Acid Rain

A few strands of rain brushed against her face, gliding like a fleeting melody. The droplets traced the delicate strands of her hair, leaving behind a sensation both cool and weightless. She relished the feeling of her silk dress clinging to her skin, dampened by the evening’s drizzle, its chill seeping into her bones. She found solace in the stillness of a world moments before a storm—when the sky, heavy with impending rain, darkened into an ashen hush, and the streets held their breath in quiet anticipation. It was a moment of solitude, a fleeting suspension of time where she felt as though she alone remained. And when the sky finally sank lower, burdened with the weight of the coming tempest, she turned away, leaving behind only the faintest trace of hesitation.  

Behind the curtain, the air was thick with the scent of old paint and powder—the residue of elaborate masks applied in heavy strokes, of scenery left to dry in forgotten corners, of the weary sighs of actors long past their prime. It was a place of faded dreams and stubborn illusions, a stage not only for performances but for lives forever teetering between fiction and reality. And within this dim and dust-laden realm, she was something of an enigma.  

Not a queen, for there were no queens in such places. But in a world where survival meant drawing the longest breath in an ocean of vanishing faces, she stood apart. She was the one who kept the lights burning, the one whose name the patrons murmured when the night drew long and the wine ran dry. And that, in itself, was enough.  

She never expected grandeur, nor did she seek indulgence. This was no theater of chandeliers and champagne toasts, no realm of whispered sonnets and velvet-draped evenings. Even as the leading lady, her privilege extended no further than receiving the script before the others—a small courtesy, but a distinction nonetheless. She had played them all: the beguiling detective, the grieving widow, the temptress, the lost girl, the murderess. And when she spoke, when her lips parted to weave the story into life, the world around her stilled. They watched her, entranced, breath held in some silent reverence.  

At least, that was how she liked to imagine it.  

When the curtain fell and applause lingered like the fading notes of a song, she would slip past the others, past the smudged mirrors and powder-dusted faces, past the weary actors rubbing the ghosts of their painted expressions from their skin. Unlike them, she did not stay to wipe away the remnants of the stage in the dim glow of the dressing room. She had no desire to share in their quiet rituals, to reveal the faint shadows beneath her makeup, the fine lines that whispered of sleepless nights and flickering vanity.  

And perhaps, in some small, foolish way, she imagined that if she left the stage still adorned in the artifice of her role, if she walked the streets with rouge upon her lips and powder upon her cheeks, then maybe—just maybe—a tall, handsome stranger would stop beneath the gaslight, tip his hat, and ask for her name.  

That night, however, the play had stretched long into the late hours. A drunken man in the audience had found himself overcome, his stomach betraying him in a most unfortunate display. The air had reeked of sour liquor and something faintly reminiscent of dried fish. Such things were common in these dim, half-forgotten theaters where twilight performances attracted those seeking solace in the dark.  

She had carried on, of course. She was too seasoned to falter over such trivial disruptions. But beneath the thick layers of ochre shadow that dusted her eyelids, irritation simmered—a slow-burning ember stoked by the sharp sting of makeup settling into her weary eyes.  

When the last of the audience had gone, when even the muffled echoes of their laughter and conversation had vanished into the night, she finally let her patience fray. With a sigh, she rubbed away the powder clinging to her eyelids, her fingertips pressing too harshly against her skin. A faint sting bloomed in response, but the discomfort was grounding, a tether to something real amidst the lingering haze of the performance.  

At times, she found herself swallowed whole by inexplicable emotion, caught in a current she could neither predict nor control. Was it the weight of too many years lived too quickly, or the ache of a life not yet truly lived? She could never be sure.  

Her gaze drifted to the countless mirrors lining the dressing room, each one reflecting the same weary face back at her. No matter the angle, no matter the light, it was never beautiful. Not unpleasant, not striking—just a face. A face with a small, round nose, thin lips, and dark eyes that held something almost feline in their shape but lacked the sharpness to mesmerize. Beneath the stage lights, it had been a mask of allure and mystery, but here, under the raw glow of the vanity bulbs, it was nothing more than an echo of painted illusions.  

She thought, absently, of the cake she had baked the week before. She had burnt the layers, covering the blackened edges with thick cream, carefully arranging fruit and chocolate in an attempt to salvage it. Yet, no matter how she adorned it, the cake had remained dry, the cream too rich, the sweetness cloying in a way that lingered unpleasantly on the tongue. And still, she had eaten every last bite—compelled by some quiet, inexplicable reluctance to let it go to waste.  

Even now, she swore she could taste it still.

Lost in idle musings, Juri barely noticed when the door to her worn dressing room creaked open, releasing a sound like an old violin string stretched too tight. The man who stepped inside was impeccably dressed—a young gentleman who had purchased the theater troupe a few years prior for a modest sum. He had only just passed thirty, his demeanor composed yet deliberate. Ever courteous, ever refined, yet his regard for the actors beneath him was no greater than that of a chess player for his pawns.  

"Juri, oh—tonight’s performance was flawless. Truly, how fortunate we are to have you—"  

Midway through his empty flattery, he halted. His gaze, sharp as a craftsman inspecting a flawed porcelain vase, lingered on her face.  

"Your eyelids are swollen. Will they recover by tomorrow?"  

Juri met his stare—no, his scrutiny—with unease and quickly responded, "The stage makeup wouldn’t come off easily, that’s all. It’s nothing. I’ll simply apply a thicker layer tomorrow, and no one will notice."  

No one would see the sting of powder pressing against raw skin, nor feel the irritation as layers piled atop inflamed flesh. The audience need only witness the mask, not the suffering beneath.  

