whatever I'm thinking or doing. Or just thinking, I can't be sure if I still have a body; this blackout may last for a couple of minutes or a few years. If second, then I'm not gorgeous Martha Macey with rosy cheeks and wavy hair anymore. I've been waiting for that tunnel of light which causes people to recreate their life in a benevolent stream: now my consciousness is stranded in the complete darkness, which finally brings some sense to an overestimated art piece of Malevich.
The only sound I can hear is the closest to me liquid in pile of plastic:
something is constantly dripping, permeating the scent of sterile white corridors, ethanol and other combinations I could never pronounce. This sound starts to feel entertaining: I don't have any thoughts and something inside me is still awaiting for a miracle to happen. It would be a miracle to feel my limbs, even though they are numb or nagging pain from the needle in my arm. Such a small event, but still.
Suddenly, I stop hearing the drip. I'm not in the blackout anymore, I can
clearly see the main stage of Parisian theatre, which I would never confuse with any other. All I need to do is just to say a few words, nearly a cue of Cordelia - this way the role will be mine. It could be a brilliant start of the actress career of young Martha Macey, right? It was a billion years ago, but the stage feels the same now.
I'm in the brand new burgundy dress, which has nothing in common with the
heroine - yet I'm bold enough to try. "Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss...",
- I try to articulate it with passion, as I did once. I can hear only mumbling coming out of my mouth; something hopeless is trying to gather into words, but members of the royal family never speak like this.
"Martha, there will be another role, we still need a maid for Jason's new
play. Not a Shakespeare, of course. But you are not ready. Now you may go".
It's on repeat, slowly abating to the indistinguishable whispering: "Who will play my role, Dan? Who will play it?"
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