My Flower Bleeds Red

Chapter One

The theatre has always felt like an abode far more intimate than any rented flat or the house of my childhood. It was my sanctuary. Within its embrace, I could shed my ordinary self and inhabit the profound words and actions of others—words and actions that echoed with a truth my own voice and body could never articulate.

Within these hallowed walls, I surrendered to my most grotesque desires, to my insatiable yearning, and to my boundless needs. Here, there was no room for disgust or hatred, only the pure, unblemished admiration of these acts.

The theater—a wonderful thing.

Under the dim glow of the ghost light, I sat on the stage, its eerie luminance casting long, spectral shadows across the vacant seats. Rehearsals for The Lady of the Camellias were to commence in an hour, but I always arrived early, drawn by the seductive stillness of the theatre. This silence was intoxicating, much like the solitary act of dying on stage, which held an irresistible allure for me. Not the histrionic, exaggerated deaths, with their cacophony of screams and frantic flailing—those always seemed cheap and insincere. What I craved was the quiet resignation, the nuanced surrender to fate. A death that slipped in like a shadow, unnoticed until it was too late.

It was a fascination I could never articulate to anyone. How could I? Such revelations are not shared in casual conversation over coffee. "By the way, I find the contemplation of my own death strangely erotic." The very utterance would cause them to recoil, murmuring polite excuses, gradually retreating, their warmth receding from my reach. But on stage, it was different. On stage, it was art.

My first brush with this peculiar fascination occurred during a college production of Hamlet.  As I portrayed Ophelia, a near-electric thrill surged through me, her final lines sinking into my bones and merging with my very blood. The scripted drowning metamorphosed into liberation, a descent into the abyss reminiscent of returning to the nurturing depths of a mother’s womb, secure and sheltered.

I distinctly remember the sensation of complete submersion in the shallow stage water, my hair drenched, my eyes enveloped by a comforting darkness, my limbs weightless and ethereal. The intimate current, akin to a lover's touch, wove liquid silk through my fingertips, encircling my form in a sensuous embrace.

Since that transformative moment, I have relentlessly pursued that elusive sensation through each role, drawn to characters whose end arrives not with a scream, but with a sigh.

I stole a glance at my reflection in the mirrored wall at the rear of the stage. There, my countenance appeared pallid and ghostly in the subdued illumination, my eyes betraying a peculiar and volatile yearning, their expansiveness enough to devour the entire building.

I practiced a tentative smile at the mirror, envisioning the climactic scene: Marguerite, succumbing to her illness. It was imperative to execute it with immaculate precision, to render it with exquisite finesse—an elegiac and graceful culmination to her tragic tale.

There came a rap upon the stage door, a percussion  resounding through the corridors of my mind, compelling me to halt in mid-action. I turned, mesmerised by the abrupt intrusion, and there, framed in the doorway's halo, stood Benjamin—our director. His presence dominated the room, despite his unruly hair, as if he had weathered an overpowering, tumultuous storm, it was his eyes that seized me most intensely.

His eyes blazed with a fervour bordering on unyielding passion, demanding perfection—perfection that existed solely within the crucible of his vision. In those eyes gleamed a chisel-sharp determination, a resolve that brooked no compromise.

"Aha, there she is," he said, his voice slicing through the silence. "Early as always, ever predictable."

I smiled, shrugging. "Just getting a feel for the space."

He nodded, his gaze sweeping across the stage. "It's going to be a great show. I can feel it!" His words resonated with the innate brilliance that seemed to have been bestowed upon him from birth..

"So can I," I said softly, my eyes drifting to the spot where Marguerite would die.

That particular corner of the stage remained stark, dominated by an austere bed adorned with faded paintings and relics of her days as a courtesan. Camellias strewn about the bed added a poignant punctuation to the scene. The sheer elegance of it all stirred a disquieting sensation within me.

It was as if the exquisite stage reflected the irresistible allure of a man consumed by a deep hunger and thirst for a woman's essence, yearning to possess her delicate, blossoming flower, offering it almost as a sacrament to quench the searing heat that plagued their bodies.

Benjamin followed my gaze and then looked back at me, a curious expression on his face. "You've always had a knack for those final moments, haven't you?"

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What's your secret? How do you make it look so... real?"

I hesitated, the truth poised delicately on my lips: the allure of death's eroticism, its exquisite beauty, beckoned for expression. Yet, I merely smiled and gently shook my head. "Oh, it's simply a matter of dedication and practice, I suppose."

He laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. "Well, whatever it is, keep doing it. It's magic."

As his footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, disappearing from the room, I returned to my center stage, before the commanding presence of the bed. With closed eyes, I welcomed the silence once more.

The theatre's allure lies in its perpetual dance between life and death, in daring to venture into the unknown abyss and returning unscathed. This game is one I know intimately, one I eagerly embrace. For within its realm, I find liberation, a radiant weightlessness.

Yet upon departing this realm, returning to the grip of reality, a tidal wave of yearning ensues—a primal longing akin to adolescent desire. It's as though there exists a tether binding us to cling onto life. If only I could sever it, I might live weightlessly forever. This is why I hold the theatre in such high regard; it serves to fray that tether ever so slightly.

The theater—a wonderful thing.

I opened my eyes, the abrupt rupture of words breaking the silence that enveloped me. In that instant, the performance's exhilaration surged through my veins.

Tonight, we would rehearse the final act once more, immersing myself once again in Marguerite's serene finale. It promised to be exquisite, tranquil—a mere thought that sparked excitement within me.