Encore

There is nothing like being on stage. One may attempt to dispute this, but they would be decidedly wrong, in every sense of the word. To say the stage is unique is simply a fact. Of course, one may mistake it for a pithy epigram, but, once again, they would be mistaken. The stage is unlike any other human experience – a proscenium matchbox illuminated by nothing but the fluorescence of spotlights a life unto itself. The tech booth above is heaven, the orchestra pit hell, and the dim blur of the audience a beautiful phantasmagoria of purgatory: simultaneously, a benevolent God and a tyrannical devil. The stage is a window away from life itself. Yet, a curious transformation occurs; the performer is no longer themselves, but a painting, imbuing a character in their contrived story. Again and again and again. Night after night after night. Panting with exhaustion after having bared one’s soul onstage, the performer awaits the response of an unwavering audience. Then, all of a sudden, some inexplicable cord breaks, and applause explodes from the shadowy seats below. You are devoured by the roar of unquestioning praise.

Again and again and again. Night after night after night. Another eccentricity of the theater is its inherent causticity. Of course, one does not enter the realm of thespians with scathing tongue and derisive haughtiness. When viewed correctly, the theater is a haven of magic and wonder. Everything is somehow more perfect; life is more real. Yet, in the wrong lighting, what was once extraordinary becomes mundane. Saccharine delights metamorphosize in front of one’s eyes, acidifying. They rot. Suddenly, there is no more magic in this place. For those who perform, the clinical repetition of story and song is as punishing as the beating of a military drum. Again and again and again. Night after night after night. Now, this is not to say that disillusionment always dovetails with expression We pride ourselves on the perfection and humanity of our roles that accompany repetition. But, ever so often, the actor is swallowed whole. When, in those rare cases, the very self of a performer is lost, agony awaits.

I was ten years old when my mother first brought me to the theater. She was a beautiful woman, an angel in her own right. Whenever I needed comfort, her open arms were always there, and, at every turn, I could count on her. One can only associate my mother with kindness. She was my solace. Funny how, even now, I still remember her eyes. Ever so often, I would glance into them. Big and brown with flecks of green and gold, they were a kaleidoscope of warmth and the apotheosis of sanctity. It’s no wonder she was the one who introduced me to the delights of theater. Such as many venues, the auditorium was warm and buzzing with the low chatter of excited patrons. Its heat was not unpleasant, but instead the kind generated from the excited murmur of bodies, reminiscent of grade school holiday recitals. A golden light pervaded the air. My mother gently led me to the entrance of the main house, through the ornate doors, and to a smiling usher, who brought us to our seats. Orchestra. From there, I could see every detail of the actors' faces. Each movement, every facial expression, all was mine to consume. Its grandeur enraptured me. Clichéd, yes, but at such a young age, the wizardry of showmanship seized every aspect of my being. 

From then on, my life was consumed by the joy of entertaining. I composed showstoppers and paraded them to everyone who would listen. Soliloquies were memorized and promptly delivered to my mother, whose shining laugh rang out whenever I struggled with archaic language. Pantomime became my new best friend. And, of course, my mother and I went to the theater at every chance we got. Even now, I can’t help but associate theater with fond memories of times gone by. My mother made sure to buy front row seats to all of my shows throughout secondary school, and, when I landed my first major role, she flew to New York to be there for opening night. The day she died, I was onstage. At her funeral, I sang the requiem. 

Again and again and again. Night after night after night. My life became a sort of ritual – every ounce of my personality focused on whatever role I happened to be playing. Real life took the limelight. No, that’s not true. For me, the theater became real life. Now, that’s not to say I was antisocial. In fact, for the majority of my time here on this earth, I was happy. I married, had children, and acted the part of an upper middle class American. Sure, I never enjoyed the prestige and luxury of fame, but my family and I partook in a fortunate, if a bit mundane, existence. The curtain rose and fell, and I began to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Life, in its whirlwind of contempt and flourishing happiness, has been good to me. I was happy. I am happy. I am. 

You see, I have naught but one complaint. For some time now, when I close my eyes, a strange scenario occurs. Again and again and again. Night after night after night. I assure you, these visions I describe are not fantasies. Dreams are the farthest possible explanation for this…thing…that visits, for I am fully aware of my mental capacities and am of the utmost certainty that what plagues me has nothing to do with fitful reveries. No, I am not dreaming. Rather, I appear to be onstage. Upon first glance, all seems to be in order, but as my eyes grow used to the dim lighting, the abnormalities of the auditorium become harshly apparent. The plush red curtains, with which I am quite familiar indeed, are ragged and dull – more appropriate for a crypt than the splendor of a theater. Each ripple is coated in a thick layer of dust, grey and powdery to the touch. They are, without question, not suited to the world of the living. The panelled floor is grimy and thin, and every step echoes for what seems like miles down. I know it is hollow, and, if those tauntingly deceptive boards fail, I doubt I would ever be graced with the privilege of landing. Everything here is dead. Concrete crumbles, fabric is tattered, and the paint peels to reveal grossly sticky walls. Once, when wandering this haunted kingdom, I made the mistake of inspecting one of such patches. 

The paint had been stripped almost to the drywall, leaving a barren stretch almost a foot wide and twice as tall. Around the corners was a bubbling, spongy texture, as if some mold had taken hold. Its pungent aroma greeted my nostrils right away. Though faint, and veiled by layers of dust and grime, the walls smelled…wet…fetid. Imagine an animal, newly dead, left to putrefy in a rainstorm. Upon inspection, the material appeared to be rubbery and tinged grayish-green, a stark contrast to the untouched hues of the grubby amphitheater. I decided to throw caution to the wind. Gingerly, I pressed the center of the area, touching only one finger to the wet, elastic substance. Almost instantly, thick, black ooze began to pour from my finger’s indentation. It seeped through porous holes, miniscule and almost invisible to the eyes, but there nonetheless. First a trickle, then a torrent. The viscous muck was persistent, and, despite my attempts to extricate myself from its mess, it soon covered my feet and a good chunk of the surrounding area. It was warm, but not the comforting heat of excited masses and golden light. No. This was the warmth of hellfire and tar, sticky, tainted and simply wrong. As the liquid grew ever so slightly higher, I experienced panic. For the first time in my life, I felt fear in a theater. 

