Isabella's Tragedy in 2 Parts

TRIGGER WARNINGS being stuck in one space forever, mental breakdowns, uncanny valley, figures, speaking directly to the reader

A gentle viscous tar fell, dripping slowly as the hourglass continued to taunt me again and again. I stared at the glass, the dark liquid teasing me with a barrage of “what-ifs”. What if I ran out of time? What if the liquid itself was darker than dark itself? What if the liquid never finished and I was stuck here forever? 

It was so dark it refused to reflect any light and it fell slowly as I sat in front of it. I used to think that the closest thing to a nightmare I’d find myself in are those days in tech week- redoing my blocking over and over while they messed with light cues. I laughed solemnly at that thought. I leaned back on my hands, staring at the bright stage lights overhead, bright and blindingly so. I almost saw stars, dark spots in my vision in some inverted night sky. I blinked a few times, wiping my eyes as I turned around. 

Have you ever been on a stage? Have you watched a play? Imagine a theater for me. A proscenium with hundreds of chairs lined up, occupied by “humans”, all staring back at this one scene ahead. They just stared. Each face was realistic and human-like, and yet I was unsettled. It hit me- they didn’t seem to breathe, seem to talk or blink, they just watched. They watched me like I was the only thing on Earth. I might as well have been in that moment. I laughed, standing up and staring at them. I don’t know why I laughed, I think I was just scared.

 They still didn’t move. I wish they did. I was the actor yet I stared at the audience like I was watching them, waiting for anything to happen. 

I found my way upstage, now standing on the apron of the stage, before slowly heading down the staircase that led my way into the house. I stared at the dark expanse, a single door marked with a bright LED light. “EXIT” it read. The carpet was a dark blue, occasionally stained with some mysterious liquid. I started to walk, the audience still transfixed with the empty stage. It was silent, all that you could hear was my footsteps up the stairs and the occasional drip as the tar found its way down the hourglass. I kept walking, the house ahead of me darker and darker as I made my way up and away from the brightly lit stage, descending into darkness.

I began to think. Thoughts like: “What show was I even doing? Why am I here? Why is the audience all but silent?” danced through my head like a symphony. A musical, maybe, or a single woman show. When did I even audition?

 I began to hum, trying to drown out the silence, I needed to know what show I was even performing. I decided to glance at the audience’s hands, seeing an occasional pamphlet in their hands. I read it.

“ISABELLA DIAZ: A Lesson in Reanimation.” followed by a crude drawing of me, in charcoal I assumed, holding an hourglass. The hourglass in real life sat on a wooden prop table, though this one was being cradled by me as dark figures tried to steal it away. I raised an eyebrow, not exactly remembering even auditioning for this play. It was written by H. Ellison, though the audience’s finger covered the first name. I tried to move it, but it seemed like the audience was stone. Wax maybe? My hands felt weird after touching the audience member, it was smooth. Wax. It must have been.

I continued to walk, staring at the empty dark ahead of me, wondering what exactly I was walking away from. I should be performing, making them smile. I knew I liked being onstage but this was different. A full house of wax (or was it stone?) statues that didn’t seem to move. This wasn’t a show, they would’ve moved. They’re wax- god being alone like this wasn’t good for me.

It was cold, I suddenly realized. My breath began to show as a soft vapor as I exhaled. I shook my head- performing arts centers were known to be cold! I continued to walk, though by now, I should’ve reached the exit. I hummed again, counting the steps between me and the door. There should only be 42 steps left. It was a really big house, then. Almost too big- you could barely even see the stage from here. Inconvenient, not… right almost. What am I thinking about!? Of course this isn’t right. I groaned, closing my eyes as I continued to walk. I looked around, wondering if anyone here was real. No, they’re not real! If it was real, they would be moving… talking. Anything. And they’re wax. (Why did I keep thinking they were real for even a split second?!)

 I continued to walk. I decided that maybe I was tired, so I sat down, but I wanted to do nothing but walk. I didn’t want to walk but it was like my body and my mind were not the same and I got up- I continued to walk. I wasn’t tired though I think I should’ve been. Each step led me further and further into the void.

