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| promise the stars | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 11 2010, 03:55 PM (110 Views) | |
| Ammy | Apr 11 2010, 03:55 PM Post #1 |
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[align=center] [/align]The theatre was packed, filled to the brim with play-goers and socialites alike. Rubbing shoulders and elbowing one another in the side as they clamoured for their seats. Tickets were punched and program guides handed out, men in little red hats waved their hands this way and that, directing the masses to their seats with all the grace and composure of a music conductor, despite the elbowing. Abraham observed all of this from a box high up in the theatre, staring down from the balcony with wide eyes. His hands gripped the edges of his seat, leaning forward slightly to get a better look, ever-wary of the rose in his breast pocket. At either side were his parents, his father, moustachioed and stone-faced, like a mountain had taken root on the seat next to him, and his mother, perfect, poised, as still as his father but less mountain and more statuesque. They observed the scene with less wonder than their son. Not speaking, just sitting at his side. Abraham didn’t take much pleasure in formal dances or stuffy dinner parties, but the theatre! Oh, how he loved it! There was no quiet, awkward dinners with retrained conversations and meals eaten in silence. Instead there was lively dance and beautiful singing, it was enough to make his heart burst. Though, there was one problem… “Father, what show are we seeing?” asked Abe, looking to the tall man on his left. He’d neglected to ask in the limo, having been too occupied by city lights flashing by the windows. His father met his gaze, and Abraham immediately shrank back, looking to the symphony below. “Жизнь трудна,” the words poured out of his father’s mouth in a jumbled mess. Probably pronouncing every syllable wrong but too proud to admit it. “It is Russian.” He shoved the program guide into Abraham’s hands, causing the young boy to fumble and almost drop it. Why see something in Russian when they didn’t speak a word of it? It probably had to do with the investors that his father would be meeting with, Abe had heard them speaking in a foreign tongue in their estate’s hallways. Abraham flipped through the production idly, glad to see the inside was in English. He turned to the cast list, where each member had a small description of themselves, and perhaps a dedication. The leading woman, a Johanna Ivanov, had been acting since the age of five, her co-star a fighter-pilot turned actor. Abe read them all, from the lofty stars to the lowly walk-in roles. But… there was one without much description at all, only her hometown her name, and her role. Christmas Heikki, Sasha Markovic. There were no shout-outs or thanks, no dramatic declaration of parental support. It made his heart ache, just a little. “Mother, why hasn’t this girl gotten a description?” this time he looked to the slim woman on his right. She pursed her lips, frowning. “Because she is a nobody,” his mother explained. Abraham and blinked at the page, muttering a soft ‘o’ sound though he didn’t entirely understand. Everybody was somebody, right? But at that moment the houselights flickered and the symphony quietened. His mother pressed a porcelain finger to her red painted lips. “Now quiet, dear, we’re starting.” He sighed and settled back, letting excitement bubble up inside him, as the stage lights illuminated the set. The play was wonderful, joyous. For a magical moment Abraham forgot that he was a lonely boy sitting in the lofty box of a theatre, but was instead a poor Bolshevik supporter, ever patient and ever hopeful even as he starved to death, or a nobleman in the Tsar’s court, blind or ignorant to the plight of the poor. He breathed and gasped with the characters, biting back tears to avoid his father’s glares. It was the end of the first act, a woman with red hair—no—magenta? stepped onto the stage, dressed in rags. There was a hobble to her step that made Abe cringe, and how he wished he could share the stick of gum in his pocket with her, should it mean she live for another day. Every line was delivered with fervour and passion, truly becoming a young girl who wished for more than she could have. And then she started singing. Ah, it was music to his ears! The words he couldn’t understand, but the feelings! It was the mark of a good actress. The song drew to a close, and the girl died, claimed by hunger and cold. Abraham’s upper lib trembled so viciously he had to bite down on it. Hot tears began to flow down from his cheeks. It was so… beautiful. So beautiful the rest of the play paled in comparison to her performance. And when she had stepped on stage at the end, still clad in those rags, he strived to make his applause the loudest. His father said something about going backstage, and Abe’s heart leapt. He knew, he had to meet her. The backstage was filled with beautiful flowers and friends embracing friends, yet she was nowhere in sight. He pushed past the stars, sliding from his parents side. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of red, and tailed it eagerly. “Hey, what the hell are you doing? This is my dressing room,” a voice said. “Sorry ma’am, there was no name on the door,” said another. A frustrated sigh, then, “Well it’s mine, get out.” There was a slam and a click, and when Abe rounded the corner he nearly collided with the janitor that was still hovering in front of the room. The janitor sighed and cast Abraham a dirty look, as if he were the one at fault here, with a grumble about uppity stage-folks. Abe averted his gaze, pushing past to stand before the dressing room. He bit his lip, looking upon the faded golden star upon the door. He knocked once, and shoved his hands back into his pockets, flushing furiously. “I thought I told you—“ the door flew open, revealing the young girl. She looked to be about his age, maybe a bit older. Her hair was down, wavy, not as put together as on stage but still as pink as a gallica rose. “—who are you?” Abraham bowed his head to hide his blushing. “Abraham Marrow,” he said. “I saw you on stage, you were… brilliant.” The girls face lit up with a grin, positively beaming. Yet at the same time she looked somewhat confused, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “Thanks! Come in, come in,” she took his hand and guided him in. Abraham glanced around the room. It was sparsely decorated, not a flower or good luck card in sight. “I’m glad you liked my performance, Abraham. I’m Chris Heikki.” She shook his hand, having already been holding it, and continued to smile at him. Abe hadn’t seen someone look so happy in a while, it had him smiling back, too. “No… no problem. Ah,” he dug around in his pocket for some paper, but only found a stick of gum. “I would ask for an autograph, but…” Chris’s face fell a little, but she waved it off, turning to rifle through a bare wardrobe. He wondered if her home was the same. “That’s okay, not like I sign many autographs in the first place,” she said offhandedly. “But… one day…” she trailed off. Abraham’s mouth fell open in anticipation. “One day what?” When she turned back she was smiling, as if she were embarrassed. “One day I’ll be known around the world, everyone will know my name. Not just some kid.” He nodded, not really caring that she called him kid when he was obviously close to her in age. Abe kind of liked it. “I’ll be your first fan!” he announced, giggling. He felt something press against his chest, suddenly becoming aware of the rose. “Oh!” Abraham pulled it out, twirling it beneath his fingers. “Here, you can have this~” “… Why?” “It’s the first flower you’ll have to put in your dressing room, for when you make it famous.” Chris smiled, and lifted the flower to her face. Not saying thank-you, just the look in her eyes was enough. |
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12:13 AM Jul 11