Take it From the Top

The call came late at night. Cass sat on the edge of the bathroom sink, tracing her fingers along the rim, trying to focus on the script before her. Lines she knew so well they’d already started to fade, mixing. She wasn’t even sure anymore if it was the character speaking or her own thoughts. “Hello?” A pause. Then a voice, smooth and deliberate. Congratulations. You got the part. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. Her mind went blank for a moment, the words sinking in. The casting call had been weeks ago—just another audition among dozens, a role so far out of reach she had forced herself to forget about it. She hadn’t dared to think about the audition for days. Not because she’d been certain she wouldn’t get it, but because she couldn’t afford the weight of waiting for something that might never come. “Thank you,” she managed. Be on set tomorrow. 7 AM sharp. We’ll send the details. The line clicked dead before she could respond. Cass stood there, the phone still pressed to her ear, staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her reflection seemed just a fraction off, too still—like it didn’t want to move in sync with her. But it was just nerves. Right? The morning of the shoot arrived, and Cass found herself standing outside the set, staring up at the towering building that seemed far too cold for something meant to house creativity. She stepped through the entrance, where an assistant, who barely made eye contact, ushered her through a narrow hallway. Cass walked through the set for the first time, her eyes scanning the sterile space with a strange sense of detachment. The buzz of the crew, the hum of the overhead lights, it all seemed to fade into a dull background noise. She had made it—finally. She had worked for years, clawed her way through every small role, every rejection, every closed door. This? This was supposed to be her moment. The set itself was huge, lined with lights that buzzed too loudly, the crew moving like clockwork, each of them too focused on their tasks to even glance in her direction.  The director, standing just a little too still in the corner, nodded when he saw her. “Let’s get to work,” he said. She moved through her lines, lost in the rhythm of the performance. Cass had just stepped away from the set, trying to clear her mind for a moment. The lights overhead buzzed in a steady hum, too loud and too close. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard whispers, but today, something was different. A low murmur from just beyond the doorway caught her attention, the voices too distinct to ignore. "She's perfect for the role, isn't she?" A chuckle. "If you call perfect… sure. It's almost like watching a tragedy unfold in real time." Cass’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She stood still, pressing herself deeper into the shadow of the hallway. Another voice—a woman, sharp and detached—added, "She has no idea. You think she’ll last the week? We’ll be lucky if she doesn't crack under pressure." A pause. The sound of something clinking, like the quiet shift of a chair being moved. Then a voice she recognized, that same smooth, practiced cadence of the director. "I don’t think she needs to know anything. Just let her play the part. It’ll be better this way. You know what they say—don’t give them too much to work with." The words echoed in her chest, each one sinking in deeper than the last. Cass stayed rooted to the spot, her heart pounding in her ears. She wanted to rush in there and confront them, but something—some thin thread of clarity—stopped her. Instead, she closed her eyes, letting their words settle into the cracks of her mind, filling spaces she didn’t want to acknowledge. This wasn’t some accidental oversight. This was the plan. They weren’t just casting her in the role. They were casting her out. Her fingers curled into fists, but she didn’t let herself move just yet. The anger wasn’t violent, it wasn’t even loud. It was cold. It was the quiet space between the moments when everything you’ve worked for is dismissed without anyone bothering to say why. Cass stood there for a long while until the murmur of voices faded into the hum of the set again. And then, finally, she walked back onto the stage. But this time, she wasn’t just reading lines. The cameras rolled. Cass stood in the middle of the set, the script in her hands, though it felt more like an object she was holding rather than something meant to be read. She glanced at the crew, their faces too still, too quiet. The lights blazed overhead, but the set felt somehow empty, even with all the movement around her. “Take it from the top,” the director called. She started the scene, but not how it was written. Her words were hers, not the ones on the page. The air felt thick—like it had been held too long, and now, it was leaking out through cracks in the walls. The actors around her stumbled, their lines faltering. But Cass kept going, her voice sharper now, louder. She pushed against the walls of the story, against the framework they’d given her, like testing the limits of something fragile. The cameras whirred. She could feel the pressure—could almost hear the click of each frame being captured. The lines weren’t just wrong—they were new. They kept shifting, forming themselves in her mouth before she could stop them. Was she speaking her own thoughts now? “You’re not supposed to say that,” someone whispered from behind the camera. But it wasn’t the director’s voice. This time, it was the sound of a voice she had never heard. Reality was too thick, too heavy. She reached for the edges of it, but it slipped away from her fingers every time. The director stood at the center, a silhouette against the harsh lights. “Take it from the top,” they said. Their voice wasn’t calm now. It was strained. Almost... frantic. And everything started again. The set, the crew, the script—it all shifted. A slight twitch in the lights. A murmur of laughter seemed to hang in the air too long. Cass stood there, in the center of the stage, as the world around her began to fracture. The lights buzzed above her, casting harsh shadows that bled into the corners of the room, stretching like they were trying to escape. Was it always this dark? The edges of the set were warping, just like the edges of her mind. Cass snapped back into position. The air twisted like the words themselves were starting to bend. The cameras kept rolling, capturing everything, even the moments when it didn’t make sense. Cass gripped the script in her hand, her knuckles white. Cass blinked, the sharp click of something mechanical cutting through the air. She was no longer on set. The stage stretched out before her—an empty theater. The lights were blinding, harsh against her skin. Her heart pounded, her breaths shallow, but she couldn’t look away. It felt wrong. Too bright. Too still. She tried to step forward, but the silence was suffocating like the whole world had been swallowed by a void. It was the kind of silence that gnawed at your bones. The kind that made you second-guess every sound you thought you knew. “Hello?” she called, but her voice was lost. The words didn’t carry. They were muffled, swallowed by the air, as though they couldn’t escape her mouth. She opened her mouth again, but