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Silence is the
backdrop on this stage. No actor stands. The man lies on the floor in a
reflective pool of his own blood. The blood has poured from his body like a
vessel of blood tipped over. This empty cup is laying on its side, hands still,
head resting peacefully, both legs unmoving.
The empty man is
laying on the stage.
Here.
“The show must go on”?
This is the show.
The body is cold.
It used to be warm, of
course; he had lived his entire life warm.
I
should know.
This particular
lighting is familiar. Very familiar. All of it is focused on the figure at
stage front, mid. Unmoving bright spotlights converge on the shape. Maybe this
is causing the surface of the body to become slightly warmer than the still,
dark theater.
The floor is
fortunately level. The slowly congealing blood pool is well-defined and
confined by its hardening edges. Blood has sunk into and penetrated the gaps
between gritted black-painted hardwood flooring. Below, four smaller puddles
contrast their rich, darkly-reflective, deepening color with a dusty concrete
surface. Dripping, wet-looking thimbles dangle motionless in the four-inch gap.
Drops have ceased their steady falling.
Back up top, on stage:
the heavy crimson curtain hangs, gathered, on both sides of the performance
area. The regular folds are the dark color of dried blood. A black curtain
hangs ominously behind the acting space on the last of four parallel horizontal
lines two feet apart from each other.
Empty stage. Dead man
lying in blood. Converged spotlights. Rows of seats in an empty, darkened
theater.
Perfect.
