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YOU ARE: dying.
YOU ARE: dead.
YOU ARE: lost.
“It’s not fair,” Life says one day, crouched by the river.
You glance at her. “What’s not fair?” You ask.
She dips one hand in the water, watching as a school of fish scatter amongst the current. “You know,” she says. “This.”
The sun is warm on your back. “What do you mean?”
“We didn’t ask for this.” She responds. She won’t look at you. “Living. We’re meant to be dead.”
A raven caws from deep inside the forest. It sounds like a death knell. It sounds like a promise.
“I know.” You say.
“It’s your fault.” Life says.
“I know.” You say.
“Why did you do it?”
You open your mouth.
The world tilts—
“Now this Bell, tolling softly for another, saies to me, Thou must die–”
[SCENE: A muddied trench, deep in the Eastern Front. The stage lights are RED. UNKNOWN’s face is obscured by shadow.]
THE UNIVERSE: Who are you?
UNKNOWN: I don’t–
THE UNIVERSE: Who are you?
UNKNOWN: What’s happening, I was there, I was dying–
THE UNIVERSE: Who are you?
UNKNOWN: I’m dead, right? I’m dead. I have to be. They finally got to me– HA! Of course they did. What about the boys? Are they–
THE UNIVERSE: Who are you?
UNKNOWN: Wish I knew. A soldier, I guess. That’s probably gonna end up on my grave.
THE UNIVERSE: What are you?
UNKNOWN: Oh, very creative. Really shaking up the status quo here.
THE UNIVERSE: What are you?
UNKNOWN: Dead, I guess.
THE UNIVERSE: What do you want to be?
UNKNOWN: …not dead.
THE UNIVERSE: What will you be?
[The stage lights turn to CYAN.]
[BLACKOUT.]
Cookie watches the stars with all the solemnity of a general going to war. Her hair is splayed out behind her head like a lime halo, and her hoodie is dirtied with blades of grass and dirt. A cool breeze brushes past her, and her fingers twitch.
“Can you see any constellations?” Death asks. He turns his head to look at her, the thin fabric of his cloak shrouding him in darkness. He has sunken into the long grass, almost buried within the earth. Trapped in a grave.
She stares at the sky for a few moments longer, before sighing. “No,” she concedes, with an air of annoyance. “I can get Earth constellations. But this place- the stars are all… different. Random.”
“Well,” he says, “they aren’t real stars.”
“They could be.” She argues. “You don’t know.”
“How would that even work?”
Cookie turns to look at him. Her eyes shimmer with the gentle thrum of electricity, and she grins. “Magic.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course.”
She stares back up at the sky. “Oh! We should make our own constellations!”
”What?” Death asks. “You can’t just do that.”
“Yeah, we can, watch.” Cookie points up at the sky, tracing an invisible shape with one finger. “That one,” she says, as her finger curves sharply downwards, “is a scythe.”
He glances at the scythe lying abandoned in the grass beside him, bloodied and buried in dirt and flowers. A servant of war. A constellation in the sky.
“Huh.”
Death looks up at the glittering stars, and raises a single bony finger, pointing up at the heavens like he’s accusing them of something. “That one,” he says, tracing the outline of a wing, “is a raven.”
A shadow settles at the base of his hood, and it curls around his bones.
QUESTION: How do you deal with grief?
Pagidevménos: Don’t ask me that. You don’t get to ask me that. Not after him. Not after I- well. It doesn’t matter now.
Cookie: …you don’t. Not immediately, anyways. It takes time. I’m still dealing with it. I don’t think I ever stopped.
Life: I don’t know. That’s- that’s a difficult question, I guess. It’s tricky. Grief is tricky. You don’t really deal with it. It’s like a hole of jagged glass, stuck in your chest. And it hurts. And you can’t fill that hole. You don’t deal with it. You just… learn to live with it.
Death: NO ANSWER GIVEN.
