Cue for Death

Cue for Death Cold, forceful rain pelts the roof above me and violent thunder echoes in my ears. The flame from the candle I clutch in my hand flickers with each shudder that runs through my body. A tall, menacing figure stands over a body sprawled on the dressing room floor. With a slow, deliberate tip and turn of its head, the figure glares in my direction. “Come here you little bitch!” it growls. The odor of stale liquor and tobacco overwhelms me as it steps closer, but I can’t move away. A large hand grabs the front of my sweater, twists it into a fist and pulls me up and against its heaving chest. A quick and deafening crack of thunder causes me to drop the candle and it falls to the floor with a muted thud. “I told you not to open your nasty little mouth,” hisses the figure. Then, as if on cue, a flash of blinding lightning illuminates the figure in front of me. For just a second or two, I’m looking right into a face, but can only see what seems to be a set of wild, angry eyes. This “reveal” seems to startle the figure more than it frightens me, and gives me the chance to pull away. I turn to run down the darkened hallway, but my feet feel as though they can’t make contact with the floor. The walls speed by through twists and turns but they are moving, not me. Suddenly, I feel my foot catch on a loose floorboard and I fly forward, landing face-first into a musty, dirty carpet. Twisting onto my back, trying to rise, I see the dark, threatening silhouette moving closer through the strobe-like lightning. How can I get away? How can I stop him? To my left, I see a large set of shelves used to store props and other backstage items. They tower above me and I see a big gap, showing they are not attached to the wall. Outside, the downpour clatters faster and harder attempting to outdo the exploding thunder. How can I get away? Looking up, I grab the shelves and pull back, using all my strength. They start to move, then begin rocking back and forth with each pull. I take a deep breath, and pull one more time, as the shelves and their contents come crashing down. The clamor is almost silenced under the sounds of the intensifying storm. I feel something heavy hit the top of my head. A few seconds of complete blackness, a wave of nausea, then I feel the weight of the shelves on my leg. I lie there, stunned from the blow. Seeing the figure in the flashing light struggling to get free, I realize we are both trapped under the crushing weight of the shelves. Panic quickly takes the place of pain, and I begin to claw at the filthy carpet trying to get free. The sensation of a hand reaching to grab my foot sets my adrenaline racing. I’ve got to get my leg free. So, using desperation and all my strength, I’m able to tear it out from under the rubble. A feeling of shock sends a moment of numbness, then searing pain. Taking a deep breath, I use my hands as support to stand. Startled, I feel broken glass from the shelves slice into my skin. I’ve got to get out… The back stairs... With the help of the sudden, piercing lightning, I feel my way down the hall, my right leg giving way with each step forward. Rounding the corner, I grab the railing at the top of the treacherous old wooden stairs. My hand slips on the railing, but I catch myself before the long fall. I lift my hand to see what I’ve touched, and in the next flash, I see it is my own blood running through my fingers. As I go to wipe my hand on my jeans the sight of the wound visible through the blood soaked denim induces another wave of nausea and dizziness. An inhuman growling sound pushes me forward as I lean on the railing, trying to support my wounded leg. Sharp pains shoot up my leg with each step down. Turning the corner at the bottom, I hear a voice echo from the upstairs hallway. “Hey bitch, you know you can’t get away from me.” The voice sounds like a metal shovel being dragged over hard concrete. Outside the narrow windows, lightning flares. For a brief instant, the basement is revealed, harsh light against black shadow, and I see a narrow path through tangled stacks of stage props and scenery. As I try to look over my shoulder, I stumble into a pile of dusty rolls of muslin yet to be stretched over wooden frames to create flats or to be used as backdrops. Struggling to my feet again, I’m desperate to find my way out. Another lightning flare barely keeps me from falling into an old mock train station with a sign dangling from one corner. Peeling brown paint spells the word “Anatevka” - ruins from an old production of Fiddler on the Roof. Stumbling backwards, my heel catches on something heavy, pulling me down. Oh my God! I’ve almost fallen into the plywood coffin that’s currently being constructed for a presentation of Dracula. Shaking uncontrollably now, I head for the door. My heart pounds hard and fast as I try to fight the overwhelming dizziness. My right leg crumbles beneath me, but I’m able to catch myself on a worktable cluttered with old paint cans, cardboard and used hardware. Trying desperately to catch my breath, I suddenly take in a strong mixture of paint and intense turpentine fumes. Bile rises in my throat, and I fight a wild spinning sensation. I steady myself by holding on to the table until the feeling passes. Just as I hear another vibrating thunder clap, everything is suddenly silent. I hold unbelievably still, as though the quiet somehow exposes me. Heavy footsteps echo from above, and in another quick lightening flash, I see the side door. Reaching it, I can hear that the storm seems to have quieted. I try to push the door open, it doesn’t move. Of course it’s locked, you idiot! I reach forward and grab the deadbolt, tugging frantically, but the lock refuses to budge. “Come on … Come on … Please …”