Fear Itself

The stage was simpler, at least in comparison to the last couple of sets the crew had built for me. It was empty, almost fitting for a closing number. It was a grand finale, the presentation. Chandler told me that the final number was the decision. That was the initiation for new artists. The League either liked your or they didn't. They had liked me so far, but after arguing with my father in the dressing room, there was a bad taste in my mouth, something metallic. It tasted like blood.

I strode across the stage in the dark, trying to be light on my feet like Chandler had taught me. I didn't want to make a sound; a performer never let the audience know when they were on stage. Even in the darkness, I could see it. Chandler had shown me the sketches. It looked like a simple, Greek structure: four white columns decorated with fake, plastic flowers and silvery-lavender tulle sashes. The white roof, also in greek style, read "QUEEN PLASTIC PAGEANT '58" in shiny, gold lettering. It was truly picturesque.

I stood at the top of three stairs, a long staircase that spanned the whole width of the stage. They were supposed to light up. When the stage lights turned on, they were supposed to glow a faint purple. I had gone over this a thousand times in my head, but something just felt so wrong about all of this. A nervous feeling rose in the pit of my stomach. I felt like I was going to throw up. I couldn't stop my father's words from ringing in my head.

You’re wasting your life. The rebels. Cassidy. Now, this. Wasting your life.

I tried to look on the bright side: this was the last song.

My wig was teased and curled out to the sides, something Chandler managed to accomplish in about ten minutes, and on top of my mass of polyester curls sat a large, ornate, gold tiara. It rested proudly atop my head and added about an extra five inches of height; every arch was topped with a small, golden sphere. The dress was not really my favorite of the night. I felt like a child prostitute, to be quite honest, but the cold air brushing my exposed stomach wasn't anything new.

The skirt might have been the worst part. I felt less covered than I had all night. At least in high-waisted shorts and micro-minis, I knew the fabric wouldn't fly up by accident and expose me. This, however, was a flouncy thing. It settled firmly on my hips, secured with a chiffon sash in white to match the cascading layers of ruffles that barely hit the middle of my thighs. Chandler said I was lucky it covered anything at all. The top was small; I wasn't surprised. It was almost a bralette, just about, really. It was white to match the skirt, but it was fitted, beaded, and tight. It had a sweetheart neckline, showing just enough cleavage, line with silver beading. The sleeves were round and full, paying homage to pageants of the past, Chandler had explained. They only covered my shoulders. I wore another godawful pair of heels this time: glittery, gold pumps adding about another 5 inches of height. They were closed toe platforms… only slightly more comfortable than the 12-inch monstrosities I had slapped on my feet that evening.

The sound started then. There was little light, and most of it poured over my dancers, all dressed in neon colors, similar outfits, but none quite as ornate as mine. Thick clouds of smoke drifted across the floor, brushing past my ankles. The sound was pre-recorded. It wasn't even my real voice. It was saying words in a cold, blank, monotone voice back by electronic noises, computerized stuttering. "Sometimes," the voice echoed. "I have this dream that a phantom is my bed." More electronic whirring. More noise. I took a deep breath. I heard the microphone clipped to my top click on. I silenced myself. "I think the devil is trying to take me."

"He pulls me from my sheets," the voice said. "That's when he ties the ropes." A long pause. Silence. "He tries to pull me apart." Then the music. Nothing but electronic beats and computer drums. Just synthesizer. No guitar. No piano. There was nothing soothing about this. I had been singing these songs all night, but even as I turned and faced the audience right on cue, starting to sing words I couldn't be damned to care about, I felt sick to my stomach.

More dancers emerged from the smoke on the floor in their neon costumes, rolling through the mist and onto their feet, writhing in rhythmic, fluid motion, but nothing that looked even remotely human or natural. I began my descent down the steps, and my eyes darted about the audience, more focused on finding my father than performing well. I stood on the last step when the other dancers stood straight, beginning to move with sharp accents, moving in time with every beat as I stood still. All I had to do was work the audience. All I had to do was make them believe I was actually Monodrama. I needed confidence, but I wasn't feeling confident, not even when my eyes fell upon Clinton Kennedy, who was smirking with satisfaction. All I felt was ill.