Mary Jane Eastey: I suppose you just forget. And forgive. And it’ll feel like a hurricane in your chest, but eventually the hurricane will become a storm. And whenever you see something that reminds you of what you lost— a person, an opportunity, trust—, lightning will strike and it will hurt all over again.
Telos, son of Endings: You- ugh. This isn’t actually about grief, is it? It’s about me. And I’m telling you right here, right now: I wasn’t grieving. I wasn’t. I was angry. I am angry. I’m not grieving. You can’t grieve something that never existed.
Hènra Kiiara: You break. You die. You rebuild yourself. You make yourself better. And you win.
Nine: NO ANSWER GIVEN.
QUESTION: If things were different, would you be happier?
Cookie: Yes.
QUESTION: Are you sure?
YOU ARE: a child.
YOU ARE: in danger.
YOU ARE: dead.
Your name is Nine, and you are dying. You were dead before you started. You were dead from the second you woke up in a concrete prison. You were dead the day you plunged your fist through a cage of glass. You were dead when you set out on a wooden boat, and you were dead when you sailed through sunset waters to face your doom.
There is blood on your hands. It’s your blood, and it’s their blood. It’s crimson and gold. It’s human and holy. You are neither. You are dying.
You choke on blood and spit and bile. You choke on your words. You choke on possibility.
(Your name is Nine. Are you scared?)
“Tell me a story.”
Sergei stares at his mother from under shimmering pale blonde curls. She gives him a smile, and gently takes his hands in her own. ”What kind of story?” She asks.
”Any story.” He replies, words broken up by a yawn. “Any story.”
She nods, and she tells him a story.
In another universe, there were two people. A man and a woman. A bird and an arrow. You’ve seen this one before.
They loved each other. Of course they did. They loved each other.
And they hurt each other. Of course they did. They hurt each other.
The man killed her, and she killed him. The man was given a crown of thorns and ash and bone, and the woman took a crown made of regret.
The woman had a very special gift. She could see all the possibilities. She could see every future, every possible way, every what if. She could see other worlds. And in every other world, the woman and the man got their happy ending. So, thought the woman, we will, too.
But she was wrong.
An arrow cannot change its path. A rock cannot make itself dull. The bird will always die. The window will always shatter.
And the man died.
And the woman was left in the ruins of their home.
And the woman mourned.
”…I don’t think I like this story,” Sergei tells her.
“No,” she agrees. “Neither do I.”
“It’s okay, though. The story doesn’t really matter. ” He smiles sweetly, soft and warm and happy. His eyes are dark. “After all, I’m not real.”
Cookie wakes up in a tower.
[SCENE: A room in a tower in Ironstrand. Stage lights are dark. LIGHTNING stands in front of a mirror. GUILT looks back at him through NINE’s eyes. Mirrors are placed around the stage, with various ENSEMBLE members standing in front of them. The other mirrors are empty.]
NINE: I really, really don’t want to die. I don’t-
NINE: I haven’t done enough. I never got to-
NINE: I don’t want to die.
NINE: I’m not ready.
LIGHTNING: Nobody is.
[PAIGE enters from stage right, and runs over to stand next to LIGHTNING. She’s staring at NINE, on the verge of tears.]
PAIGE: [Quickly, words spilling out of her mouth] I’m sorry, Nine, I didn’t want you to die either, I never did. I still don’t want you to.
[A tear falls from PAIGE’s eye.]
PAIGE: I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. If I could go back and be less of a dick to you, I would. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to die.
[NINE stares.]
NINE: You-
[NINE inhales.]
NINE: [After a pause] You don’t deserve it, either. I don’t- you didn’t deserve… that. Everything.
[NINE shakes his head and looks at LIGHTNING.]
NINE: I don’t want to die, but I don’t think-
[NINE looks at his hand.]
NINE: I don’t think I get to choose.
