The audience behind my great, red curtain sits in darkness. The heavenly light that basks my partner, Princesca, fails to penetrate the screen.
She looks serene, yet lifeless.
Her entire body hangs limp downstage-right, clutching a giant prop rose. She is frozen in tableau. I yearn for her touch, her love—but, I cannot move. My body is a rag doll upstage-left.
The audience sits impatiently; I can hear their shuffles and ruffles, their coughs and mumbles.
Cue the piano. One solemn note played repeatedly becomes a false echo. The rest of the band begins to build up before a harsh silence.
Cue the screeching violin. Our controllers call this, Danse Macabre.
The heavy curtain flies open with tremendous force. The audience can see my precious Princesca. She still holds the rose. We cannot see the audience.
The red curtain has revealed the ends of the stage, but the curtain still hides the spectators from us—it has yet to reveal loathsome me.
Soft flutes replace the terrifying strings. Princesca’s hand moves upwards robotically, petting the air around the rose.
Her string-pullers lift her legs and she stands. They force her stricken yet beautiful body to move up and down the stage as if the rose were her dancing partner. Downstage right, right center, down center, right center, center, freeze.
Oh, lucky rose!
Another violin, more foreboding than petrifying, begins. My music has lower notes than Princesca’s. She falls limp—her spotlight dims.
From upstage-left my light flashes on with a loud electrical clap. My face is masked by an evil smile and a dreadful wink. They pull my strings and I snap up. My head moves before my body, like a predator in search of its prey.
I am the monster of this act.
Through me, they mirror her earlier movements. Slowly does my mask creep upstage, searching—hunting.
Princesca’s flutes come back and her heavenly beam brightens once more. They move her, unknowingly and innocently, towards my predatory exterior.
She arrests her dance towards me and they twirl her around. Her luscious red hair chases her. They will her away from my repulsive stature. In my princess’s act, she dances with the rose, unbeknownst to her that I have been forced into it as well.
Our pieces combine and the instruments begin to crescendo.
My mask has seen her. My strings windmill my arms and legs. I march in exaggerated stomps towards my love, towards my mask’s would-be-dinner.
I want to caress her, but our sinister string-pulling gods have other plans. They lead the way with my devil-mask.
Cue the harsh violin’s return. The narrative of the song is nearing its tragic end.
They turn her around—she sees me.
No, she sees the mask; she never sees me.
She’s terrified.
Princesca tries to run away, but the mess of colliding strings trip her. The rose flies into the air and I catch it. Triumphantly holding the innocent rose, I stand on top of my poor and mangled Princesca. I want to reel back in disgust, but oh how my mask is proud! It looks to the crowd with its sick smile and cruel wink.
Red surrounds us as the curtains close. I can hear the audience clapping. Oh, how depraved they are. I drop to the ground, apologetically clutching my love.
Graphic by Paloma Callo
