Staged

I remember clearly. On my sixteenth birthday I had gotten the greatest gift I had ever received at that time. Well - the greatest gift that my parents could provide from me anyways. It was in the form of a knock off dress, they had pawned a clients golden watch to get the most authentic looking dress for my big performance. It’s not the type of performance where I prance around in a Tutu trying to embody that of a stuffed swan, where my dad would shed elaborate tears of joy at my twirls and pirouettes. No. It was the real deal. A show stopper you could call it. I play the role of an affluent multi millionaires daughter, in the hit play called “Life.” Duration you may ask? As long as I can go without getting caught. That had been my families business for generations, all passed down the heirs and heiresses. We were performers. You might think performers may not be payed much but depending on the play, we are payed ever so handsomely. Sometimes in luxury branded gadgets, extensive estate houses (until are cover is blown and we have to relocate), and so much more. I had only known this lifestyle, this was my whole life, my families and soon what I would be teaching my kids in the future. The art of performance, just as my mother had done.

“Got the script memorised, kiddo?” I had turned to my, smartly dressed father, who had his hands perched on the leather steering wheel.

“Down to the last, pinkie raise.” I had answered, opening the glove compartment to check the hair and makeup. Improv was key. The script was the overall body of the contextual nature of the play. I had to get the atmosphere, so I could bend my way with it.

“Just make sure you, mention all the stuff I told you to say about your disappearance. It’s crucial.” My solemn mother would inject, as she looked longingly out the window.

“I had been kidnapped by child holders and managed to escape, barely, all thanks to a lovely couple spotting me being dragged into a suspecting car.” I sighed.

“That’s my girl!” My father had cheered, a little satisfying smirk spread to my face.

“Just make sure you don’t mess this up, this is-”

I interrupted. “Important and could mean final curtain call if I fail, I know that already.”

I could only hear a small grunt escape my mothers lips.

My mother, her reputation is known in this line of work. She was the infamous, Madame of performance, her young and soft features meant she could play any role. A mother, a high school student, nurse, a hardworking primary school teacher, you name it, she probably has done it.

However, she suddenly fell pregnant with the very guy she was “performing” towards, my dad, and ever so subtly converted him into the line of work. Though he is at the novice stage, my mother is the whole maestro behind the plays. We were approaching the middle class area of Kanterbury Town. Me coming from a low class family, the sight of big oaky sycamore tree’s had fascinated me from the usual intoxicated burnt tree bark I had been used to seeing in Ashmore Green, my neighbour hood of birth.

We had parked just outside a glorious 2 story mansion, the extravagant metal gates towering over our small convertible of a car. My new home. My palms became clammy at the thought of entering a strangers home, but the mouth watering greed of overusing all the luxury pleasantries that I could get my hands on tantalised me even further. I have to do this properly.

My dad had gotten out the car to open the door for me. They were to treat me as though, I had been a precious jewel they had suddenly found and now given back to the previous owner. Prior to this performance I had done some research, I mirrored my role to a T. My dark auburn hair and eyebrows had been bleached to a platinum blond, coloured contacts the colour of emerald runes, my eyelashes painted with castor oil every night to grow it out more, gotten rid of the acne spots I had used to have. I had only been missing for a couple of days, so I was still supposed to be in a decent state. My dress. Oh my dress, I had on the night I had disappeared, still in extravagant condition but a bit worn for realism sakes. It had been in my favour that the audience I would be performing was an old man who had terrible eyes - dementia even and the role had little to know contact with hired staff or any close friends. It made me feel a bit guilty, but I had slowly stuffed that guilt in a trunk in order to do this job with a clear mind.

I had gotten out the car as my father had scrambled over to the call box, my mother trailing gracefully after.

There was static until the call had finally been connected.

“Speak your purpose?” The voice of a women echoed.

“We need an audience with Mr. Jaukins, we believe to have found his missing daughter.” My dad, had explained.

There was a pause until, the door had suddenly opened ajar.

We stepped through, the estate peering over us menacingly. There was a man, seemingly, my father, with a woman in hired help attire. From the distance he had seemed, to be visually annoyed. Probably been through countless of claims all lies at the end.

However, the moment he had walked an inch closer to us, his eyes softened like a puppy dog. His eyes like delicate glass and he stifled a cry from the looks of it.

We walked closer to him, my real father putting his hands on my little shoulders. Signalling it’s time for my big solo. The old man visually recognised me to be his daughter. Got him.

