The Actor (Joe): Pt. 1

What did I do?!

I slammed the door with all the strength I could muster, rage coursing through me like wildfire. My breath came in ragged gasps as I surveyed the room, my sanctuary turned battlefield. Plates shattered as I swept them off the cabinet, their sharp clatter echoing in the silence. A vase toppled and exploded into shards beneath my stomping feet. Curtains, once pristine, came down in a single violent yank, flooding the room with an unforgiving brightness that revealed the chaos I'd unleashed—a grotesque masterpiece born of fury.

Then I turned to my collection of paintings, the only things I had once cherished. With trembling hands, I tore through the canvases, ripping apart years of work and memories. The shredded pieces fluttered out the window like confetti, and below, startled strangers scrambled to pick them up.

"This is Van Gogh, you idiot!" one shouted, holding up a fragment in disbelief.

"I don't give a damn!" I screamed back, my voice cracking.

Pigeons scattered into the sky, startled by my outburst. I stood there, panting, my hands bloodied and trembling. A loud knock at the door startled me.

"Get lost!"

"It's me, Joe."

I froze. That voice—sharp, familiar, and cutting.

"Fuck."

I stumbled to the sink, running cold water over my fists, wincing as the sting shot through my knuckles. I splashed my face, trying to wash away the evidence of my rage. Tugging off my wig, I tossed it onto the counter, revealing my bald head in all its vulnerability.

"What do you want?" I shouted hoarsely, not bothering to open the door.

"Open the damn door," she barked.

I hesitated. I knew why she was here.

When I finally unlocked it, her fist connected with my face before I could say a word. Pain burst behind my eyes as I stumbled backward. Before I could recover, she spat on me and, with brutal precision, kicked me in the groin.

"You have no right to humiliate me like that!" she screamed, her voice raw with fury.

I doubled over, clutching myself, unable to respond. She grabbed my wig off the counter and hurled it out the window before storming out, leaving me crumpled on the floor.

Alone again.

I sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the door she had slammed shut. Caroline. My best friend, my mentor, my lover—once.

---

Our relationship had begun beautifully, two people tangled in love and ambition. Then came Malcolm.

Malcolm, her brother. Malcolm, the man who destroyed everything.

What was it about him? That raw magnetism? That effortless charm? I couldn't stop myself from falling for him. And when I confessed the truth to Caroline, it shattered her. Us. Everything.

She left me after that—eight years ago. I told myself I'd move on, but I didn't. I buried my feelings for Malcolm in shame and self-loathing, seeking solace in brief, shallow encounters with older men who couldn't fill the void. Anxiety and depression consumed me, gnawing at the edges of my existence.

Eight years later, we were strangers. Caroline had stayed at the law firm, climbing the ranks. I had abandoned my career in advertising, chasing an improbable dream of acting. I scraped by in a small theater, playing roles that paid for my rent and my cigarettes.

And then, last night, everything unraveled.

---

It started at a bar. I'd met Harold—a charming, silver-haired stranger. We laughed, danced, kissed. It was intoxicating. For a brief moment, I forgot the mess my life had become.

But then Caroline showed up. Drunk. Furious. She hurled a beer glass at me.

"What the hell is your problem?" I yelled, dodging the shattering glass.

"Look at you!" she spat, her eyes blazing.

The anger I had buried for years erupted. I slapped her. Hard. She crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down her face, her cigarette trembling in her fingers.

Before I could process what I'd done, a large woman approached—two bottles of Stella Artois in hand.

"What did you do to her?" she demanded.

"Who the hell are you?"

Then it hit me. Tanya. Caroline's boss. The woman she'd been seeing behind my back while we were still together. I had exposed them years ago, in a haze of betrayal and resentment, wrecking Caroline's reputation at the firm.

"You're just as messed up as I am, Caroline," I'd shouted back then.

Last night, I left the bar with Harold. We stumbled to his place, our passion quick and clumsy. But when the night ended, I walked home alone, a crushing loneliness settling over me.

---

The morning after, Caroline's unannounced visit left me reeling. After cleaning my bloody knuckles, I stepped outside to search for my wig. My bald head drew stares, and I muttered under my breath, "Cancer, bitches."

I found the wig tangled in the branches of a tree. Climbing up, I managed to retrieve it, brushing off bird droppings as I slipped it back on. For a moment, I felt absurdly triumphant, like a tragic villain from a forgotten play.

With hours to kill before my next show, I decided to see a movie. Labor Day. It was beautiful—painful, even. When the credits rolled, tears streaked my face. I left the theater feeling raw but strangely alive.

Time dragged as I wandered aimlessly, eventually dialing Caroline's number. It went straight to voicemail.

"Caroline," I said, my voice faltering. "I'm sorry. If you can forgive me... call me."

She didn't.

---

That night, the theater lights dimmed, and I stepped onto the stage. For an hour and a half, I poured myself into the role, channeling every ounce of my pain and longing into the performance.

When the curtains fell, the audience erupted in applause. Cheers, whistles, flowers—all of it washed over me like a benediction.

"Joe! Joe! Joe!" they chanted.

I stood there, soaking it in, my chest heaving with the effort of holding back tears.

For that brief, fleeting moment, I felt loved.#