Dear Sylvia
The first time I walked into the theater, all I could see was you. Your aura filled the room with warmth and light, drowning out the shadows lurking in the corners. I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat and your laughter as you walked past me.
When you left the room, I came back to my senses. As I followed the stagehand I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
You were a star, backstage as well as in front of a crowd, throwing yourself into every role with passion unmatched by any other. You were an angel, a princess, a warrior, a goddess. You were a midwife, a young girl, a traveler. You could be anything out there, yet I got the feeling that you never really stopped acting, even when you came backstage. You smiled and laughed, and you never seemed to stop talking, yet you barely said anything at all. It was only in rare moments that I caught a glimpse of the person underneath. After we finished the run of a show, when everyone was too tired to talk or do much more than go through the motions of changing out of costumes, you would slip just a little bit.
Even then, when you were exhausted and drained, you still smiled, but not in the blindingly bright way that you usually did. You would hum softly to yourself as you methodically took off your makeup, thinking you were alone behind closed doors. I admit I was guilty of spying, of peeking through the curtains when no one was looking; I hope you don’t mind. When I saw you then, I saw something in your eyes, something that brought you down to earth and made me believe, if only for a second, that you were within my reach. There was a pain there, a lingering burden of the past that you could never truly be rid of, and you carried it with pride.
I remember the first time we spoke. I had been running props on the latest show, and we had just finished our first performance. We had about an hour before the next show; I was waiting, eating a soggy sandwich I’d made that morning.
Then you walked into the prop room. You were still in costume, makeup and all, but you had your hair up in a messy bun, with a few strands escaping to frame your face. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there staring for a moment. You chuckled, and then you complimented me.
You said good job, and you smiled, and for the first time I felt noticed. I stuttered and stammered the whole time, barely able to meet your gaze. You told me you wouldn’t bite. You smiled, and said goodbye, see you tomorrow. You stuttered, just a little bit, on the last sentence. It was then that I stopped being quite so nervous around you; knowing then that you were nervous, too.
After that, you started talking to me every day. Little things—good job at rehearsal, you were spot-on with that cue, could you help me unzip this?
I told myself you were just being nice. You were like that with everyone, always friendly to even the worst actors in the cast. But then you stopped searching for excuses. You came up to me after every show, sat and talked while I organized the props, constantly asked questions about me and who I was. I wanted to know more about you too, desperately, but I found that I couldn’t refuse when you asked. I found myself telling you things I’d never told anyone before—how I closed my eyes every time I climbed up to the catwalk, how I bit my nails to keep myself calm, how I had been searching and searching for a job for months and almost gave up when I found this place.
I learned things about you too, just more slowly. For all that you acted outgoing, you hardly ever talked about yourself. I wasn’t going to ask questions the way you did, so I watched and listened. I noticed how you would fidget with your hair, how that sadness in your eyes came out when we were alone, how your feet could never seem to stop moving even when you were sitting down, how you never ate with the rest of the cast, how you wore makeup even when we weren’t performing. Slowly but surely, I started to peel away the mask. I thought maybe someday, you’d let me catch a glimpse of what lay beneath.
But all good things must come to an end.
One of our plays got popular. Really popular. Sold-out-at-every-performance popular. Never had I seen anything like it; I felt then that we were following in the footsteps of Shakespeare, a man I missed meeting by three years thanks to his untimely death.
We were asked to go on tour. The next thing I knew, everyone was packing up, and we were heading across the sea.
In the first few cities, we were met with unparalleled success. As we traveled to Amsterdam, to London, to Paris, the audience cheered at every show. But then we went to Madrid, and everything fell apart.
On the first night in Madrid, everything went well. I missed my cue once or twice, but otherwise everything went smoothly. On the second night, I was more comfortable with my position, and I had a moment to watch the crowd.
At the back of the crowd was a man in a hat. He was relatively unassuming, dressed all in black. It was winter; he hadn’t taken his coat off, though most of the audience had. His hands were in his pockets, and stayed there as long as I watched him.
Something about him seemed very, very strange, but I had no time to warn anyone. I had to be ready for my next cue.
After the show, I met you at the bottom of the ladder. I told you about the strange man; you believed that he was suspicious, took my word for it without hesitating. But when we went to the boss, he refused to believe it.
The door opened suddenly, and all was chaos. A group of men stormed into the cramped backstage, all carrying rifles. The suspicious man from earlier took off his hat, revealing that he was missing an eye.
They cut down the men, and left the women. As we stood huddled in the center of the room, the stench of blood thick in the air, they talked to each other in a language I didn’t know—but you did.
You whispered to me, run. I will keep them busy. I said no, don’t, I won’t let you do that.
I stopped you, but it was too late. One of them noticed us, noticed you. He pulled you away from me, touched you and laughed and showed you off to the other men. You just stood there and took it. Your shoulders sagged, that sadness dragging you down, down, too far to stand up for yourself. Your lips didn’t move, but I could hear your voice as clear as day, screaming not again.
In that moment, I understood.
I shouted at them. Screamed, kicked the one holding you in the crotch, shoved you back into the crowd and stood between them and you. I told them they better not touch you, they better not hurt us, if they know what’s good for them, they’ll leave us be.
One of them shot me in the stomach.
My body was lying on the ground, blood pooling on the floor, adding to the rank stench coming from the fallen. My body was dragged away, and I was left standing there watching, helpless as they tied you all by your wrists and forced you to walk behind them in a line, out into the country and beyond the safety of the city.
With every step, you cried.
I followed you. Followed as you finally gathered the courage to escape, to board a train headed for a better place. Followed you as you were caught by the authorities, wished that I was still alive so I could be there to protect you. Followed you as you were tried and found guilty of things you hadn’t done, followed you as you were jailed, followed you as you were sold.
You were sold to a group of men, different men, who had no interest in using you as the others had. They wanted a fighter, quite literally; for entertainment, you see, one of them explained without sympathy. If you survive, maybe one day we’ll let you go, he said, if you survive.
They put you in a barn with dozens of others, all lying in the filth. They said, wait here, be a good girl now. You sat down and waited. You knew then that you would not survive.
On your last day alive, you braided your hair. Your light was dim under the layers of filth and despair, but it was still there, if only as a dim, flickering flame. You held in your hand a sword, rusty and dull, and wore no armor.
You walked with your head held high into the arena, refused to look as the crowd jeered, held your own for as long as you could and died with dignity when you fell.
You rose from your body and saw me. In that instant, I saw in your eyes that you understood. You understood that I had followed, that I had never truly left, not while you walked this earth.
You never did speak of me after I died, but I could tell you still remembered.
You reached out, and took my hand; and at once the veil was gone, and you were shining as bright as ever. In that moment, I realised I was shining too, glowing with you in a way I could with no one else.
In that moment, we didn’t need words. We just knew, knew this truth that neither of us had been brave enough to say when we were alive, that could be boiled down into three simple words.
I love you.
You kissed me, and we floated into the sky hand-in-hand, finally ready to move on to the next life, together.
Sincerely,
Erin.