The music picked up, more upbeat now. I moved fast, moved in perfect time with the dancers, coming to the head of the stage, front and center in front of everyone just in time for the chorus. I had practiced the dancing inside and out. It was muscle-memory at this point. Good thing, considering I could barely focus on it. My eyes continued to drift upon the audience, even amidst the mindless song and dance. I felt like a doll in a plastic box. All the eyes fell on me. Then the break. I took this time to breathe. The electro-pop beats continued in the background, and the recorded voice came back, chanting three times, "I see the Devil in my dreams." The Board Members cheered loudly as the words "Annuit Coeptis Novus Ordo Seclorum" flashed on the screen behind me, outlined by the roof and columns. Following was the translation: "Announcing the arrival of the New World Order."

I stayed at the front of the stage for the next verse, dancing simply while the professionals trashed and spun wildly around me, looking fervent and passionate yet somehow robotic and cold. Moments later, all the dancers, save for two, formed a triangle behind me. The two that didn't christened me with a white and red sash that read "QUEEN PLASTIC 2058" in cursive, gold lettering across it. Soon enough, they dispersed, returning to line formation for the second chorus.

But it soon grew quiet again. The climax. This was the big moment. This was what we were waiting for. The lights dimmed again, casting shadows on the entire stage. The dancers stood behind me in two straight rows. The electronic drum beats sounded again, and for awhile, that's all the audience was going to hear. Four more dancers strode out from the wings, two from each side, bathed in darkness, wearing black, dragging thick ropes held in their hands. Then, just one single drum beat.

That was my cue. As the ropes were wrapped around my wrists, the lights fell almost entirely, and I let out a harrowing shriek for about four seconds atop dead silence. No music, just a scream. Once I closed my mouth, silence again. Just a few moments, just a little. Lights flashed, and shadows shifted across the stage. The sound of metal clanging against the stage echoed through the ballroom. Then, a phone ringing just two times. A click. The sound of my breathing. During our time in the darkness, the dancers circled me. After this, I heard a woman's sobbing for just mere seconds, another pre-recorded loop. They loosely hung a smaller loop of rope around my neck and a rope bracelet on each wrist.

"There is darkness around me," the voice echoed. "You can't leave. This is not a dream." Whirring. More electronic whirring. This wasn't music. It was noise. It hurt. My head throbbed, but we were almost at the end. I knew Kennedy was in our sights. Harley's squad was due to be just outside the ballroom doors, ready to strike at the last cue. I just needed to get through the song. The melody started again, the familiar beat. Right on cue, the dancers shot away from me, back into straight lines.

The spotlight fell on me when my voice sounded over the speakers again. Fake blood began to spill from pouches within my costume: one beneath my skirt, one under my top, and one on the inside of my tiara. Red dripped and oozed down my legs, stomach, and face. As choreographed, I began to falter, and two of my dancers grabbed me by the arms to steady me and help me walk (or stumble) up the catwalk, further out into the ballroom, closer to the audience, closer to Kennedy.

The smoke rolled across the floor again, and the dancers followed me down then catwalk, grabbing at me, reaching for me, all as the fake blood spilled across my skin. Just as we practiced, I fell to my knees, singing like I was in pain. For a moment, I thought real tears were going to sting my eyes, and even in my blurred vision, I saw my father stride across the room and place himself between Dean and Kennedy. He got in close, and Kennedy's eyes left me to give my father attention. His eyebrows furrowed, suddenly fixed in silent, subtle outrage. He waved his three faithful bodyguards over to surround him, and I saw Dean's face flush white for a second.

As I was singing, my eyes glanced to stage right, trying to look for Avery or Dr. Larson, trying to warn them that things were not going well and that we needed to get out, but I was nowhere near the curtain. I couldn't stand in my heels, and I felt too sick to my stomach to try, so I felt it best to go as choreographed and try to get their attention when I was back by the curtain. The dancer closest to me lifted me up in his arms, spinning as he carried me bride-and-groom style back toward the center of the stage. When Avery came into sight, I stuck an arm out, hand stained with fake blood, grasping for him, but he and Larson both just looked at me in confusion.

The dancer dropped me onto the floor as the outro began to play, and I howled out in faux pain. Just an agonized yell came from me as the dancers circled, thrashing and clawing around me like animals. The music built and built and built. The dancers closest to me grabbed my body, and just as the crescendo sounded, they hoisted me into the air, and a spotlight flashed on, bathing my body in yellow light and casting a beautiful, eery silhouette. I posed as instructed: limp and cold. My eyes stared ahead. Kennedy and Dean were both gone. In their place sat Chandler, sipping a glass of pomegranate juice. The crowd went wild as militiamen filed in from the side doors, preparing their rifles.