nothing—no sound. Her lips moved, but the silence grew thicker, heavier. She stepped toward the edge of the stage, feeling the weight of the eyes on her, even though she couldn’t see a single person. The audience, hidden in shadow, didn’t move. Not a single sound came from them. But Cass could see it—just barely—a twitch, a tremor in one of their faces. A cold, unnatural wind swept across the theater, though the doors were shut tight. And there, behind the sudden breeze, the faintest murmur, a voice too familiar—like something she should have known. As Cass stood frozen in the deafening silence, the lights flickered once more, and then—everything snapped into focus. The faces in the audience, the ones that had been twitching, stopped moving altogether. Their eyes fixed on her, unblinking, unfeeling. But something deeper started to shift—like the stage itself was breathing. Not in the physical sense, but in a way that made the walls feel alive. The air hummed, vibrating with something just beneath the surface, something she couldn’t grasp. Something that had always been there. The stage began to warp again—gently, this time. The ground beneath her feet felt soft like it was melting. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge of a set piece that wasn’t supposed to be there. A door, old and cracked, that hadn’t been in the script. It stood just to the left, its hinges groaning as though it had been waiting for her. Her heart skipped. Something was pulling at her—a compulsion she couldn’t name. With a trembling hand, she reached for the door, and as her fingers touched the cold metal, it opened. The world outside the door was different. Not like the reality she’d stepped into before—but something familiar, something darker. Her reflection stared back at her through the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. It wasn’t the same Cass she had seen on stage. It was… older. Wearier. Angry. The eyes were wild, filled with a rage she couldn’t remember owning. Suddenly, it clicked. The anger she had felt all along—at the crew, at the director, at the world around her—it wasn’t just hers. It was embedded in her, baked into the role she’d been cast into. All along, she had been playing this character—this actor driven by revenge. She backed away, slamming the door shut behind her. She spun around, gasping for breath, but the stage had changed again. The director's voice came again, softer this time. “Take it from the top,” it whispered. Cass’s heart clenched. She hadn’t even realized she had been waiting for that line. The lights flickered one last time. She took a step forward, but it felt as though the ground beneath her was rising to meet her, pulling her deeper into this place. The anger, the fire that had burned in her chest before—it flickered now, like a candle flame trapped inside glass. It was still there, but the more she tried to stoke it, the more it seemed to slip from her grasp, slipping into the cracks of this place, where nothing felt real. It was like she was playing a role in someone else’s script, but they were the ones writing her lines—and now, she had forgotten how to breathe without them. The stage—it wasn’t just a stage anymore. It was a mirror. It wasn’t showing her who she was—it was showing her who she’d become. The lines were blending, the words slipping through her fingers like sand, and she was drowning in a script she didn’t write. She reached out toward the audience, but their faces weren’t faces anymore. They were masks, faceless faces, eyes hollow like forgotten wells. She could feel them watching her, but not with curiosity—not with judgment. No, it was something else. They weren’t waiting for her to fail. They were waiting for her to play the part. She wanted to lash out. Wanted to tear down everything—this set, these walls, her role. But the anger twisted inside her, made her dizzy and disoriented. Was it her anger anymore? Or was it just part of the act? She had played this part so many times before, in so many different forms. What was the difference between the character and herself, when everything she felt was scripted? Every action, every word—just a performance. How many times had she been cast into this? How many times had she been the actress, the pawn, the tool for a story that was never hers to tell? The director’s voice came again, but now it was no longer a command. It was a whisper, too soft to ignore. “Take it from the top.” Her hands shook, not in fear, but in a strange recognition. She had heard that line before, too many times. It had always been the start of something—something real, something hers. It would reset, over and over, until she played her part again. She had been the character for so long, she couldn’t remember who she was without it. The lines, the rehearsals, the performances—they had consumed her. The floor beneath her felt like paper, ready to tear. The lights—the ever-watchful lights—grew larger, a blinding force. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her voice, once so distinct, was muffled, lost in the weight of the silence. The audience sat there, faces frozen, the slightest twitch from one of them. A small ripple of recognition surged within her, an odd familiarity, but it was gone before she could understand it. The life she had once fought for, the one she thought would free her, had become the cage.  She could feel the weight now, pressing against her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the role of her own self-loathing, but it felt like it was sinking her, pulling her into the shadows of this place. The stage was her reality. The audience was her reflection. Every moment she’d spent chasing a life that wasn’t hers had hollowed her out until she was the story, the script. And the script was all there was. The stage was no longer a platform—it was a prison, and she had locked herself inside it. She was the actress, the character, and somehow, all of them had blurred into one. Cass opened her mouth to speak, to shout—but the words never came. The script had eaten them. The anger—once a roaring fire—was a flicker, a fading echo of something she had once held as hers. She could feel the script tightening around her throat, its invisible hands squeezing until she couldn’t breathe without it. And worse—she realized she didn’t want to. She hadn’t wanted the role. She had wanted the validation. The applause. The sense of being seen, of being real. But the more she chased it, the more it turned her into something else. Something empty. She could feel her reflection again—her face, twisted and cold, staring back at her.  The stage had consumed her. The audience had consumed her. And most of all, the role had consumed her. Her fingers trembled, but she didn’t know what she was trembling for anymore. Was it the anger? Was it the resignation? Was it the terror of seeing herself and realizing she wasn’t anyone? She heard it, then. A click. A sound that made everything go still. Cass didn’t even flinch. She knew the words. She knew the line. The stage would reset. The script would be the same. She would be the same. They would make her play it again, over and over. And there would be no end. The words left her lips without her consent, not in defiance but in hollow surrender. “Take it from the top.”