Exit Stage Left

All the world is a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed.

Who said that? Sean O’Casy? By way of Shakespeare maybe, but from Grace’s perspective it was hers— every word if it a Grace Mitchel original.

She used it as her line in that interview she did for her community theater performance. And she lived it, performing her wedding vows on the literal stage, pretending the apprehensive grin on her husband's face was an adoring smile. It was always that way. Not that she didn't have talent, just not the talent that she perceived. Something about the way she acted, the way she spoke, the way she existed seemed to land on a false note.

She thought again of her husband… that impossible man! Thinking of him made Grace’s eyes water. The way he could adore her and roll his eyes at the same time. She wanted to shake him and kiss him all at once. To scream "let me fly" and whisper "never leave me" and not have the sentiments tear her in two. At least he supported her dream… even if she couldn’t get her performance career to launch further than the backyard the entire decade they spent together.

“Stop it Grace! It doesn’t matter now. None of it,” She scolded under her breath, pressing her hands against her costume skirt to calm herself. She wouldn’t cry now. She could save that for later. It would ruin the stage makeup that took so long to perfect.

After all, it didn’t matter—none of it. This was her life now. She was here, on the real stage. This was Broadway. She had finally made it and her name was on the marquee. She was the star. Every single member of the adoring audience was there to see Grace Mitchel. All of this was for her.

She heard her cue—the melancholy music that would usher her into the limelight. She sensed the hush, the anticipation. Her heart fluttered and her stomach flipped with nervous thrill. Grace let the music pull her onto the stage where the spotlight waited.

Once in position she blinked against the brightness. She had exactly four beats before beginning. She used them to look out beyond the stage. The audience wasn’t visible in the glare, but she could imagine them. Starstruck and eager for her performance—poised at the edge of their seats.

And then she began.

There was a time when men were kind…

Her voice filled the space, robust and mournful to match the accompanying music. Grace let herself be swept up in it, like she always did.

She sang each line as she’d rehearsed it, placing the emphasis in all the right places—a real professional.

She loved Les Miserables. She loved I Dreamed a Dream even more—the longing it evoked, the drama! She’d always known that if she made it that this would be her performance.

Then it all went wrong…

Grace was so swept up in the realization of it that she nearly stumbled over the next verse. She forced herself to focus on the song—the act. What she wanted to convey with each increasingly tragic line.

But something was happening to her. She couldn't control it.

She stumbled again, this time audibly.

As—as they tear your hopes apart.

In an instant the performance turned. The words were like ash in her mouth. She was overwhelmed with the shame of it.

It was wrong—it was all wrong. It overwhelmed her, robbing her of all control.

She wanted to stop, but the words continued to flow without her consent, her meticulous care at acting. The affect was gone from her voice, along with any hint of overdone emphasis. Instead she sang with the purity of her own genuine, consuming sorrow.

The beauty of her performance overwhelmed her, compounding the agony until she was nearly choking on it.

The song swelled and carried her to its conclusion, to her conclusion. She spoke what was in her heart.

Now I have killed the dream

I dreamed

Hot tears streamed down her face as the music faded into nothingness. The electric buzz of the limelight echoed in the silence of the performance hall. Grace stifled a sob, hating the blinding light. She brought a hand up to wipe the flow of tears, reminding herself that the light would fade any minute now.

The generator was nearly empty when she’d hauled it down the street. With the draw of the sound system, lights and air it wasn’t going to last more than another minute. Maybe two.

As she predicted the motor choked in the distance, stuttering on the thin fumes and making the lights flicker once before everything went dark. Grace stood in the darkness, wishing for it to swallow her up and end her pain.

But the darkness refused to be so kind. She remained in it until they became one and there was nothing to swallow her anymore.

She looked out into the audience to take in row after row of empty seats. Baren, like the world.

Grace Mitchel was all that remained—the lone survivor of a deadly virus.

No. Not lone—there were hundreds, if not thousands of survivors out there. But they didn’t run in her circles and they definitely had no interest in her theater. They were the scientists, masterminds and world leaders. They were the ones the serum was meant for. It was not for her.

But he’d given it to her and she’d taken it eagerly. She had measured her value against his and accepted.

It had taken all of this for her to see her error—to see that he’d been right all along. He wouldn’t take it without her.

But she had taken it without him. Decided it was worth it to live on, to perform.

Without him.

Only in this moment did she see that her love could never measure up to his devotion. He was the only audience she'd ever need.

Shattered, Grace made her exit. The door shut and a puff of dust danced across the empty stage, soaking in the encore Grace Mitchel would never hear.