I looked back. Maybe I should walk back to the stage? The exit was so much closer, only… 42. 42 more steps until the exit. That– that’s what it was before, wasn’t it? I laughed, no. This is some weird prank, no. No, I’m not dumb. This is supernatural, isn’t it? Some weird god is eating me alive, or some monster will pop out of the shadows.

I continued to walk. I looked at the audience seats and saw a phone- and grabbed it. This wasn’t made of stone/wax, luckily, so I sat down and unlocked it, no code needed.

It seemed like this phone has never been used before, dialing 911 led to it ringing twice before going to voicemail. Does 911 even have a voicemail?!

“This user has not set up a voicemail.” The robotic voice repeated to me. 

What would I have even told them? I’m trapped in some infinite theater by some evil god?! Ha! I imagined it now, famous stage actor Isabella Diaz, gone fully insane.

It was worth a shot, I guess.

Fine. I opened the internet, expecting something but only finding a redirect page to the Google search bar. I typed in “Wikipedia”, the first thing to come to mind, only for it to infinitely load. Okay, this was supernatural. I assumed ghosts and ghouls weren’t to blame, since I doubted something supernatural wouldn’t be like the very human-written fiction I’ve read. I guess I could keep walking. I continued to walk, though I’m not sure for how long. All I knew was that my hair was starting to grow out (wait… grow out?), but I’ve never felt tired, per say- but maybe exhausted. Mentally, that is.

These stairs aren’t very user friendly, I thought, one step after another. Have you ever been alone? Not “I ate lunch alone!” alone, but alone. Isolated by a Mr. Monster alone. 

“Mr. Monster- Evil Dark Satan.” I echoed, projecting my voice as I was taught to do back in highschool drama. “Oh, feed not on me; I have nothing to give to you. Besides my meat I guess.” I laughed, it wasn’t really funny though. I continued to walk, my own thoughts spiraling more and more. With each step it became more and more silent.

One, two, three, four, it really seemed like it would never end. Five, six, seven, eight- wouldn’t the monster have eaten me already? If there was some supernatural being of evil, why hasn’t it scared me yet? Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, it just kept getting darker and darker but no matter what, I- thirteen- could still make out the faces -fourteen- of the wax figures. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. It’s some infinite hallway, then. Eighteen, nineteen- Goddammit! “How am I supposed to feel?!” I yelled, looking down at the disgusting carpet underneath me. I was in a horror movie- or something! It couldn’t be a movie, since this feels like it's been too drawn out– there hasn’t been a monster or anything truly scary. It was just boring. It was lonely.  I should be scared, but I just laughed.

I laughed- I laughed and laughed again and again at the hilarity. I felt– nothing. I think I was supposed to feel more.

Couldn’t even be in a movie. I kept walking but it seemed the door got farther and farther away.

The    staircase    stretched.    Or    I    fell    behind.

I continued to count. Twenty- really though- how was I supposed to feel? Scared, I really didn’t feel scared- I was just exhausted, mentally at least. Twenty-one– maybe I’m just in a really boring act one then. Though, I swear I should feel more. Maybe anxiety, maybe the lurking fear that maybe a monster will kill me. Do I describe the horror I feel? Being so alone, being so cold I could see my breath? Except I didn’t feel much of anything, maybe besides the need to walk. Twenty-two- you know- I should try and read the program for once. See what “ISABELLA DIAZ: A Lesson in Reanimation” is about. I tried to pry the program from the audience member’s hand, it wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder until it did. The paper ripped, though it was still intact.

I held the small book in my hand, caressing the paper with my thumb before opening it gently. I walked while I read.

STARRING: ISABELLA DIAZ AS- some very lonely girl.

