Their Finale

The girl seemed alright. In the dark shadows behind the stage, she seemed to glow. Ms. Americana, Madam president, the Czarina of the theatre.

Romeo found her dead.

A spotlight shown on her body, illuminating the dark shadows under her eyes, the glitter on her cheeks like a haunted sugar skull, left by the world to end it all in one glorious finale. 

People laughed, people cheered as Romeo found her body, shock etched into the lines of his butterscotch face. I remember cheering, her performance so perfect, so eerily real.

I recall Romeo, standing, empty and staring down at her body. Speculating. I recall him picking up the small bottle of false poison. He drank, he collapsed and the crowd cheered. Then they waited.

She never woke up.

The boy seemed alright. In the dim lighting of the theatre steps he seemed almost a star. General Othello, His lordship, the duke of the streets. 

He died next to Desdemona. 

The yellow lights gleamed against the pins of his uniform, showing heroic deeds he never did. The ruby seeping from his chest blended so well with the pain in his eyes. A ghost of a man, lingering with the smell of cigar smoke and old paper in the back of the theatre. 

People watched, transfixed as he brought the knife to his already crumbling heart, solid steel, not plastic dressed up like a blade. 

Do I recall his voice, cracking under the weight of a life lived too long as he forced out his last words? Yes. 

I recall people standing, clapping as the lights flicked off and back on. They waited for him to stand and take a bow. 

He couldn’t lift his head. 

The girl seemed alright. In the bright lights of Manhattan, she seemed to shine. Lady Ophelia, Her majesty, the duchess of the city.

Queen Gertrude found her body. 

At the base of the dry fountain where her death had played out so well under the willow tree. Her eyes lined with kohl, her skin blemished with sweat and salt, the epitome of a tortured soul. 

We all watched, entertained by the heart wrenching way the queen screamed, terror shaking her whole form. An amazing performance, so poignant and real.  

My friend recalls watching Queen Gertrude as she made her way across the stage, spreading the tales and rumors of what had come to be. The lights dimmed, the crowd cheered. They waited for the girl to move. 

She never got up. 

The boy seemed alright. In the yellow lighting of the lobby, he seemed to gleam. Sir MacBeth, His royal highness, the Lord of stage. 

He was dead when McDuff came to find him.

Against a painted back street in town, laid so nicely, dressed up as if a centerpiece in that city. The gold rimming his eyes, his lips dyed blue, twisted upwards as if a horrid clown dancing for all to see.

 I recall McDuff standing tall and proud, his hands coated in that thick, fake blood you buy by the gallons. We all shouted for his performance, so real, down to the shaking of his hands. 

I recall waiting for one of McBeth’s fingers to twitch, some sign that the scarlet gemstone buried deep in his chest still shone. The crowd shrieked with pleasure. The curtains began to sway shut, the bright stage lights switching off, leaving the edges of the stage folded in darkness into which McDuff disappeared.

Still the boy didn’t move.

The girl seemed alright. In the red glow of the catwalk, she seemed angelic. Her highness Cordelia, Ma Chere Mademoiselle, the empress of the opera. 

She had already hanged when Edmund arrived. 

Her fairy-like build seemed so otherworldly floating over the stage. Bruises around her neck but diamonds in her ears, giving her the appearance of a fallen angel. 

People chanted out her name as Edmund arrived, face pale and hands trembling as he mimed tightening the already knotted coil of rope. 

I recall staring, stunned with the others as he broke down onstage, thinking how incredible it was that someone of his caliber could act out such utter horror. I recall a young voice in the audience speaking out that she did indeed look dead. 

She was. 

The girl played it off well. In the white fluorescent lights of the changing room, I wouldn’t have noticed the dark holes that lay beneath her eyes, so tired they seemed, looking back on it now. The boy played it off well, blue raspberry suckers leave a similar stain. Ophelia played it off well, the sweat barely breaking the thick, painted on face of one who had given up. The boy who grew too old too soon didn’t show the pain of the blade tucked under his clothes. The darkness in dear Cordelia’s green eyes not reflecting the release that lies in a painfully taut rope. 

The cruelty that moves one’s hand to one’s throat is weakening. To twist the pads of the fingers deeper and deeper into one’s flesh. To let the cool silver ice bite, resting just below your rib. To shake the mouthful of little white mints down with a swig of water, to sip at that liquid, so seductive and startlingly strong that paints your lips with blue gloss. At least they get to play the part, the part of the one who dies gracefully, almost poetically, at least one time before it ends.

In the lilting song of the birds that sing long before the sun rises over the opera house, do you hear it? 

In the leaves that whisper as they fall to the icy ground from the trees that are shedding their skin, do they hear it? 

In the rasp of a torn wishlist, falling to the pool, reflecting a charcoal sky, does anyone hear it? 

In the bells that ring from the cathedral each morning, shaking out the lost souls into the air that hangs heavy with mist, I hear it. 

The child seemed alright.