Curtain Call

Note: This is my first attempt at writing a very short story using a prompt. Thank you all for reading - critiques are welcome.

I remember my father telling me about those people who work their whole lives for a big break. Actors who willingly put on hundreds upon hundreds of masks, writers who conjure up countless imaginary worlds, artists who command paint to dance correctly across canvases. All with the hopes that the fruits of their labour won’t be for nothing in the end. These brave people shout, scream into the void, hoping to be heard for a brief moment, before being swallowed by the vastness that is memory, to be forgotten until the end of time.

It was clear from my youth that my father had a deep admiration for these types of people. The ones who gambled with luck on the off chance that the universe might hear their plea and reward them with their heart’s desire. He would constantly point at people on television, holding up medals or trophies that they’d been awarded, saying “..Look at them, Joe, maybe one day you’ll be as successful as they are”. He never defined what successful meant for him back then, and it was too late to ask him now. He told me that the fire within those who succeeded burned brighter than anyone else’s. “You can see it in their eyes” he would always say. I nodded along, but never truly understood what he meant.

His seemingly unimportant ramblings got to me more than I would care to admit. When I would fail a test, he would put his hand on my shoulder and say “It’s not the end goal, but the journey that matters, don’t worry, son”. But every time I looked in the mirror I would search for that fire, that light, in my eyes. Sometimes I would stand there for minutes at a time, blinking at my reflection, turning my head from side to side. Every time was the same. Nothing. Maybe it was metaphorical.

My big break was coming. I had it all planned. My gut was telling me how improbable it was, how stupid I was to even consider that this would work. But I had to try. Truthfully, I had been trying for years now. It was evident by this point that I was worn down. Most days I would wake up in my messy flat that I could barely afford, head down to the theatre an hour later, and try to ignore the mould growing in my dressing room.

Performing was my favourite thing. Standing upon a stage, as if on a pedestal, and transforming into another person for hours at a time was something that I had always dreamed of doing. Most people simply let their dreams manifest in their minds, never making an effort to allow their thoughts to become reality. But I did. Even though I was only a known celebrity to people who frequented my theatre, wasn’t the fact that I had taken the risk in the first place a success?

Today I would gamble with luck. With all the work I’d put in, I knew I had a strong chance of getting my big break, like all those who had been brave enough to try before me. But with every chance of success, the chance of failure looms greater. But father admired people who took that risk, didn’t he? And so I set out to achieve what I had been trying to do for years. Maybe this time it would be different.

I didn’t bother turning the light on when I arrived in my dressing room that morning. It was a Saturday like any other, and I had an audition in two hours. More than enough time, then. It would only take a second.

Before long the rope was securely tied. I dispelled a sigh that made my whole body tremble. Or maybe I had been trembling since I stepped out of my flat. I pulled myself up on the chair. “It’s a stage, Joe, not a chair”. I told myself. Maybe I’d be more confident if I convinced myself I was simply acting. That this wasn’t real. But I’d done that all my life until now, hadn’t I? The chair creaked under my weight, threatening to collapse. A flash in my vanity mirror caught my attention for an instant – a sparkle in my eye. I thought back to my father in that moment, wondering what he would say to me if he could see me now. I did it, father. Look, there’s light in my eyes. I am going to take the plunge.

What he didn’t tell me all those years ago, however, was how often the people who took risks failed. How often their hard work, despite it all, culminated to nothing. Their candle, snuffed out, as if it never was.

A clatter. For a brief moment I feel like Icarus. My mind is clear as I soar. Then my wings burn and disintegrate, and the rope clasps at my throat.

No big break this time, either. Maybe the act of trying is what counts. Is this what my father would define as successful? “It’s not the end goal, but the journey that matters”. So why has my journey ended like this?

Fuck. I don’t want to go like this. I claw at the rope with my fingernails, digging deep into the fibre until it burns, in a final effort to tempt fate.

No.

I can’t undo it.

This is what I always wanted, isn’t it? I could hang here until I black out pretending that it is what I’ve dreamed of for years. But what I dreamed of was to be noticed. Yes, to be truly noticed by audiences who watched me perform. My big break never came, it seems. But I have tried my best. I haven’t got long left now.

Maybe this was a mistake. If I’d just kept going, maybe I could have succeeded. I have screamed into the void with every monologue I have performed, hoping to be heard for a brief moment before being swallowed by the vastness that is memory. One thing I am certain of is that I will not be remembered.

Are you still proud of me, father?