PLOT SYNOPSIS: Have you ever felt lonely? I know you have, Isabella. You’ve felt lonely, right? No, don’t give me that scowl, let me explain. Do you remember 1st grade? Do you remember the feeling of watching all your classmates play on the playground? Anthony C. tried to get you to play, but you said no and continued to read your book. Do you remember 5th grade? Graduation- all your classmates’ friends greeting each other, you an echo of a lonely girl as you waited for your parents to pick you up. You were the last one there. 

Middle school, always the awkward kid with braces and glasses, teacher’s pet and nerd. You even went to the DnD club and no one wanted to talk to you! You’re pathetic. Sad, to be frank. Not even the DnD club wanted to be your friend. The librarian thought you were annoying, always checking out books so often. Your teachers found you overbearing and a nuisance.

Highschool. God, you hated highschool. Didn’t you? Your teachers loved you, a bright shining star- and you were good at acting, getting the lead role even in freshman year. What was it? A retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice? You’re a great Eurydice. But even as the cast and crew went to Denny’s or something, you walked home in the dark. Do you remember the dark? The cold? You should. It was your best friend during those productions playing Cosette in Les Miserables, Antigone in the play of the same name. Juliet in Romeo and Juliet- you honestly were very talented but very lonely.

Isabella Diaz, loved by all- but never truly known by any. That should be on your gravestone. You want a big funeral, an entire nation crying over your death, and maybe you could’ve had that, but would anyone actually visit? They’ll all say “I miss Isabella Diaz the actor.” not “my friend.” 

That’s just sad. 

You want to leave, right? Look at the stage, Isabella. I’m not your enemy. The exit door really won’t save you. 

Isabella took a breath, shaking her head. She stared at the hourglass that continued to drip before turning around and seeing the exit door right in front of her. That’s what you’re doing right?

Isabella began to walk towards the stage, but oh no! Isabella, it seems that now that you’re at the exit, you can’t go to the beginning of it all! She continued to walk, each step as if hell as she continued to walk and walk and walk. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight- it was a bit too quiet for Isabella’s tastes actually. Maybe we should play a song for her? A gramophone began to start from somewhere, some song from the 50’s. She didn’t recognize it. Isabella kept walking as she started to sweat, it began to become hot, her skin burning as she kept walking.

She didn’t know how long she walked, all she knew was that her hair grew an insane amount walking down the stairs and reading this. It got brighter and brighter as she left the darkness, the audience starting to clap as she kept running down the stairs. Faster and faster and faster, look! They’re clapping for Isabella, they love her! They love this show, and they love you, Isabella.

Isabella watched as the tar kept falling, kept ticking away as the time. It hit Isabella then- every single thought and word she’s said has been written down. Is it like- it’s written in real time? She flips through the pages and finds that they’re all full to the brim of text. In fact, it seems like the book started to grow the more she holds it. Book? It was a program before, wasn’t it? No- now it’s closer to a script.

[ISABELLA continues to run as the words on the page turn into stage directions.]

ISABELLA: Stop it!

[ISABELLA tries to let go of the book but she can’t stop reading. She’s where she belongs, ISABELLA is playing the part she’s always wanted to play. She’s an actor now.]

ISABELLA: NO!

[The AUDIENCE claps louder. ISABELLA begins to cry as her tears mix with sweat. Are you scared, ISABELLA? Is this a horror movie now? Or a play? A book? A script- you’re the main character now.

[ISABELLA stops running, the tar dripping slower from the hourglass as a single drop begins to fall. It seems she’s out of time. The AUDIENCE stands up and begins to clap.]

AUDIENCE: ISABELLA DIAZ! ISABELLA DIAZ!

[The AUDIENCE cheers. ISABELLA cries.]

[INTERMISSION]

—

A gentle ring came from the phone as the bright red piece of machinery began to ring. I picked up the phone and it was silent. Static. All I could hear was my breathing.I put the phone down and it started to ring again. I followed the cord offstage until I saw it was plugged in somewhere in the house. I laughed- I used to think that the closest thing to a nightmare I’d find myself in are those days in tech week- redoing my blocking over and over while they messed with light cues. I chuckled solemnly at that thought. I leaned back on my hands, staring at the bright stage lights overhead, bright and blindingly so. I almost saw stars, dark spots in my vision in some inverted night sky. I blinked a few times, wiping my eyes as I turned around. 

