Sunday, September 11, 2016

In White Sheets




In White Sheets
(a thought)


The show starts at nine o’clock. It’s seven now, I’m late. I was warned that something bad was coming my way the last time I visited the Gypsy. She told me to keep my eyes wide open and be alert. But, today, the worse that can happen is for me to lose conciseness and wake up in a hospital bed again. Those white sheets remind me of my grandmother, they smell like her. I wonder how many people were given the prize for peacefulness in this room; death.

I don’t feel like taking the bus; I start walking. I can’t feel my toes from yesterday’s show. They made me stay on stage for the whole three hours, I was told, that I deserved it; it’s a punishment that suited me for not smiling, being late and skinny.

There’s this salty scent in the air. The sky is pale, paler than yesterday and the streets are quiet for an hour like this. Seems like everyone’s dead.

And what am I doing? Walking to the showroom to do the last performance of my life. I promise myself never to get involved in the show business after this experience.

Here it is, I take my last turn right and the grey building appears. I walk to the red door, reach to push it and stop. My hand on the door, my feet on two different directions, I look down as I take a deep breath and finally push the door.

Where is everyone? All I can see is smoke and dust tearing up my eyes. My vision has become blurry. I walk deeper towards the stage, a cube randomly dropped from the sky.

It’s almost nine. The building is lifeless; the only sound that is possible to hear is the mourning of the invisible.

The door slams, all seventy-one members of the crew hurry inside. I’m still invisible. Someone pulls me over behind the bar. It’s Fletcher The Tender. He holds my arm still and pulls out a thin needle out of his brown bag and quickly injects the green serum and whispers: “ The show is going to start now”.


Pitch black. The silence exploding in my ears, my worst fear has happened. I’m in that same hospital bed, the white sheets smell like my grandmother. My back hurts. I’m tied down to the death matrass. I close my eyes to repeat my gloomy dream, waiting for the greatest prize; death.

No comments:

Post a Comment