Hell's Actor

Ari could see them as clearly as she could see The Lady. She could see the tears, the smiles, the distraught laughs, the stunned faces, and the shaky fingers.

She could see the effects of The Lady on the audience.

The living phenomena drew them in, captured their gazes, and plunged them into sweet dreams that resembled painful nightmares.

Watching the scene, Ari felt something tugging at her heart. She felt the depth of artistry, the madness of an obsessive man, and questions she had never pondered.

’Is this why you act,’ she thought to herself, ’cousin?’

She had deliberately never pursued the line of inquiry about his sudden interest in acting. Ever since his little crisis with himself, she had never brought up such questions.

’Why do you do the things you do?’ seemed like too heavy a question.

Whether acting was a remedy to his illness, a form of expression, or a vault to hide himself in didn’t matter. As long as his happiness—and therefore life—could be prolonged, she didn’t care to dig out his demons.

Maybe she was running away from them as much as he did, but was that wrong? Life was too short to heal every pain, so why not bottle it and throw it away? Why not close your eyes and fall into reverie as life washes away?

Is resignation truly defeat?

These myriad thoughts appeared before her, but she couldn’t make sense of them; her cousin was the smarter of the two, wiser too.

’Is it okay to continue like this, cousin?’

She recalled a verse from a poem he had read to her when she was little.

Is this what you see from the precipice of greatness?

Is this what you see on the verge of insanity?

Is this what you see in the annals of history?

Is this what you see when you look at me?

Back then, she had thought that the unknown poet was impressively self-absorbed and thought too highly of himself.

She still thought the same. Her image of him hadn’t changed. Not one bit.

But she remembered the serene smile her cousin wore back then. She remembered the harsh golden rays of summer that obstructed half of his face.

For some reason, it felt like an invisible hand was squeezing her heart. Her own intuition told her that she would never see him smile like that again.

She knew that in this prosperous picture of the present, some unspeakable incongruity had slithered in. Like an imposter, it had taken the place of something important in her life.

It didn’t make sense. Although infinitely more unhinged, her cousin was still there. He was still alive. But a spark of rogue thought told her that the serene smile of that day would never grace his face again.

It felt like something she had taken for granted had left without saying goodbye.

Tears dripped down onto her shirt.

The poem, recited in Averie’s voice, tickled her eardrums once again.

It may not have suited the poet, but it certainly suited her cousin. It was perfect for the radiant summer child from her idyllic past.

As she closed her eyes, it dawned on her—just like the men and women of the audience, she too had been bewitched by The Lady.

And in the timbre of her cousin, that sweet voice whispered once again in her ear.

Is this what you see from the precipice of greatness?

Is this what you see on the verge of insanity?

Is this what you see in the annals of history?

Is this what you see when you look at me?

***

I am lying down, resistant no more

Can you not hurt me anymore?

I’m tired, so tired of it all

Please, can’t it end now?

I dream of paradise in stress

There’s no place safer than my head

What if it’s not real?

In the crevice of this space,

screams never invade

"I am lying down..."

"...resistant no more."

The voices of the man and woman formed a somber duet, following along the painful melody creeping through the car’s speakers.

The sable 1968 Jaguar XJ6, smoothly running on the concrete road, carried three people.

Resting in the back seat was Averie Quinn Auclair, an actor whose popularity was on a steep rise.

Personal Assistant/personal stylist Min-Ha—who had recently changed her surname to Parkinson to spite her family—sat in the front seat.

Lastly, friend first, agent second, Hyerin ’Always Reliable’ Lim drove.

"Why do you guys like this song?" Min-Ha asked.

"Why did you change your name?" Averie retorted. "Got no answer for that, huh?"

"Leave me alone."

"Alright, Ms. Parkinson."

Averie snickered, and Hyerin followed.

"If they are going to keep reminding me of what a failure I am, are they even worth calling family? Why should I keep their surname?"

Such a candid statement invited equally deafening silence.

"Geez, no need to bring down the mood," Averie broke the silence. "Sorry I brought it up."

"Averie!" Hyerin yelled.

"What? I don’t want to empathize with an actual human being. Turn up the volume, by the way; this song makes me feel things."

"You’d rather listen to this song than to your friend?"

Averie looked confused. "Of course. Who wants to hear someone else’s family issues? Now, if this were about a fight she had, I would be the first one to offer an ear. But family drama isn’t engaging enough for me to care, you know."

Hyerin gave him a concerned look through the rear-view mirror. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, why do you ask?"

"Don’t take it the wrong way, but have you thought about seeing a psychologist?"

Averie cracked a grin. "Yes, I’ve thought about it."

He dragged the silence for a minute.

"But I won’t."

’These mental illnesses are my medals of honor. They are the proof of the struggles I’ve survived. I won’t and—even if I wanted to—I can’t throw them away. To the grave, they must follow me.’

A cryptic smile graced his lips.

’And possibly beyond.’