Have you ever been on a stage? Have you watched a play? Imagine a theater for me. A proscenium with hundreds of chairs lined up, occupied by “humans”, all staring back at this one scene ahead. They just stared. Each face was realistic and human-like, and yet I was unsettled. It hit me- they didn’t seem to breathe, seem to talk or blink, they just watched. They watched me like I was the only thing on Earth. I might as well have been in that moment. I laughed, standing up and staring at them. I don’t know why I laughed, I think I was just scared.

 They still didn’t move. I wish they did. I was the actor yet I stared at the audience like I was watching them, waiting for anything to happen. 

I began to walk to the apron until I made it into the house. Then I saw it- a single door with the words “ENTER” in bright green. I began to walk towards the door, trying to wonder why I even auditioned for such a show- and why the audience didn’t stop clapping. Music began to play from some grammophone, it had the static lo-fi quality to it. Fly me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra started- a bit cheesy but I guess it was okay. It must’ve been an intermission now. I felt strangely comfortable, everything somehow familiar. The feeling of the carpet under me, the events… the audience.

I’m not dumb, this must be some evil god deal, some supernatural ghostbusters kind of messed up. Despite this epiphany, I kept walking to the entrance. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. Maybe it was the ghosts. I laughed again, but it wasn’t very funny to me.

 Would you believe me if I said it was wet? It was like it was raining but only on me as I walked the stairs. It got darker too. God- these ghosts. It hit me, again- I should be scared. I should be terrified! I’m trapped in some endless theater, the world around me stretching.

 Or was I         falling        behind?     It    was    hard    to    tell.

I should’ve felt something more than “This sucks, I’m bored.”- but was there a point in feeling at all? I’m going to die to some monster, there’s no escape.     

I laughed, though I think I started to cry too. I don’t know why I didn’t feel more- why wasn’t I sad my life was ending?! Why did I break down so quickly anyways?! I swear I should keep trying, but an endless pit in my stomach told me I’ve been here much longer than I assumed.

Why didn’t I feel more?! Why!? Is it because I don’t think anyone would miss me?! Is it because I haven’t gotten any good roles in… 3 years?! Is it because– goddammit!

When would the monster arrive?! When is this over?! Where is the actual horror!? I thought again- I did a lot of thinking I think.

I kept walking as I cried. My nose stung and my mouth kept twitching. 

 I decided to check on the audience again, looking at the program they held in their hands. It was a drawing of me, I assumed, answering a phone as some monster grabbed me from behind. I shivered, feeling thousands of eyes on me as they all turned to me, still clapping. It was so loud and it only made everything worse.

 I picked up the discarded program, listening as the lights went out again and I was left in the dark as the audience finished clapping. Intermission must’ve ended, but I kept walking to the entrance. I opened the program, beginning to read about this play I starred in.

STARRING: ISABELLA DIAZ- still lonely.

SYNOPSIS: You didn’t make it, did you? Do you even remember Act One? I thought you were good at your job. How can you make it through Act Two if you can’t remember the story? You’re giving me that scowl. I told you to stop looking at me like that. Look up, why don’t you? You’re at the entrance, isn’t that nice? Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy the fanfare? The adoration, the love they gave you! Don’t argue, I know they’re not real– you didn’t seem to care about them being real before. 

You don’t feel much. Last act, you realized that you were lonely. Now you realize that you don’t care if you die. A tragedy really. You’re going to die and instead of trying to leave, you keep heading to the entrance; crying over the fact you don’t feel much about your own death. Good job. You’re a lamb to the slaughter, maybe that’s the show we’ll put on for you nexxt.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention the outlet for the phone is up on the catwalk. Sorry, Isabella. I know, you hate the catwalks but unless you want to get out of here, you need to unplug it. Wow, you need to look up! You’re at the entrance, so much closer than last time!

