The worker behind the counter sleepily waved at her and she waved back, smiling brightly at the young man. She continued on towards the sign on the wall that read "RESTROOMS" and entered. After a minute or two, she walked back out, still taking her sweet time, savoring the calm of the night, the silence. As she was nearing the exit, she found herself stopping near a metal frame rack, the shelves filled with various kinds of snack cakes. She decided that she'd earned one and picked out a Star Crunch.
Myra quietly walked over to the counter and slid the treat to the worker who lazily scanned its barcode.
"Late night snack?" he asked, eyes half-open.
"Yeah, just picking up something to keep me moving. Not nourishing, more for the sugar and mood boost, y'know?"
"Mhm. Cash or card?"
"Card," Myra answered as she pulled her wallet out.
"Alright, swipe or insert or whatever." He yawned, his acne-ridden face stretching. Probably a senior in high school. He seemed young enough. Myra stuck her card into the reader, waited until it beeped, then pulled it back out, shoving it back into her wallet.
"Have a nice night, ma'am," the employee said as she grabbed the Star Crunch.
Myra walked back to the idling van and leaned against the nearby wall. She stared into the dark interior of the van, searching for shifting shadows, but saw none. Pulling out her phone, Myra checked the time: 1:18 am. She'd been inside the gas station for maybe four or five minutes, but wasn't sure if it was long enough, so she decided that she'd wait outside a little longer, enjoy the fresh air of the cold night, the chill on her skin.
After unwrapping her snack, Myra bit into it, savoring the sweet taste of chocolate and caramel, still staring into the van's interior. She idled there for fifteen minutes more, slowly enjoying her treat, fantasizing about what came next. When she felt confident she'd waited for long enough, she threw the cheap packaging away into the woods and walked to the back of the van, pulling the garden hose free of the window and peeling off the excess duct tape that didn't come off with it. She repeated the process for the exhaust pipe and opened both back doors, stowing the items away once again. Leaving the two doors open, she walked to the passenger side and opened the back and front doors, letting the carbon monoxide drift out of the van and into the darkness.
Peering inside, Myra was pleased to find that all still slept, seemingly undisturbed. Their eyes were closed in peaceful rapture, never to flutter open against the rays of dawn again. Chests that had been gently rising and falling before were now still. It was an image of tranquility, a painting of the vulnerability of sleep. A picture of innocence, infants struck down by SIDS. Perfectly tragic, perfectly apathetic. They hadn't deserved it, yet there they were, still and lifeless. They were simply the people who were there.
Though she was fairly certain the insidious stuff was gone, Myra still cracked a few of the van's windows open, crawling over the corpses of her troupe, knocking some awry from their restful positions. After making her way back out, she went around and closed all of the doors before opening the driver-side one and climbing in.
Myra stared off into in the rear view mirror as she pulled the door closed, taking in the scene of the interior, smiling. As she drove away from the gas station, headed back to the highway, she turned on the radio, the green LCD greeting her. She adjusted the dial until she found a station she liked, singing along with the music as she sped off into the black.
The murmur of the audience filled the auditorium as they waited for lights down, excited to watch the acclaimed troupe, Flocks of Imbeciles, and their various acts. The theater was packed, every seat filled. Some patrons checked their watch or their phone and found that the actors were running late, that the show was supposed to start roughly five minutes ago, but none thought too much of it. They were too elated to witness the performances. Besides, when they were traveling through the country almost daily, it was hard to fault them for being slightly behind.
The house lights dimmed, the din of the audience quickly dying down. A lime green spotlight suddenly shone onto the curtains. Some patrons would tell another next to them that they could swear they'd seen a figure in the shadows near them scampering towards the doors that lead backstage. Some of the audience members seated just before the stage could swear they heard the sound of something splashing behind the curtains for a moment. Then, the scent of something peculiar, though none could place their fingers on it. Anticipation built in the auditorium, the atmosphere growing tense, all waiting for the curtains to part. Some near the front were still trying to identify the smell.
Finally, the curtains opened and the scent wafted out into the audience, many realizing what it was: gasoline.
Myra stood at the center of the stage with a large prop tree. Its body was made up of painted cardboard, its head of leaves a bundle of chicken wire stuffed with green tissue paper. Its interior contained a wooden frame, keeping its structural composure. Darrius was tied tightly to the trunk, thrashing, trying to get himself free, his mouth gagged a few times over, muffling his cries. The prop tree by itself would not have weighed enough to keep from tipping over had Myra not stowed some of the other actors away in its interior, crowded within the framework.
Gleaming with pride, facing out towards the audience, naked, skin tinted green by the spotlight, Myra took a bow. Careful not to slip on the spilled liquid around the stage, she began to dance, slowly moving about the tree. She knew none of the movements, nor any of the lines to come, but something had stirred within her as she had watched the pale woman perform the very same demented act, some instinctual part of her knew every step, every syllable. All she had to do was give in. Some in the audience watched the opening act closely, others whispered in confusion to others near them, having not heard of such a performance in any of the reviews.
As she passed behind the tree for the sixth time, Myra reached to the floor of the stage and picked up the box of matches she'd procured from the same store where she'd bought a gas can and nylon rope. She partially slid out the drawer, plucked out a match, and, with a flick of its head against the striking paper, lit it. As she continued her dance, she tossed the matchbox aside, moving slow to ensure the match remained lit. Once she we back in front of the tree, she took another bow and dropped the match onto ground.
