the abandoned theatre, part three.

I disappear into the wings, filled with darkness and old costumes sprawled spiderwebbed onto the floor. I take a lighter from my pocket and ignite the miniature flame. In the almost-imaginary light I see it, resting on a dusty tabletop. I walk over and pick it up, hold it up to my face. I squint my eyes and realize it's what I have both been searching for and hiding from... the script.

We were so young when we wrote it, or when it was written for us by other people, gods or devils. The pages are stained by sticky-candy-fingers and papercut-blood. It is heavy in my hands, long and detailed. We wrote every line of how our lives were supposed to be. In the failing light the script was written and our futures were sealed. The rules and stage directions were written and happiness wealth and security were guaranteed...

The flame from the lighter is so close to the page. It would be so easy to burn the whole thing. The curtains are flame-resistant, so the play could still go on. Just not this strict heavy script. The flame snags on the corner of the first page, and I let it fall to the ground and stamp out the fire before it consumes the stage. It would be so easy to destroy the rest of this suffocating script... but what would be lost?

As I am trying to decide, I am startled by a scream, the slamming of a door, and then a loud clang. Someone else must have been in here. I rush out into the audience just in time to see a small wombat jump out of sight. Otherwise the theatre is empty. Something shines on the floor; I pick it up. I hold a silent tin heart in my warm palm.