Isabella takes a left, heading up the spiral staircase up to the catwalks. The little room the staircase seemed to endlessly go up was cold, not wet at least. She continued to walk, Oh Isabella! You’ve been here before. Perfect cardio, though it’s lost its existential touch hasn't it? It was beginning to become mundane as each step started to melt together. It was odd, she thought- that walking was as important as blinking or breathing, but unlike breathing or blinking, you got bored from walking. As she continued up the stairs, she didn’t notice as the room got darker and darker, too preoccupied with reading. She looked up, “Oh yeah- it is dark!” she exclaimed, though it hit her. It’s pitch black and yet she knows what’s written in this book. Maybe the book knows what happened first? She sighed at that thought, a feeling bubbling in her stomach– something full of fear and anger and… where did Isabella begin and this book end?

If this program- this synopsis- has every single word she will speak, every action, how much of Isabella is Isabella? God, and the ringing from the phone was so loud now. No time to think- though the tears kept threatening to fall. Isabella kept climbing the stairs.

OVER.

    AND OVER.

            AND OVER.

                    AND OVER.

                            AND OVER.

                                    AND OVER-

Isabella thought of her home. A small studio apartment in New York, a small little home with no one but her. It always smelled like chemicals, cleaning spray and such from the mold that constantly grew on the walls. The smell of chemicals was her home, the smell of paint and wood and– that’s the theater. Isabella began to wonder, did she have a home outside of the theater?

Isabella thought of her friends, or lack thereof. There would be no one to even grieve her, then. Some unmarked grave in a massive field of those loved past death. 

Isabella thought of the things she missed. Sliced bread, pasta, toilets, being able to feel tired so she could sleep. None of it made her feel anything though. Why didn’t Isabella feel anything at all?! Surely she must be broken, or maybe– she was finally on the catwalk. Enough of the infinite staircase of hell.

One, two, three… she took each step with caution as she hung thousands of miles above the theater. The chairs under her were barely visible as the only thing she could see was the endless dark.

    The     phone    rang    twice.     

    RING.

    RING.

    The catwalk collapsed under her.

— 

    Five puppets, dancing and smiling as strings hung from the ceiling.

    The sound of music, loud and blaring.

    Directors yelling.

    A stage. Bright and beautiful, curtain call.

    A dark room.

    Blackout.

    The lights back on, a script.

    Picking it up, reciting it.

    Rehearsal.

    Opening night.

    Dancing puppets.

    Music.

    Yelling.

    Curtain call.

    Blackout and again and again and-

The sight of red soft fabric opening as she hung from the ceiling, unable to move as the audience clapped. Isabella couldn’t even think anymore, the only thought in her head was the feeling of the strings inside of her body, the hooks. Sharp and agonizing as she bowed down, the puppetmaster above her controlling her. She was no longer an actor, but a puppet. Was there much of a difference for someone like Isabella?

She closed her eyes as blood trickled from her. The audience kept clapping and Isabella continued to bow down. She couldn’t stop. She wanted to stop. Stop. Stop.

The script said she kept bowing until it was dark.

    So she bowed. It hurt, each and every movement felt like hell as she tried to cry, though there seemed to be no tears left for a wooden puppet.

    Her skin was wood. She tried to open her mouth, though that was controlled by a string too.

The lights started to flicker. Darkness. It was finally a blackout.

She hung there. Listening as the audience shuffled out the door in the dark. She saw a glimpse of the outside world, what lay in front of the exit/enter door that threatened to free her for so long. The LED kept flickering. Enter. Exit. Enter. Exit.

The door was open enough and–

It was– darkness. As the audience shuffled out, the dim light of the house informed her more than enough that the audience just fell into the void of darkness, nothing beyond the exit/enter door.

Isabella screamed, though her mouth refused to open. Her head started to pound as she screamed louder and louder, feeling more blood trickle from the hooks in her hands and legs. She wanted to leave. The lights flickered on and off as if laughing at her agony.

She was where she always belonged though.