ACT I. MACBETH
1. King Duncan
In the very front row, five sit. Two of which are more concerned with each other than the performers. The other three cradle their purses with identical transfixed eyes. They are loving the show – this is usual.
The younger of the pair is abnormal. His eyes are that of a bug – they bulge. His eyelids do not close together, but rather, there is a pause between. Perhaps not a bug, rather, prey, having an eye constantly stay open. Had he not been here, in this room, I’d have thought him an animal, but there is love. The other of the pair holds his hand as though letting go would be his death. They will exit this theatre, still holding onto one another, and not recollect a single detail of the performance. They will float home in embrace, and sleep in a dirty room but it won’t matter because they are together.
But now, near me – three seats away – sits a woman. A scarf falls down to her elbows. Thick rimmed, circular glasses, red overcoat, and dirtied work boots. She is a stranger to theatre, yet she is intent. But the stage eludes her, she instead sees the five ahead. Her nose protrudes like a dowsing rod, and to her, they must have been a stream.
2. Lady Macbeth
Tonight, there sits only one in the front. A man, aged but not wearied. Comparable to a bottle of whiskey – flavourful. Despite others presence, the performance is his. He is a face of familiarity, perhaps an uncle, or a cousin. Certainly someone you’d have seen at a family gathering or two, and you’d probably call him by those familial indicators alone. His name washes away. He is silently loving the show.
But she appears again, directly ahead of me. Same get-up, boots and all. She absorbs the lonesome man, but, unbeknownst to her, we share in him. Tearing him limb from limb, divided equally between us, but she will think she has him all to herself.
I wonder if she notices his slight limp when he stands for intermission, or how he bites his nails each time Lady Macbeth kisses Macbeth? I wonder, does she see me?
But I bite my tongue.
3. Macbeth’s Closing Night
My seat is taken, occupied by a playbill and a familiar pair of glasses. She has returned with ambition. She wants me to notice her – to acknowledge her. She had to choose my seat, to choose me. I must be just like the old man… I think she’s playing with her food.
For old times’ sake, I take her seat from our first night together, except now, it’s a full house. I’m spoiled for choice, consuming everyone ahead, giving them all mere seconds of my time and devouring their beings, but of course, I leave her scraps.
It is now midnight, and the bed is wet. The mattress is yellowed, and the sheets are stuck to my skin. I wake to this warmth, remembering that today Ariadne begins.
ACT II. ARIADNE
4. Ariadne
The tiny man in the box office refuses me a ticket, barking about max capacity. But I bet she will be in there, and she will sit in my back row – in my seat. A glutton of people indulging her eyes and taking what’s mine. But of course, she doesn’t know any better.
After hours, they leave. A wave of beige and black. But her – she’s iridescent. Unmissable. They all make way for the bus whilst she stays, and another woman approaches her with a more than friendly embrace. They leave together, and I linger for a moment. My mouth clenches as I follow.
5. Red Thread
They drink black coffee with cream and eat lemon slices, all without me.
The beige and black of the theatre have infiltrated the patisserie. Familiar faces are sprawled across tables, the young boys who couldn’t take their eyes off each other sit a table away from me in their messy knits. The old-young man again, alone, stands at the counter. Perhaps I did not miss the show, or maybe this is my personal encore.
The woman – my woman – has to know of my presence. She must feel my eyes on her somehow. She hasn’t stopped smiling since she’s sat down. Her friend is odd – different. Is she smiling at her friend’s oddity? Is she amused by her difference? Or is her friend just making her laugh?
I move a table down to be closer to the duo. I empty my pockets on the table, letting my glasses sit on a napkin. The table is sticky and wet and –she looks at me. She looks at me. No, through me. Her glasses are also off, and I see her eyes for the first time – they float, hanging in the air like lanterns, burning right through me. She has been looking at me for a thousand years, imprisoning me in her gaze. I’ve become that old-young man, those two boys, the three purse cradlers. I’ve become just a string of descriptors. A lanky well-dressed man, I hope she’d call me. I’d exist in her mind beyond this stare, but for now, I break out, stand and walk away. Leaving behind a bit of me.
6. The Flu
She has witnessed me. I have been branded, I carry her stare like a cold, showing it off wherever I go, but I cannot let that interfere. Ariadne returns, and so must I.
7. Theseus
She’s almost unrecognisable tonight. Everything about her has changed – her hair is tucked into a brown bonnet, she has exchanged her work boots for stilettos, and, most importantly, she’s not wearing her glasses… she’s wearing mine. Mocking me, pretending to be me, playing dress up – whatever it is, she saw what I am and kept a piece. She’s carrying me with her. Until I wipe my eyes and they’re gone. Just like days earlier, her eyes hang in the air, not covered by any plastic or glass.
Her ambition is now showing, she sits in my seat with her glowing eyes. She is a perfect imposter. But unlike me, she only watches those in front, she ignores that of which sit beside her… she ignores me. How could she do this? Take my seat – take me – and not have the decency to look at me? Does she not notice I am near? Have I not maintained a spot in her mind? What am I to her?
It does not matter, the show continues. The final act. The Minotaur slays Theseus. The theatre gasps in disbelief and excitement, and these reactions fuel the actors. Pride will dress their faces as they continue to perform. The fat boy who plays The Minotaur now has confidence and delivers his lines with an invisible grin. He stops being The Minotaur and resumes his life as just a regular fat boy who happens to be on a stage. The show is dulled, but my audience see no difference, they continue to eat it up. But she doesn’t, she is bored. Despite the buffet ahead, she looks starved – her face whitened, and lips chapped, she needs more than what is on offer.