The gasoline caught flame, quickly spreading out where Myra had poured it, climbing up the tree and eating the fuel soaking Darrius' clothes. He started to scream, wailing in agony and fear as the fire licked at his flesh, ate away the layers. The audience began to stand from their seats, distressed by the act before them, a scant few still unsure if it was real or staged. Many tried to flee, running for the exits at the back of the auditorium, but were dismayed to find the doors were locked. They tried to force their way out, but couldn't break through the thick wood of the doors, interior metal bars sunken into the concrete floor to keep them closed.
As panic flared, Myra opened her mouth and took a deep breath, letting her subconscious take over, fully giving herself up to the green light that enveloped her. When she began to let go of her breath, words came out with it, words she still could not comprehend. Yet they spilled out of her nonetheless. Her vocalizations echoed loudly through he auditorium, rising above the rapidly growing sound of the audience's fear. Many were still trying to escape, many clogged the aisles as they tried to leave, and the rest were stuck in place, watching the madness unfold.
The esoteric words of damnation kept falling out of Myra's mouth and she resumed her dance around the tree. Darrius' screams were inhuman, his flesh sloughing and charring, the acrid scent of his burning hair drifting amidst the smoke and ash. Some had pulled out their phones, dialing emergency services, the rest either stuck or trying to abscond. One-by-one, though, as Myra's throat leaked hellfire, they found themselves facing her once more, watching her, listening to her.
The performance shook them from slumber, wrenched at their minds and hearts, eliciting a sense of fear, of hatred, of mania. None knew the words that reverberated through the auditorium, but their souls recognized it and wept. It was a primordial utterance of malice, old vengeance, a wound that had never healed, would never heal. A scab that had been torn violently away, blood flowing as venom entered the vulnerable and stinging flesh.
The hatred boiled their blood, twisted their guts into knots, and set their mind alight as their souls sunk into dark corners and curled up, sobbing, forever sobbing. Though her own flesh was being scorched and licked by the flames, her feet on fire as the gasoline she'd stepped in caught aflame, Myra couldn't help but feel utter joy as she watched the audience turn on one another. They brought the torrent of emotions that raged through them to the surface as they boiled over and let it spill out onto those that surrounded them. Fists bludgeoned, nails scratched, fingers gouged, teeth bit and ripped, and feet kicked. Blood and viscera scattered about the auditorium as the fervorous brawl continued, all egged on by their continued waking nightmare. Heads were slammed onto the floor and seats, teeth falling loose and noses breaking. Arms and legs were broken, the loud snaps sounding out joyous CRACKS! that were sweet music to Myra's ears. Screams and cries, unintelligible rants, all filling the atmosphere of the auditorium, though no sound was ever loud enough to drown out her continued monologue of vindictive utterances.
Myra stopped dancing, stood in front of the tree— her mouth still spewing the curses— and watched the mayhem unfold before her. It was a beautiful sight, one that nearly brought tears to her eyes. It was becoming difficult to stand on her scorched feet, the flesh burned away, muscle and sinew and bone all that was left, but still she held herself aloft, proud.
Proud and, finally, happy.
The road had been long and winding, but the fruits of her labor tasted oh so sweet.
Myra fell backwards, stumbling a bit, landing hard on the floor next to Darrius, his silent corpse's limbs bending, like a dead spider. She was engulfed in flames, her back resting on the rapidly degrading wooden frame of the tree, but felt only satisfaction. She was on top of the world.
Her audience had succumbed to enrapturement of the purest, oldest kind. She'd elicited memories so old that they'd been given the same unholy revelation as her. Emotions untouched for millennia, concepts lost to myth, yet still so fundamental. Buried deep, deep within their beings.
Myra had won.
Taller, she stood taller than Darrius could ever have dreamed. Towering above him, pride swelling in her chest as she looked up to his dripping corpse. The green spotlight still washed over her, the green light swelling up inside her. It danced in her eyes, glinted off her bloodstained teeth as she chewed through the interior of her cheeks, bit into her tongue, ripped skin away from her lips.
A pressure built in Myra's chest as she tried to laugh, but couldn't. The words echoed out of her mouth, her tongue and jaw on strings, but air struggled to get through her throat. Her internals felt like they were twisting, curling, and the fire had seared away her nerves, leaving her to only watch and speak, all outside pain gone. Something inside was tearing up, but she could only watch and utter, still trying to cry with joy, laugh in her pleasure. Finally, she broke through the monumental pressure in her chest and throat, blood spilling out of her mouth, running down her chin and onto her chest, some splattering on the floor before her. Bits of unidentifiable meat intermingled with the hot blood and she found that she could no longer breathe in. Still, the curses poured out, like the blood had from her throat, dribbling down her lips and chin, permeating the auditorium.
Myra stared off into the green spotlight as her vision started to fade, her chest collapsing. Her head lolled over onto her shoulder, back still pressed up against the nearly destroyed wooden frame. All sensations slipped away from her, sound turning to a dull hum, her peripheral vision shrinking. All that was left was the twinkling green of the light, spots of white flitting about.
Glimmerings of green prodded at her eyes, danced in her corneas. Beckoned her deeper into oblivion, hands outstretched.
They were beautiful.