And the Lamps Expire.

Three loud knocks on the door.

And then a lull followed by a sudden buzz of voices in high falsettos accompanied by some more angry knocks. Dozens of feet paraded outside her room, impatient.

She ignored all of it and sat on a bench in the corner of her musty room, near the only window; her chin resting on her right knee. Still deep in thought, she began lacing her shoe instinctively. The air was still and the silence was only interrupted by the constant knocks on the door.

Finished with the right, she now started lacing her left shoe.

Pearly beads of perspiration rolled down her pallid face. She was now completely oblivious to everything around her. She felt this setting was far too anti-climactic for her liking. She stood up and her heart rate rose.

Adrenaline rush.

A sudden wave of nausea swept over her. She dropped back down on the bench and gripped the edges with her hand and waited.

Inhale. Exhale.
Repeat.

She got back up and now with firm and nimble footing walked over to her dresser.  She picked up her bag and started rummaging around through the contents until she found the tissues.  She wiped the sweat off of her face with one and then threw the used tissue back into her bag. She looked up at the mirror and she sat, staring at her own reflection looking back at her with a blank expression; her face devoid of emotions and her mind emptied of thoughts.

She reached for her bag and pulled it close to her, carelessly knocking down expensive bottles of perfume and sent them crashing down to the floor. Thousands of glass shards glittered all over the room and a sudden overwhelming rush of smells muddled her brain.

She groped around her bag for the box of cigarettes and the lighter. Pulling a cigarette out of the box, she fumbled with the lighter to get the cigarette alight. Placing the lighter on the dresser, she took a drag and felt a strain on her lung capacity. Cursing, she threw the cigarette down on the floor; the red glow on its flaming end reflected on the tiny shards of glass for a split-second.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Probing deeper into her bag, she pulled out a crumpled ball of paper and spread it flat on the desktop and smoothed it out. There wasn’t any decipherable writing on that paper; all the writing washed away by an unknown agent that had left a huge blotch of stain on the aide-memoire. But she didn’t need any writing to remember what the letter had read before she had dropped her drink on it, in shock. Emptiness enveloped her heart and left her helpless; lost in memories of the recent past. In every memory, it seemed as though there was now someone missing- ripped out from the memory and replaced by a void. It pained her to think about it and yet she couldn’t stop and she wondered- if this was what they called bitter sweet pain.

Steeling her heart, she tossed the letter away and got up. Gripping something in her right hand, she placed her bag back on the dresser-top and walked to the door and opened it. Her sudden appearance caused an awkward silence. Seeking out her manager among the plethora of heads crowded outside her room, she found him in the back- sweating profusely, a cell phone pressed to his ear. She nodded and he walked away, letting out a sigh of relief. She watched his large frame disappear behind a door at the end of the hallway, barking incoherent words into his phone. The mob of workers dispersed and their surprised-faces now showed anxiety.

About a minute later, the speakers crackled with life and the crisp tenor of the manager filled the auditorium, announcing the commencement of the grand finale. Loud and euphoric applause drowned out the manager’s voice announcing her name. The audience didn’t need to hear it. They knew it well. She was the star of the show.

On her entrance, the audience quietened down and there was silence. Music filled the hall and she began dancing.  Ballet was her love and she savoured every minute of it. For a little more than half an hour she danced and her audience watched in rapt adulation. After she was done, she bowed low and exited the stage to the sound of raucous applause. Her breathing ragged and her body weak, she struggled to stay on her feet. Her manager met her backstage and asked her if she was ready to do an encore, the mouth on his rotund face curved in a smile.

She managed a hint of a smile and shrugged. Her legs gave away and she fell. And as she fell, she watched the manager’s smile disappear and his face contort with horror.

She landed on the floor with a dull thud and a small bottle rolled away, unnoticed, from the open palm of her right hand as the manager stared at her still frame in disbelief. The label on the little bottle blared out in bold letters: POISON.