Parker

PARKER

The echoing of the door as it creaks open has always been one of my favorite things.

A stark reminder that no matter how much a place can mean to someone, it will almost always become empty.

Abandoned.

Forgotten.

Lost to time.

Just like the little girl I buried deep inside of me a long time ago.

My other favorite reason for being here is just behind the tattered curtains of the stage.

I lead my bicycle in, laying it against the inside wall before I turn around and pull the door closed behind me. Reaching into my right denim shorts pocket, I pull out the only key left to this place and lock it.

I must have forgotten to do that the last time I was here. Otherwise, I would have needed this to get in.

I stand at the back of the theater for a moment, glancing down at the auditorium seating, smiling as I think about how, once upon a time, I managed to pack this place as our club put on our rendition of Romeo and Juliet.

I say our rendition because our teacher decided to modernize it. Not in the Leonardo DiCaprio kind of way, but in a way that would work for the times, and make our entire town think about forbidden love.

About how it’s not always wrong and can lead to devastating consequences when two people who love each other are torn apart. Granted, those two fell in love in a record amount of time, and then took themselves out when their families forbade their romance, but I think they were more struck by infatuation than anything else.

Reaching up, I pull my wind-tattered hair into a ponytail, looping my hair through, then pulling it tightly enough to hold itself in place without the need of a hair tie.

I promised myself that today would be a good day, and to achieve that, I have to relieve a little stress and a whole lot of guilt I’ve felt ever since Brando’s family was forced to leave.

I also promised myself that I wouldn’t think about him much today, but I have to in order to muster up the courage I’m going to need.

Just get it over with.

I take the stairs in the center of the theater all the way down, pretending that the auditorium is full again.

Of people that came to see my first and only play.

Of people who knew that the lesson we were trying to teach them was the most important lesson they would ever learn.

Mostly, however, of the one seat in the front row that I insisted stay empty because in my heart, he was there.

Watching and proud of his girl.

Cheering her on louder than anyone in the theater, and giving her a bouquet of flowers after for a stellar performance that she had worked so damn hard on.

Our story.

And I knew that it was the second I read the script.

That’s why I wanted the lead so badly—to tell our story in the best way that anyone would ever be able to.

I pull myself up onto the stage without turning around. Thinking of the things that should have happened but never did is the exact reason I come here from time to time. I take the few steps toward the curtains, gently running the tips of my fingers against the old, dirty fabric, trying to remember what they felt like when they were brand new, but I can’t. I never really could recapture that feeling again, no matter how hard I tried.

With a sigh, I push through them and walk over to the lone ladder that’s set against the back wall, determined to follow through on today being a good day. I crouch down when I reach it, leaning in slightly to remove the brown wooden box I’ve been hiding here because I can’t bear to have this at home.

If I did, I know it would only be a matter of time before I go too far.

Settling down on my rear, I bring my knees up just enough to comfortably place the box against my legs, then open the lid slowly, smiling at the lone item inside.

Raising my arm, I place the razor blade against my forearm and take a deep breath. Closing my eyes and pressing down as I start to draw a line, I whisper, “O happy dagger, this is thy sheath.”