Apparently satisfied, the director gave a slow nod, a practiced smile forming on his lips—polished, hollow. Juri could never quite pinpoint what it was about him that unsettled her. Yet whenever he wore that smile, with its precisely folded eye corners, the poised curve of his lips, the flash of immaculate teeth—she found herself repulsed.  

"The play is done for the night, and I know you're tired, but take a quick look at this. It’s not much—just a short piece for the next production."  

From within his neatly pressed navy coat, he produced a sheaf of paper, still faintly warm, as though freshly plucked from the press. A slim script, barely twenty pages long. Juri accepted it carefully and began to read.  

It was a trite little drama.  

A landowner, greedy and obstinate, desired the estate of another man—an equally greedy, equally obstinate soul. The negotiations failed. Impatience turned to desperation. At last, the landowner made a decision. He would not dirty his own hands. Instead, he whispered to his dim-witted, devoted wife:  

"If we take this land, we’ll finally have a real home. A warm hearth, a garden to gaze upon through the window… You and I, together, in a place that is truly ours."  

Foolish, obedient, and utterly in love, the wife believed him. That very night, she crept into the garden, dark and silent beneath the moonlight, and scattered oil upon the earth. A spark. A flame. It crackled and spread, crawling up the walls, swallowing the windows. Just as her husband had promised.  

Except for one thing.  

A scream. A woman’s cry, splitting the night. The wife froze. It was not her husband, lounging with a cigar in his pocket and greed swelling his belly, who was burning. It was the estate owner’s wife—the woman who had tended the flowers, gathered the evening air into her lungs, and brushed her fingertips along the garden stones.  

The landowner’s wife listened to her cries. And then—like a storm heralding ruin—the wind rose. It caught the hem of her dress. The flames leapt. And she, too, began to burn.  

The estate, now stripped of its master, was put up for auction. The landowner claimed it for a pittance. He built a vineyard over its ashes and became a man of great wealth.  

The script was a mess. The plot, shoddy. A drama cobbled together for spectacle, not sense. Still, Juri was not surprised that the director had chosen it. People adored beautiful women. And they adored watching them burn.  

"I can see its flaws," the director admitted. He crushed his cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe, exhaling smoke like an afterthought. "Honestly, I don’t quite understand it myself. That landowner’s wife—what was she thinking? Who just stands there as the flames take them? If she had it in her to kill, why go down with the fire, just because she was a woman?"  

He exhaled, then flashed another of his insipid smiles.  

"Regardless, I trust you’ll do well. As our lead, I have high expectations."  

Juri closed the script. Under the dim light, the paper took on the pallor of old parchment, its surface marred by countless turned pages, by fingers dragging over its weary edges. She traced the marks absentmindedly, as one might follow the threads of a long-forgotten dream.  

Why had the landowner’s wife stood there?  

She had not fled, even as the flames climbed the walls, curled around the rafters, painted her shadow in flickering gold. The crackling fire clawed at her ears, but she did not move.  

Was it love?  

Or was it the fear of betraying the devotion she had built her life upon?  

Perhaps, in that final moment, she finally saw everything clearly.  

She had set the fire with her own hands. But she would gain nothing from its embers. The promises she had clung to were nothing more than mist dissolving beneath the morning sun.

What, then, remained for her?

The flames rose from the tips of her toes, licking upwards in a slow, deliberate embrace.

Only then did she understand.

She had never truly belonged anywhere. She had been a wife, yet never part of his world. He had whispered words of love, yet in the grammar of that affection, she had been the object, never the subject. His desires, his needs, his future—everything had been his. She had merely drifted in the shadows cast by his existence.

And now, where his commands once stood, there was nothing but fire.

She stood amidst the inferno and welcomed it, not for any reason but her own. For the first time, she made a choice—solely and entirely hers.

Juri lifted her head and met her own gaze in the dressing room mirror.

The makeup on her face had begun to smudge, melting like cream left too long in the sun. The remnants of yellow shadow upon her eyelids had darkened, resembling the bruises that formed beneath weary skin. She ran a fingertip across the surface, smearing the illusion away. And beneath it—

She thought of the cake she had baked the week before.

She had hidden the scorched layers beneath swathes of cream, adorned it with fruit and curls of chocolate. Yet no amount of decoration had turned bitterness into sweetness. The sponge had been dry, the cream cloying, the scent of char seeping into every bite. Still, she had eaten it to the very last crumb. She could not bring herself to discard it. It was her creation, and she refused to admit it was ruined.

The face she painted upon herself each evening, the self she believed in as she stood beneath the stage lights—were they, too, no different from that cake?

On stage, she could be anything. A femme fatale, a widow, a courtesan, a murderer. And yet, even when the final curtain fell, the performance continued. Even beyond the stage, she existed only as the version others wished to see.

Then when, if ever, could she simply be herself?

She opened the window.

A gust of wind curled into the room, carrying the heavy scent of an impending storm. The sky was draped in shades of ash, the hush before the downpour pressing against her skin. A few stray raindrops kissed her cheek, traced the lines of her hair like a delicate refrain.

She found comfort in the touch.

She closed the window.

The rain streamed against the glass, cascading down like the final descent of a velvet curtain at the end of a show. She watched in silence as the world beyond blurred into streaks of silver and shadow.

She wished, then, that it were acid rain.

She wished it would strip her bare, seep into her bones, dissolve her to nothing until she slipped, unnoticed, into the gutters below.

She wished to be undone, swept away in the storm’s embrace, until there was nothing left but rain and silence.