“Jesse,” Dario snaps, his attention turning to a twenty-something blonde man cringing by the curtains. “Get over here. You’re playing Hector’s part now. And Paul.” Dario snaps hisfingers at the man who narrowly escaped being stabbed. “Stop crying. It’s completely out of character.”
Jesse hesitates for a moment before walking slowly out to center stage. Paul whimpers. When I glance at him, I spot a tear trickling down his cheek.
“Take the knife,” Dario orders. “And don’t even think about trying to use it on me.” He points his gun at Jesse. “Oryou’llbe joining Hector down there.”
Jesse takes the knife from Dario, sniffling as he does it. Then he looks at Dario with a pleading expression. “Please,” he begs. “I don’t want to kill anyone. Please don’t make?—”
“You will follow the script!” Dario roars. His gun trains on Jesse’s forehead. “If you fuck this up, I’ll have to find another understudy. I’ve already waited too long for this performance.” His voice dips to a low snarl. “If you screw this up, I won’t just shoot you. Oh, no. I’ll keep you alive for a different role, instead. How about one where your eyes get ripped out? Or we could have you chopped up and made into soup. Would you prefer that?”
Jesse recoils.“What?”
Dario lets out an aggrieved sound. Then he turns towards me. “Noelle. You know which plays I’m talking about, don’t you?” When I don’t immediately answer, he barks,“Don't you?”
In a quivering voice, I whisper, “Yes.”
Of course I know the plays Dario’s talking about. After spending a semester in college studying Shakespeare, I’m well aware of the many doomed roles Dario could punish Jesse with.
“And Noelle,” Dario prompts, “I bet you know all the parts I could give Jesse. The ones where the character dies a long and excruciating death. Don’t you?”
One look at Jesse's terrified expression has me shaking my head instinctively. I can’t say it. I don't even want to think it.
“Noelle. Answer my question.”
I take a shuddering breath. Hot tears leak down my cheeks. “Yes.”
“And do you think Jesse would enjoy playing any of those roles?”
“No,” I whisper. “But… please. Don’t?—”
“There. You heard it from another professional,” Dario interrupts. He flashes a menacing smile at Jesse. “So. It’s killing Paul here, or a slow and torturous death. Your choice.”
“I don’t want to die!” Paul suddenly shrieks. “This isn’t right!”
“It’s not your choice!” Dario yells. “This is my performance! And you’ll do what I say!”
My feet start moving backwards of their own accord. It’s not that I’m trying to run. Or that I have anywhere to go if I do. Not in this locked-down basement with the unbreakable windows and Dario wielding his gun…
A hand touches my arm, startling me. I look over to see another actor—captive—shaking his head slightly. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “I know what you’re thinking. But Emily tried that last week. He didn’t just kill her. He tortured her. She was begging for death before it ended.”
I shake my head in unthinking denial. “No. This can’t be happening. It can’t.”
Sympathy darkens his gaze. “I didn’t think it could, either.”
“If I do nothing,” I whisper, “I’ll die anyway. We both will.” Because I know how this play ends—with both young lovers tragically taking their lives.
But I don’t want to die at the end of the play. I want a future with Webb.
Still speaking quietly, he replies, “I know.” His shoulders sag. “I know. But if we refuse, he’ll make it worse. Trust me. I’ve seen it.”
“We could—” I swallow my words as Dario flashes a quick glance at me. When he doesn’t see me talking, he goes back to badgering poor Jesse. “We could both take him on,” I whisper. “If we can get the knife…”
“Alright!” Dario announces. “Fortunately, Jesse has seen the error of his ways. Hopefully, we won’t have anyfurtherinterruptions.” Then he claps his hands. “Now. Back to your places. Let’s get on with this.”
He glances at the man next to me and snaps, “Franklin! It’s not time for the romance yet. And Noelle.” Dario jerks his chin to the side. “Get over there. And study up on your lines while you’re waiting. Just because I have cue cards doesn’t mean you shouldn’t prepare.”
On trembling legs, I stagger off stage, relieved for the reprieve, but petrified about what comes after. While I wait by the curtains beside another woman—Hannah, according to her whispered introduction, who went to a casting call in Vancouver only to end up here—I scan the stage, hoping to find something to help me.
There has to be something. A weapon. A prop. I inspect the curtain pulley beside me, hoping to find some part of the mechanism I could use.
