The Actor

CW: suicide

Yeah, that’s what I am. An actor. A pretender. Some might consider it a gift, to be what others wish you to be. I don’t. It’s a curse. If you believe in such things. I don’t. Well, I guess I could, if you want me to. That’s what I am. I can fit in, fill my empty shell with your beliefs, your likes and hates. If you want to go to some party, get drunk, I want to as well. If you want to borrow a car and go for a joy ride, I’ll go. That’s what I am. Your sidekick. Your mirror.

If you murder someone, I won’t tell. Not that you came to me at 11 PM, sobbing. Pounded on my red door with your fists, leaving smear marks. That we dug a deep, deep hole, and put your clothes, the ones covered in the blood that poured from his stab wounds, in it. I won’t tell that you asked me to write that note. That we snuck down Gerard Avenue, past the old abandoned mansion, past the rows of stolid oaks that kept guard, past the gray cat with green eyes that watched us from beneath a street lamp, into Erik’s tall, foreboding house, with that letter. I won’t tell his family that he didn’t commit suicide.

I won’t tell anyone what he did to you first. That he beat you every night in that rickety old house with the not-quite-soundproof walls. No one will know that you cried in my arms every morning, in my small house, on the olive sofa. That I helped you paint over the bruises with makeup, so that everyone else would see the perfect you. The emerald-eyed girl with strands of gold in her hair.

No one will see your crutch, your faithful friend, your loyal dog that follows you everywhere. I won’t tell anyone your secrets. Because I’m your locked box. At least, that’s what I thought. Until I realized that I’m not your shadow. I’m in your shadow. No more. I will not cry myself to sleep every night, regretting the things I’ve done to build your appearance, your costume. I am my own person.

You are nothing without me to hold you up. But no one ever notices the pedestal of the statue. Or the canvas of the painting. Or the support beams of the roller coaster. So I have to tell. Tell the Johnsons that you killed Erik at 10:22 PM on August 4th. Tell the police that the bloody knife and clothes are buried in my yard, under the weeping willow. That we dumped his body in the Delaware river, next to the red honeysuckle that grows up the old ash tree that stands by the green park bench, and his midnight hair floated around his head like a halo. The dark angel, adrift on the sparkling green river, stained vermillion.

But I will also tell them that he hurt you. That it was self defense. That he broke your arm first, when he slammed you against the white plaster wall. Instead of being the bee that pollinates your flower, I will be the tree that shields you from the ever-beating sun. Majestic in my own right, but your helper nonetheless. I am not an actor anymore. Not a pretender. I am myself.

But I guess I am also still that bee, because this is my one sting. My one act of courage and defiance. This is the end for me. But not for you. You can still grow. Lose this shield that I built you, this wall of spiky thorns encasing you. Become yourself. Take away these secrets that bar you from the rest of the world. That barred me, until I chose this fate. Break free of your prison, admit your wrongdoings. Take my last sacrifice, and use it well.

So yeah, I was an actor. A pretender. And so were you. But I hope that you can be more. I couldn’t. But you have always been more than me. Let my suicide not be in vain. Escape the pain and sorrow that weighed me down, that snapped my neck in this noose. I love you, Emma. Become more. Be the phoenix escaping from ashes. Goodbye.

Emma stared at the note in her shaking hands, then at the body that hung from the ceiling. Livvy’s shoulders were slumped in death, her dark brown hair splayed over them. Her hazel eyes were closed, and her hands hung limply at her sides. Her round features seemed to be cut from marble, frozen in sleep. This was not Emma’s beginning. This was Livvy’s end, and hers too. Her world had crumbled. The police stood behind her, silent and stoic, waiting. She turned, tears springing from her emerald eyes. Slowly, she handed over the letter.

As the police read, Emma sank to her knees, the blood of her guilt too heavy for her to stand. Erik’s death. Livvy’s death. They were her fault. Slow tears dripped from her eyes, plunking uselessly to the wooden floor. Her thorns had been cut away, her shield ripped aside. She was Emma. Just Emma. All of her secrets, her regrets, shown to the world. She had been an actor, just like Livvy, and now that her costume had been torn away, she was nothing.

The police weren’t paying attention to her, Livvy’s one friend that sat on the ground. They were too busy freeing Livvy’s silky hair from the rope, too busy reading the suicide note, the suicide note that would have to be good enough for Emma too. She wandered into the kitchen that was just as clean as it had always been, the way Livvy had to have it. Three deaths, no more. Emma picked up the knife, and, with a last glance through the doorway at her one true friend’s body, plunged it into her heart. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she crumpled to the ground, thinking,

Aren’t we all actors? Aren’t we all pretenders?