Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Sixteen

Friday night couldn't have come any quicker. It seemed like one minute I was signing Emily up as an actress behind her back, and the next I was backstage with her, holding her bangs back as she applied foundation.

I helped her with her makeup and getting dressed, which consisted mostly of holding hangers in one hand, a straightener in the other, and bobby pins in my mouth (which may or may not have been used).

It wasn't until ten minutes before they had to go on stage that she started to get nervous. I suppose she'd been anxious all week, but it wasn't really a huge problem until when it was five minutes till show time and she ran from the dressing room to go vomit.

When she returned, I cupped her jaw, assuring, "You'll do great, okay? You've got this."

She smiled, and I gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Good luck, knock them dead."

"I will," she replied.

She then headed off to stand behind the curtains, her chin held high and her walk crisp and precise. She stood among her fellow actors, and she gave me a wave before facing the direction of the audience.

I headed to the back wings where I could watch the entire play. From there I watched Emily, and that girl surpassed my high expectations. I was impressed by the show she put on; it was indisputably the best performance she'd ever given.

Things were going great- no, better than great- they were going excellent. I'd known that things would've gone well, and I certainly knew that the production wouldn't crash and burn. Still, I couldn't have asked for a better turnout. The execution was flawless, not only from Emily, but from every single person involved, from protagonists to non-speaking parts to lighting.

That was, until the fourth scene of the final act. I had relaxed considerably, and so had Emily, clearly, for her mannerisms clearly showed that she had grown used to the stage. I'd started out not necessarily anxious, but perhaps a bit apprehensive. I'd known Emily had her lines down pat (in the past couple of months, Emily practicing her role became about as frequent as the sunrise and set), and I knew that she was talented. But with all that knowledge, I also had a drop of wisdom, wisdom that reminded me that nerves could ruin everything. It was a rare occurrence for me to have seen Emily under pressure, and while it didn't happen often, when it did, she didn't give the best reaction.

But there she was, acting as if her life had depended on it. She painted a realistic picture, one that haunts my memory to this day. For the first time, everything was perfect.

And then she stammered. Her voice wavered, skipping over the same word, before cutting off completely. Amidst all of the success, and well aware of the hard work everyone had put into the play, she forgot her line.

Her face turned white as a sheet, and her eyes flickered with an intense fear. It was a knife in my gut, to see her peak, only to fall back in the ditches. She had reached the pinnacle of her short life, and it fell as rapidly as it had risen, only with the plummet, it hit about six times as hard.

No matter how well she had done, no matter how well the play had been proceeding, she'd blown it all and in that moment, the previous accomplishments were minuscule in comparison to the failure that overcame her.

I tried to catch Emily's eyes, tried to meet her gaze, just to see that she was staring not at me, but something else. My eyes followed her line of view, and that was when I realized the dilemma.

Her parents had come.

All of the nerve in the world, all of the utter disregard for other peoples' pursuits and dreams, and all of the bitterness, must have been held in her parents' hearts that night. I can promise that, in return, mine held nothing but contempt.

Hatred overcame me like nothing I had ever felt before, and I wanted nothing more than to rip them limb from limb. It was this primal aggression, a sort of rage that was unattainable by any other means. Had my concern for Emily not held me back, I may have attacked them at that given moment.

Emily had wrapped up her lines in a stammered, clotted string of words, riddled with unnatural pauses. They weren't even her actual lines; they were obviously ad libbed, and not well, either. It was after the curtains had closed and the lights dimmed that she burst into tears.

I rushed over to her as quickly as I could manage, stumbling through the throngs of props, actors, and backdrops. She failed to see me, wiping her eyes as she stormed through the crowd, being brushed by hands the entire way.

I ran after her, getting caught up in the wave of people. I struggled to push through, losing her by the time I had reached the theatre lobby. I instead sprinted to my car, leaving my coat behind at the theatre as I sped off in pursuit of Emily.

I drove around the city for what seemed like centuries. As the time went on, I grew more and more worried for Emily. I didn't know where she was, who she was with, or what she was doing, and it scared the shit out of me.

It was cold as well, and about fifteen minutes into searching, snow began to fall hard, and that only made me drive faster, and call her name out the window even louder.

I'm lucky I hadn't received a ticket for my driving that night. In my distressed state, even my turn signals were frantic. It wasn't until about an hour later that I resignedly returned home, determined to tell my mother and do all we could to find our Emily.

I ran inside; the frigid air nipping at my face. I swung open the door and stepped onto the threshold, and stopped.

And there I stood, a heavy snow pelting my back, ice crystals melting to the skin of my neck, and my fingers clutching the freezing doorknob. I stood and I stared into my own living room as if I had never seen it before. For a split second, I didn't know where I was, how I'd gotten there, or even who I was. I just saw Emily, sobbing, wailing on the floor, throwing a full blown tantrum.

But this tantrum was not of petty desires. It was of wounded cries and betrayed caterwauls. She had screamed as though someone were twisting her stomach, cried as though she had lost everyone dear to her. And in a way, she had. She hadn't lost anyone physically; no one had died, but she had endured something worse than personal loss.

She had lost herself. All that she'd worked for and all that she was were systematically destroyed that night, leaving behind nothing but raw emotion with no context. And it was coming out not in rays or spurts, but in floods.

My mom sat on the couch, tears stained down her own cheeks. She had mouthed to me, "Close the door."

And I did, as quietly as I could manage. And I stepped right over to Emily and I held her, held her like no one ever had, and I squeezed her like no one ever would. Then I looked into her eyes, and I gave her the steadiest, most reassuring eyes I had.

Then I left her. I left her without a word, left her on the ground. In my eyes, I had done all that I could. There wasn't much I could've said, and anything I had said might have only worsened things.

But I still blame myself for going to bed after that. Granted, I didn't sleep well, or much, but I felt I could've done more. Not necessarily said something, but certainly been there more than I had.

But I made that choice to go to sleep, and I consciously decided to leave her down there.

I wish I would've said something. That was my last moment with her, and it was one of utter silence.