“Papa!” My eyes glossed over, with big bundles of tears, as I instinctively ran over to the old man wrapping my dainty little hands around him.

“Gwen, my beautiful daughter! I thought I had lost you forever, Papa is so sorry.”

He reacted back to the hug tighter, it almost felt like he was about to shatter my heart. Well, maybe my heart was a bit far gone for that anyways. I mean, to perform in front of this vulnerable old man at sixteen, I wouldn’t say I’m the best person for empathy. But regardless, the show must go on. And it did. For six years actually.

-6 years later-

Sometimes I had wondered if I had not made the cut for the play 6 years ago, what position would I be in right now? Still broke and living in a caravan abode? Or maybe even being forced to quit the life of a performer as I had been caught ruining my track record.

Even though this was still my first and still ongoing gig. I wonder how long will I be able to keep this up? Maybe until my fathers eyes close forever. It’s just a thought. If I could some up the six years I spent in this place of wealth and comfort, it would be just. Boring. One would think the expensive clothes, the designer fixtures, the breath-taking food, the parties, latest gadgets would set someone like me up for life. But it didn’t. As I got more stuff , boredom seeped through the cracks.

My real parents - if I could call them that. Were living their best life with their riches they had gained from me in Cuba. I kept a burner phone, so I could contact them once in a while to see what other things in the house would need to be “rehomed” as they called it. Stuff went missing, once every month and my parents pockets became deeper and deeper every month that past. I became even more bored every month. Hobbies? Yeah, I practiced certain crafts. Mastered some, got tired of some and went back to being bored in my room. Friends? I don’t talk to anyone except my dad, the hired help are always too busy and there are no people my age. Romantic rendezvous? I haven’t even had a chance to explore my sexuality let alone think of anyone but the cotton sheets on my bed as attractively enticing.

It hasn’t been all bad though. Well actually, yes it has but, there has been a growing desire raging in me. Not in the sexual manner but in a more analytical manner. Every Tuesdays evening my father has these scheduled meetings, he is the chief executive of a police bureau for a district outside of Kanterbury Town. He would have meetings, with a couple of men. One looked my age, rugged and seemed not the talkative type, an older man who had a jovial smile always and then a short man, with glasses and his signature brown briefcase. I had never once spoken to them or open the door to the specific room but I would always eaves drop on their conversations. It had seemed stuff that I would of originally thought of tedious, boring even, but it appealed to me. Late nights of studying books of police conduct and the law. Me being a law abiding citizen, it intrigued me the certain laws I may have not known about, that I may or may not have been broken by my family but that was besides the point. It was new, fresh, on trend for me and my obsession for knowledge grew.

One day my father had asked me a very interesting question which resonated in my mind more than I wanted to.

“Glen, what do you see yourself doing in the future, sweetheart?” The sweet man had asked, peeping his head over his newspaper.

I stopped eating my jammed biscuit, placing it down on my plate. “What ever do you mean father?” I had asked.

“Well you are getting to that age-”

“Please no arranged marriages, father.” He chuckled, as I had interrupted him mid sentence. I wouldn’t have dared do that in the past at risk of getting my cover blown but the years have made it so he had adopted the changing of my eloquent speech.

“Never. I won’t be selling you off any time soon.”

“Any time soon?” I gulped loudly, pushing my plate away, for one of the maids to come and collect it.

“I’m just kidding, I’ve just thought, I know I provide for you every thing you wish for but I am dying soon.” He had said solemnly.

Oh how time was ever so cruel. By the time of his death, my mother would had already planned to set up this elaborate stage where I would be killed off, and the wealth will mysteriously trickle its way to them. Though the details, only my mother new, she had planned my opening act and the closing bow already in that meticulous mind of hers.

“Father, please the mention of such thing upset me.” I wiped away my crocodile tears with the handkerchief on the table.

“I know, but for future’s sake I feel like you need to start thinking what you want to do with your life.” He had said, putting down his newspaper.

“My life?” I had mumbled.

Life. What was life to me? The performance. The stage. The dowry in return from the performance. Well that’s all I had known. All I was introduced to. Never have I had the thought of becoming a doctor, nurse, housewife, exotic dancer or whatever else there was.

It was my families business or nothing.

“Deliberate about it soon Glen, so I can at least leave knowing my daughter has an aim, that’s all I wish.” He had said, in stifled bursts of coughs.

