Second place winner for fiction in the Synapse Storytelling Contest.
Content warning: gore and self-harm
I look towards the stage where a tall curvy woman stands, her cold unblinking gray gaze matching hers despite the lights focusing on them.
“You die a thousand casual deaths”
God, she sounds so meek as she says it.
“With none of that intensity which squeezes out life”
The plastic gems on her dress sparkle oh so dully, I would be embarrassed, embarrassed to wear that!
“Even as you die, you know that you will come back in a different hat”
The greatest pain is not just how unrehearsed this all looks, it’s that the depth of her ineptitude escapes her. That she is oblivious to the… the quality of her act!
“But no one gets up after death- there is no applause- there is only silence and some second-hand clothes”
I shake my head and stand from my seat, quietly, tastefully, walking to the side of the theater so that I can walk towards the stage.
“And that’s -death”
There is a loud crack, and the woman’s jaw is ripped open, the dripping blood barely hiding the splinters of bone and teeth digging into the back of their throat. She grasps at her jaw- what’s left of it- with shaking hands, letting out a scream that is drowned by blood until it is an intense gargling. Her face hardens as her eyes bulge, but she stands still, barely believing what happened.
And now she shan’t offend anyone else with her poor performance.
Another crack and she collapsed to the floor as I slink onto the stage, my hunched stature barely disguising my height and curves. My dimly sparkling black dress drags behind, my legs moving the way a centipede crawls.
“What utter shit.”
I drop a revolver drops from my hands, and lands with a thud on the side of the stage.
“Did they really think they were clever to be referencing that? Nobody knows ‘Rosencranz and Guildenstern are Dead’, and those that do would know better than to watch this! The audience-”
I look towards the audience, seeing nothing but the stage lights shining directly at my face, blinding me.
As quiet as they are, they must be there.
They must be watching.
They must feel about me the way I felt about that dead woman.
They are only quiet because they’re polite
My chest began to feel heavy and
every muscle in my body tightened to
painful knots, the very image of
fright that was obviously painful-
fright that was painfully obvious for
all to see- and they were seeing
they were seeing!
they could be seeing anything,
anyone, but they are choosing to
seeing her, seeing ME over anything else they
every negative thought I has ever
every negative thought I ever had is
being directed at me
at this moment.
Crack!
She is knocked off balance as splinters from her ribs pierce her chest and arms. As she looks down at the hole in her sternum, she sees her heart peeking out, pulsating rapidly to compensate for the drop in blood pressure. She laid her hand on her- no, IN her chest. She felt her fractured ribs, the fragments feeling like a splintered dead log. Despite everything, she didn’t even register the pain- all this felt like it was happening to someone else, that her body was a mere object and she was an observer. Her lungs were inflating and contracting like a broken accordion as air pierced through punctures, making a mix of whistling and gurgling underneath the buildup of blood. Strangely, the whole experience felt reassuring, reaffirming. That in a voyeuristic way, others could see the ugliness inside her, the exposing of her inner self in a way that she could never do through the expression of art. She saw her stomach slack against
Crack!
The woman collapsed on the floor as I march on stage with the self-importance of a general, my posture and sparkling black dress accentuating my imposing figure as I let a gun slip from my hands and clatter on the floor.
“And that’s -death”
I glare at the dead woman whose blood started pooling at my feet, feeling nothing but distain for her.
“It’s not always about the idea, it’s about the execution. You at least got the execution right- in a way.”
There was nothing but silence from the audience. Perhaps they were stunned? Or maybe they were just confused.
“But because your taste exceeded their abilities you felt justified in belittling her performance- your performance. You would rather there be silence than fear offending this fine audience”
I moved my hand in a broad sweep across, gesturing towards the audience.
Silence.
“But if the audience came for a show...”
I procured a needle from my bosom, with a thin dripping red artery knotted around it connecting it to my chest.
“Then a show they shall have”
I walked to the first body and positioned the needle on the back of its hand. Its skin was cool to the touch but still supple, and in one smooth motion I ran the needle through the back of the hand right between two knuckles to avoid the bone. I ran the thready artery through the piercing before positioning the needle behind my hands.
All art must be painful to have meaning, I tell myself as I jammed the needle through my hand. Pain shot up my wrist as every fiber of my being begged me to stop, as I flinched with the needle still firmly stuck in my hand. I clenched my fists in pain, the movement of muscle causing the needle to cut more of my flesh.