Eventually, as I knew it would, the rank syrup reached my lips, parting them gently and flowing with purpose. The muck was oily and sour tasting, and reeked of sulfur and petroleum. First, it invaded me slowly, but gradually increased until my throat was filled with a waterfall of sewage. With every inch gained by this foul smelling paste, my hysteria grew in tandem, swallowing me whole alongside whatever rancid wickedness I had unleashed. Ultimately, it reached my face. Oh, how to describe such an unpleasant sensation. Every orifice it could find, it overwhelmed, and the vile creature – for I am sure that it had a consciousness – emptied itself into my very veins. As I was swallowed, I could only think of the intense fear described to me by a former coworker, so long ago and in such different conditions that it hardly felt like my own life: of stage fright. Once, they described it to me as this: first, an icy cold through every inch of them, followed by a greasy, frozen snake that wormed itself through their body. They described it as being hijacked by something not their own, something slippery and corrupt. They described it as being digested from the inside. 

I know not how I escaped the ooze, only that once it filled my eye sockets fully, I lost consciousness. The next thing I remember is being awoken by my granddaughter. Awoken? That’s what she told me, but I was not asleep. Apparently, I had been sitting in my rocking chair. When she reentered the room, I was stiff and unmoving. She decided to check if I was okay. Needless to say, I never touch the walls now. For, as you may have already guessed, this lifeless theater has become my unwilling companion, a venue that lives solely in my own mind and captures me increasingly frequently. Night after night after night. Again and again and again. The incident with the ooze was my first and only time alone. Every episode following has been inhabited by…people? I’m sure they were at some point, though whether they still fit the category is debatable. These…things… are skeletal beings, all in varying stages of decomposition, but unwaveringly present. 

Maggots writhe through hollow eye sockets, and, for those who still carry remnants of flesh, it peels off of them in sickening chunks. Dried blood encrusts the frayed fabric that passes as clothing. The stench is unreal. It pours from the unending audience in nauseating, festering waves. They never talk. Instead, stiff jaws are jerked to and fro as if to uphold a feeble façade of life. I don’t know who they’re trying to convince. It doesn’t matter, anyways. Somehow, they are able to communicate whatever thoughts they wish, and, though I don’t quite comprehend how, I understand. The audience, from what I have come to understand, are in varying stages of corrosion. Those with seats closest to the orchestra pit are newly dead, still identifiable as human. Their skin and fat are intact, and all they lack is the glimmer of life and rosy luster of blood. I try not to look at them. As the rows stretch backward, the seats’ inhabitants decompose further, and, though I cannot see the end of the chamber, I suppose that the last would be filled only by dirt and maggots. Most of the audience has no eyes. 

My stage partner, as I have come to know her, is the main conveyer of the undead chorus’ wishes. She must have been attractive at some point, though whatever glamor accompanied her in life is certainly as dead as she. Tall and skeletal, her slender, yellowish bones rattle with every step. Upon her head rests a mat of greasy, twisted hair, sticking to her cranium in lifeless clusters of varying thickness. Her face is…how can I describe it? Globs of squishy, bloated flesh cling to her cheekbones. Occasionally, they slip down, thudding onto the unstable floorboards with a wet thwap. There is a smudge of red on her jaw, though whether it is blood or lipstick is anyone’s guess. Every movement is purposeful, slow, and deliberate, with all the patience of one who has eternity to complete her task. She lurches from side to side as if pulled by an unseen string, though, from what I can see, there is only her. What’s most disturbing is her eyes. Despite her body being sufficiently withered, they are piercing – warm brown and intelligent, with mottled green and gold throughout. Her eyes live. 

Again and again and again. Night after night after night. There is a routine, a show, per se, that I have come to understand is the nature of this place. A dance we repeat without variation. For, you see, it is a theater. At every visit to the undead’s soulless graveyard, we do that for which a stage is meant – we perform. I have never been provided a script, nor do I think I ever will be, but it is of no matter. The show is always the same, no matter what. I am onstage, my partner by my side, and a small bottle on a rickety table between us. Of course, it is the putrid ooze that is the very essence of this place. Unable to move, I can only watch as she slowly, incrementally moves her jagged bones. Any attempt to extricate myself from the spot upon which I am rooted is fruitless, and only serves to anger the crowd. I don’t want to anger the crowd. So I stand, and regard her penetrating gaze. Eventually, though how long it takes I could not tell you, she reaches the table. Her skeletal hands close around the bottle, and a hush comes over the already silent audience. Once again, I try to move, but find that I no longer have control over my body. She reaches me, and opens my paralyzed mouth with surprising force for a cadaver. If she had a mouth, I could swear it was laughing. Instead, the cavernous space is dead silent. All the while, her eyes cut through me. 

Again and again and again. Night after night after night. She empties the contents of the vial down my throat. It is foul smelling and burns, and the now familiar feeling of being consumed from the inside greets me. I want to scream, but it isn’t my line. I don't have any lines, and there is no improvisation in this show. Instead, I stand still as the ooze slithers through my veins, watching as the mute audience erupts into applause. With the parched remnants of whatever used to be vocal cords, the masses of the dead whisper-scream only one word. In that moment, when the switch flips and a wave of unholy sound is unleashed, I know that my fate is sealed. The crowd calls for an encore.