“Whether you marry - or even take over your grandmothers clothing shop or decide to study for a different job is the choice you only can make.” He smiled at me, after having a maid come over with his daily dosage of pills. Eight in total. Never once had it never been eight.

I grimaced at the thought of grandma’s clothing shop. It was old and antique - I had only visited once but the shop was as dead as she was. The only customers that came where the stuck up midwives who used to be “closely acquainted” with grandma but it doesn’t take the greatest actor to realise how that was pure lies. Being CEO of that shop would mean I would have to put up with the circle of gossip of some woman I do not know exists and her son - because it’s always about the sons - who was caught flirting with some priest’s daughter. I would rather get married to an accountant and have our first date be about integers and graphs than have to put up with gossiping mothers.

“From your expression, not an option is it.” Father smiled, reassuringly, only knowing how much I would detest it.

I smiled weakly, “I’ll think about it and get back to you papa.”

“Don’t think to hard, you have plenty of time, papa will be around to see my girl walk down the aisle.” He said, in an almost childlike way.

I sighed internally. “Of course you will Papa.” My gut felt very heavy, talking about the future, made my stomach turn. Since I really don’t have a future plan to look forward too. Maybe riches. Maybe a yacht to some private island owned by my family. All I knew is that I would be jumping from place to place with no rest and no destination. Let me just enjoy, having someone think I have so many possibilities because my possibilities seem to be very limited.

After that day, I had spent the days how I would usually spend it. On my bed, eavesdropping or in the garden playing tea party with myself. A very fun past time. But on one of these days, I had decided instead of pleasantries to myself I would help out the hired staff. They had been adamant, followed me everywhere when I helped them put the cutlery and plates away. Fair enough, they were worth more than that knock off dress I arrived in 6 years ago. I had offered to go offer refreshments to my father and his colleagues in his office. They were talking about a case that had seemed very important as they had been in that room since the first cuckoo of morning. Neatly sliced cucumber sandwiches, home made biscuits with a flask of coffee. When the coast was clear as I held the tray of goodies out of the kitchen, I shoved one cucumber sandwich in my mouth chewing ever so often until I reached my fathers study and gulped it quickly. I knocked once, and then entered.

Father’s office was spacious but at the sight of the same three men there always were his office made the room look smaller.

“Ah, here’s my daughter Glen. You may have not met, but these are my best police officers I have.” He smiled at me, as I set down the tray, gazing at the three men.

“Charmed to have met your beautiful daughter sir, Mr. Kraus is my name, Glen.” The jovial man had said. I had nodded to him, looking at the shorter man with glasses who was intently eyeing me.

“Mr. Saudi.” he beamed.

I made an effort to smile.

“Chris.” I turned to the man who looked about my age or a bit older. He was solemn and he looked dead into my eyes.

Shaking his gaze, I curtseyed a bit. 

“Charmed to meet my fathers closest confidents.” I had said politely.

“Actually you have met, Chris before, when you were much younger you probably don’t remember, it’s been what, so long.” A knot formed in my stomach. This hadn’t been in the script.

“Ah-h i’m sorry I couldn’t recognise you, it’s been so long.” Keep in character.

“No malice here, it was such a long time after all.” Chris had just said.

“Anyways, I better be off, leave you all to your business.” I had said, trying to escape the room.

“Ah, wait- Glen I wanted to actually ask something weird of you.” My father had said, turning back at me. I had never gotten nervous before a performance even when I had been put on the spot. It had happened once before, where my father asked about the fact I kept dyeing my already supposed to be blonde hair. I played it off as hormonal mid-teen crisis and the sun darkening my hair. He believed it. But this had made me even more nervous. He couldn’t have found out right? He has been acting a lot more melancholic these days. Flicking through photobooks, granted he has a small case of gotten dementia but only to the point he forgets where he puts his monocle. No, he couldn’t have seen through the performance.

What he had asked me that night had shocked, thrilled and filled me with a sense of greed that night. However a different type of greed. A greed for fulfilment.

That night, I took my burner phone and dialled the number that felt foreign. The line crackled until I could here the voice of my mother.

“Mum, what if I told you I wanted to quit being an actor for good.” The line broke and retched an awful sound.

“I’d say my daughter, you would be forever dead to me.” Her voice was calm collected but there was a hint of anger.

That night, my mum didn’t only denounce me as someone dead to her, something else had also died. Instead of eight pills, there had only been seven.