What do they think?
No noise.
Are they in quiet fascination or in shocked horror?
I must not stop now.
I hold back a scream and give the needle one final push through my hands. I did the same with the knees, the feet, and the neck until I could bring the body back to life the way a puppeteer does to a marionette through its artful movements.
And now the show can begin.
“You die a thousand casual deaths”
The bleeding doll hung limply on a web of veins, its movements an unconvincing imitation of life.
“With none of that intensity which squeezes out life”
The puppeteer struggles with controlling the body, the form and techniques being new to her. Her body shook and wobbled from the pain, but she continued through the show. She has tenacity, I’ll give her that, but what good is tenacity if you don’t have the talent or ability to pull it off?
“Even as you die, you know that you will come back in a different hat”
As the doll outstretched its hand there was an audible snap as the vein pulling the weight of her hand broke, causing the arm to hang limply by the side. The puppeteer’s face freezes in horror, yet she does not stop the performance.
God, she’s so cringe, biting off more than she could chew, either ignorant of her skill, the skill it takes to pull this off, or both. And who is this even for? Does anyone even enjoy this? All art requires some level of ego, the hubris to say that of all the art that exists my art deserves your attention.
“But no one gets up after death- there is no applause- there is only silence and some second-hand clothes”
There is another snap and another, until only the vein running through the neck remained. The puppet dangled in an awkward upright position as though the vein was a noose wrapped around its neck. The air was heavy with the strong scent of iron. The theater was silent except for the soft gasps from the puppeteer, barely muffled through her sleeve. There was a final snap, and both the puppet and the woman fell to the floor.
Why is she so upset? Why does her bad art cause her so much anguish? Nobody paid to see it, so nobody’s losing money for watching this. Is it because she believes that pain and shame is necessary for growth, and thus it is necessary to feel that pain and shame over her art to get better at it? Must she slit her own wrists until they can hold hands that can write a good story?
I shook her head and begin to stand up from my seat. But as I lift my head to take another look at the stage my eyes meet the gaze of the performer.
I look into the audience as I lie on my knees onstage. The bright lights prevent me from seeing anyone in the audience, but I know I am there, watching me.
I lift my leg and brace my bleeding hands on it to push myself up. I hold my stance wide, balancing my weight on her heels and away from the wounds in her feet. I know she’s out there, watching, scrutinizing my every move. The blood gushing from my feet made the floor slick, and as I slowly lifted my hands off my knees my feet began to slip. My hands darted back to my knees to maintain my balance, maintaining my glare at myself in the audience. I can feel her shame for all of my mistakes. But I need to be aware of her.
I push my hands my knees one last time to right my posture, keeping my arms wide to help with balance. Self-deprecation, cringe, I cannot pretend that I’m not feeling that about this performance. But I will acknowledge that she and whoever else may be watching may have those thoughts, and let the thoughts slip by me like leaves on a stream. Not to dismiss them- after all most of her critiques are right. But to allow my words to shape my craft for the future without hobbling my performance. Acknowledging each version of me that came before and focusing not on the shame and ineptitude, but on the growth. As the dead bodies of my previous selves started to crumple like drying sand castles, I moved further and further to the edge of the stage despite the lights starting to sear her skin.
I will let them see me, in all my pain, in all my ugliness. But within all that there will be a piece of me exposed for all to see, within all that there will be beauty.
I go through the routine, I go through every hand movement, slowly moving my feet, and inhaling through her diaphragm. As I dance, I make a mental list of all my mistakes: my stuttering pace, my lack of delicacy, the stilted way I move. As the thoughts cross my mind, a small flame catches on my dress and crawls its way up to envelop my entire body. It feels like a warm bath, and I welcome the heat of the embers.
I continue my slow dance across the blood-soaked stage, my slippery feet allowing me to twirl and in a way that is unique to this moment. And as the performance winds to a close, I still my shaking legs and bend my body into a bow.
The audience was silent.
Silent, save for a single set of applause from the only person whose opinion matters to me.
The fires around me intensify but I don’t let myself be consumed by it. I feel my wounds cauterize. I feel my body grow. And as the fires die down, I see that my dress has changed its color to a dark purple.
I look up and utter the final line of the work.
“And that’s death”