[BLACKOUT.]
who decides if you are dead?
is it the doctor
who checks your pulse
and closes your eyes
and mourns?
is it the priest
who reads the word of God
and condemns you to hell
as he sends you to heaven?
is it your family
and the blood that runs through their veins
the same blood
that no longer runs through yours?
is it your friends
who remember and scream
and ask each other
is there anything we could have changed?
is it your colleague
who finds your body
who calls for help
and stays by your side?
or is it the stranger
in a city
in a car
who sees the screaming
and hopes
and prays
that you will live?
who decides if you are dead?
is it the doctor?
is it the priest?
is it your family?
is it your friends?
is it your colleague?
is it a stranger?
or
perhaps
nobody decides
at all.
Demise circles him like a vulture closing in on its prey. A crown of thistles sits in its hands. It does not bleed. It lost that a long time ago.
Death eyes it with a certain amount of fear. Its teeth are sharp like knives, and its eyes thrum with power. It stalks like a wolf, like a hawk, like a tiger. A predator to the end. He grips his scythe tighter.
“The fabled Grim Reaper.” Demise coos, venom dripping from its fangs like a snake. “You’re just a boy, aren’t you? A boy playing dress up.”
“I’m an adult,” he points out, with a certain degree of annoyance, and a little bit of self-righteousness.
“Oh, where you come from, maybe,” it says sweetly. “In my eyes, you’re nothing but a fly. An annoying one, certainly, but a fly nonetheless.
He grits his teeth. “What are you going to do?” He asks, sounding braver than he really felt.
Denise holds up the crown like a promise. A raven’s cry. “You,” it announces, “are going to become a very special fly indeed.”
YOU ARE: powerful.
YOU ARE: king.
YOU FEEL: regret.
You sit at a table with Fate.
Fate shuffles a deck of cards. Her smile is hidden by a mourning shroud. You tap your fingers on the table— a nervous habit. You do not ask who Fate would be mourning. After a pause, she pulls three cards from the deck, and places them down with long wrinkled hands. She pushes them towards you, and you lean over, reading the inscriptions.
Five of Cups. Judgement.
The card in the centre was upside down, and the skill of reading upside down text was not yet one you possessed. You reach out, moving to turn it around, but she bats your hand away.
“Five of Cups,” she begins, a million voices and one. “Past. Something lurks there. Regret. A tug in your chest. Do not turn around.”
You eye the card. A man stands, hunched over, surrounded by abandoned goblets. He stares into a river of darkness. Pointed horns stretch towards the sky.
”Wheel of Fortune, reversed.” Fate points at the middle card, the one you couldn’t read. “Present. Unfairness. A hand unfairly dealt. Fate is like that.” She laughs, a joke you can’t quite grasp.
You glance at the illustration. A man, pinned to a wheel spun by laughing skeletons. A raven curls around his shoulder. A cloak protecting him. His bandanna is the colour of blood.
“Judgement.” Her voice is solemn, now. She does not laugh. “Future. The end.”
You look into your own eyes, terrified and painted, and you think you finally get the point of this whole affair.
(Your name is Nine. Are you afraid?)
YOU ARE: grieving.
THEY ARE: dead.
YOU ARE: not.
Cookie sits in a circle of ghosts.
Ghosts is generous. She sits in a circle of corpses. Corpses is also generous. Half of the graves are empty. Most of her friends had no bodies to save.
She sits in a graveyard.
Her lover’s name stares back at her from chiseled slate.
Absentmindedly, her fingers move to her ring finger, itching to fidget with something no longer there.
Cookie knows every single person in this cemetery. That is her lover. That is his mother. That is somebody she failed. That is somebody she killed.
The world outside the graveyard is a white void. Soft fog rolls in. The forest is silent. She can no longer hear the birds. She can no longer hear the ravens.
She digs her fingers into soft soil. She looks up at the white sky and thinks of stars. She takes a deep breath, and she stands up.
(You are Cookie. Wake up.)
(There are still people to save.)