Breathe Slow

Sweat. God, so much filthy sweat. I’m clammy and disgusting. I’ve showered twice today, freezing cold stinging water blasting onto my upturned face to try and calm my shredded nerves but I already know I’ll have to do it again after my upcoming triumphant finale. I taste again the bitter bile that creeps up my throat, burning into the back of my mouth as I wait patiently in the dark for my cue. It burns me from the inside. I wipe my damp forehead and sinewy neck swiftly on the coarse material held tightly between my hands. It doesn’t matter. It’ll all be gone after I’ve performed. I’ll make everything disappear like a magician’s coin when the applause is still ringing around me and my audience is truly enraptured with my incredible act. I’ll take my well-deserved deep bow and evaporate in a cloud of red smoke, just like the all the great ones do. Always leaving them wanting more.

I dedicated myself to learning and then perfecting my incredible act when I finally escaped my awful teenage years. I became an awkward adult instead, I found out that I could gain muscle and hidden strength that hadn’t been there before. I remained an inconsequential shadow figure in everyone’s lives. I was always so incredibly shy, practically mute. My co-stars would look over me, through me even, like I was invisible. I used this to my advantage. For years I would never have dared dream of standing directly in the blazing spotlights, my inner performer silently sleeping deep inside, not peacefully, but certainly not fully roused until her actions violently awoke it with a hard sucker punch to the gut.

 I’ve put my heart and soul into this performance and so much of my limited free time. I’ve literally bled to perfect this. This is the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted, more than food or water, more than love, more than basic respect from others. It’s what I’ve stayed awake until the early hours praying for, what I’ve fantasized about for a long time. I’ve practiced and practised. Planned and re-planned, learnt my lines by heart, honed my craft getting every single little detail, and nuance just right.

The first time I performed it was a complete unadulterated disaster. Everything that could go wrong did. I chuckle now thinking of it, but it was a complete farce. The Marx brothers had nothing on me that night.  My timing was totally off. I fumbled my dramatic entrance and my speedy exit. I stop grinning abruptly and shake my head in disgust when I recall how badly it went and send a quick prayer up to blessed Saint Joseph. He keeps me safe, looks out for me as I perform. Since then of course I’ve got it down cold, gained so much more confidence, learned my script and all the steps. I can roll with the scene now, adapt if an unscripted move or speech is made by my averse co-stars. Honestly you just can’t get them to play along sometimes. No-one can take direction properly. They get quite upset and It gets so frustrating for both of us by the end. All those previous rehearsals don’t really matter now anyway. This is the one that’s going to stand out. This is my golden moment. This is the one that’s going to make me a star. I can see my face all over the front pages after this incredible scene.

This means so much.  This torturous body of work finally coming to glorious fruition. My internal announcer starts booming…” And now ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, our highly anticipated main event, the one you’ve alllll been waiting for! Presented for your immense enjoyment this evening…”. I fully push open her already ajar bedroom door, hinges freshly oiled by my own fair hands this week to ensure the required silence, trying to remember my breathing techniques but so close to failing to control myself adequately. Gulping and gasping down the oxygen like I’m drowning, I’ve forgotten how to breathe. This cannot happen, this will not happen, not to me. Not now. Not when I’m on the edge of absolute greatness. I steady myself against the shoddily painted door frame and focus on all the hurt. The disgust and anger that fills me so completely. The pain and suffering that has led me down the bleak hallway to my stage door tonight. I concentrate my white-hot rage, and let my breath out slowly now, steady, and I feel my muscles start to relax. My lungs fill and I am ready. I stand on the cusp and listen for an extended moment allowing the sudden rush of blood that was filling my ears to subside. I can now hear clearly the deep, calm rhythm of her very last breaths. I shuck out of my worn slippers and pad barefoot across the ancient carpet slowly. I’m in no rush. I intend to take my sweet time and bask in this Oscar worthy moment. After all I’ve learnt that sometimes you need multiple takes on the same scene. She doesn’t stir, lying so peacefully on her side she has no idea at all that my time and hers has finally come.  I twist the long strip of material again, it is taut, biting into my flesh the way I love to feel it and move in close. So very, very close.

I don’t want to share my outstanding performance yet. I’ll have to leave here soon, hit the world and share my gift with many others. I’m not greedy or selfish, I intend to share the secrets of my act most generously for as long as I am able to do so. My audience will applaud soon after I’ve pulled down the crimson final curtain. They’ll give their undivided attention to my act, dissecting it, appraising it, gaining enjoyment from it. No doubt some will abhor it. Rage against my beautiful art. My life’s work. After all I have put into it, I deserve some recognition, good or bad.  

But for now, I hear the dramatic opening scene music start up in my head and this perfectly thrilling albeit jittery moment before I step out onto that stage … It’s all just for me.