The villain leaves the stage without bow and without the spectacular flourish of his bright red cape which he had been so want to give in the first act. A sad expression is his only benediction, his only farewell to the conquering heroes. It is sad and worn, and he shakes his head as he goes. The heroes cheer when he is gone, dancing before the audience as their enemy stalks unseen behind the curtain. Now the orchestra, the violins swelling, prepare, and the knight kisses the princess.
Below the stage now, his cape deposited on a hook by the door, the villain is wiping the bright paint from his face and staring into his mirror with the same, unchanged expression. He mulls over the dialogue, unsure. The lines had been different tonight, or else, if the words were the same, something had changed, in the tone, in the feeling. They’d all been caught up in it. He gazed at his watch and saw that the time was wrong. Where had this half-hour come from? His eyes searched out the clock on the wall. Its face agreed with the watch’s, and the frown on his face only deepened.
He’d played the part, he’d been playing it for weeks, but something felt off, distant, as if the memory of tonight’s performance was somehow enchanted with fog.
It all felt so real.
As he cleaned the blood from his hands, he tried to puzzle it all out.
Tale Told 