She exits, leaving me behind.
8. The Labyrinth
I do not follow. I’m not mad, I learn from my mistakes… my losses. I stay, watching the joyful observers.
A married man on the aisle slips off his ring, brushing shoulders with every woman he passes. It’s almost comedic how he plays pretend – how he is a different person for the duration of the play. I applaud his commitment to the role until one of his women whispers in his ear and they leave together. She’s normal looking, with a scarf that falls to her elbows and reminds me of… No, I’m not entertaining that, I’m not crazy.
I continue watching them exit. He follows her like a starving puppy. I catch glimpse of his face and it contorts, like someone is pulling at his eyes and nose. Soon enough, I see myself in his oily skin. His grin drops and it’s like looking into the clearest mirror. I too am no more than a starved puppy.
9. The Minotaur
Her seat is left vacant, as though strangers know she will be arriving soon, but she never does, and it remains empty through each act, but I still wait until it drives me mad – until I can no longer.
Fresh air has never tasted so foul. I feel ill, on the brink of vomiting. I feel my own heart at the back of my throat, I think it’s a drumroll but what is it waiting for. Until I see it, and it all makes sense. Just like our very first night, she’s there, shining.
10. Dionysus
But she is not alone, and she is not shining just for me. There he stands, towering over her. I bet he can smell her breath, feeling it’s warmth after each exhale. She looks at him – into him – does he feed her more than those foul theatre attendees; does he give her enough?
No, no. They edge closer to one another, perhaps preparing to say goodbye. He places his hand on her arm – a friendly gesture. Maybe her father? Uncle? Until it all shatters and I’m wrong, she leans into him and places her lips on his cheek and they freeze in that moment for an eternity.
I watch this ugly display as that same beat intensifies inside of me, no longer a drumroll, rather, some sort of war drums. I feel each thump making its way through my throat, the crescendo arriving under my tongue before it passes my lips and I bellow like a mad beast, but by the time I do so, no one is there to hear it.
ACT III. OTHELLO
11. Iago
Weeks pass and I do nothing until Ariadne leaves, leaving Othello to take its place.
I go about things normally, focusing on what is presented ahead – not letting the mind wander. I force myself to forget her and how she has dragged me along. I destroy that image of my enchantress. I destroy the parts of me which she has manhandled and branded. I destroy the curiosity which ever led me to be cheated – to be lied to. I destroy her.
A familiar face sits ahead of me – that young bug-eyed boy from long ago. Though, he too is now alone. There is no embracing partner to distract him from the show, perhaps now he will see the final act, and he will know exactly how Iago is pushed to the edge by his woman. He may even get some ideas from it…
12. Othello
I soon find out that dining alone in the theatre is awful. No longer can I corroborate my consumption with her own looks. I cannot remember what it was like before her. Even after destroying her, I cannot return to what once was. I find myself hungry for more than what’s on offer. I find out that, contrary to what I once thought, I am like her – she is not like me. I mock the me who once undermined her, for she knows exactly what she is doing to me. She is, after all, an enchantress.
I no longer play my own game of destruction. I break from my own spell and begin to recreate her, barely remembering what she once was. I exit the theatre to search.
13. Desdemona
I’m like a hound, sniffing for clues, looking for any sign of her amidst the darkened cityscape. More a detective of the noir, chasing leads, living in shadows. I discover that to break free from her I must take her – take her completely and drain her of her power she holds. Only then may I return to who I was before she made me ravenous.
I’m stuck in my own dream until I see a giant of a man, I see him… her him.
14. My Emilia
At full speed I run him down like a cheetah, he cradles me as we, together, land in a muddy puddle. But as he looks up at me, I see that his eyes are flying saucers – ethereal gates. He has her eyes. They share the same eyes.
He stands and begins to yap about how I’m a drunken fool running into people for no good reason as he dusts off his coat. I’m paralysed – had I destroyed her for this? I bath in this thought until she’s there to pull me out. She manifests in front of me like an angel – heavenly light and all. I had never been so close to her until now. I feel that same old overwhelming beat in my throat telling me to run as far and fast as I can, but her mere presence in front of me – her looking at me, grounds me.
I no longer wish to recreate her for she creates herself. Though, I musn’t abandon what Iago had taught me about desire. I place my hand in my pocket and scrounge for a familiar prick to tell me I’ve got it right, and when I do, I grasp it tightly.
She approaches me, lips wide, ready to speak to me – directly to me, and as she does, I gently pull my hand from out my pocket. I hold my arm by my side and her eyes don’t shift, they’re still latched onto me. I slowly raise the blade and––
‘Oh, it’s awfully nice to finally see you… I had seen you that night at the patisserie and you’d forgotten your glasses, I’d been meaning to give them to you, but I never seemed to be able to find you–’
That beat in my throat comes to a sudden halt – no war drums, no drum roll, nothing. In the span of three seconds, I’ve suddenly developed tinnitus and forgotten how to speak. Her voice continues and soon blends into an almost inaudible ringing that only seems to increase in pitch until I’m left cradling my ears. All until she pulls from her pocket a very familiar pair of glasses and extends her hand towards me.
stephen zavitsanos writing 