I Dream of Being…A Story Carrier For Someone Else

I think I would like to stand on a stage and become someone else

TW: This story is about war (WWII), grief, pain, and suicide. If it triggers you, don’t read along. Take care of yourself.

In a speaking exercise, we were asked to recite small, very emotional texts. Based on this exercise, which I describe here, I ask myself: What if the profession of actress were the path I had chosen for my life?

I’m standing in a darkened room in the middle of the spotlight. Only the man behind the camera is recognizable to me. He gives me a sign. Then I suck air into my lungs. It is the fuel that will carry my story to my audience.

My story is someone else’s story. I carry it in my hand.

Like perfume, it consisted of three notes. Its determination was my prelude, its fear my heart, and its anger my base.

The camera is just a marker. It marks the end of the stage beyond which I must carry my story. It must be strong enough to break through the veil of darkness.

The first words roll over my tongue and leave my lips. I feel them echoing from the cold walls and the warm bodies. It becomes unbearably quiet, unbearably hot. I feel my blood rushing to my face, and I want to duck and flee from this powerful voice.

Never have I felt such power. I can tell his story, which has now become mine, and everybody listens. They have no choice. No one can interrupt me; no one can fill my pauses.

For the first time, I understand what it really means: I own the room. Your thoughts are mine. They’re the words I speak. Your feelings are mine. They waft through the veil and penetrate you. I want to make you vulnerable. My words carry the heart and the head.

I emphasize words to press them into your flesh and hurt. I want them to hurt you for days.

I whisper to make you lean toward me. You can lean on me. I carry you through the moments. I know what’s coming. You don’t yet.

I don’t show you what I had to experience during the war. I let you feel it by taking you with me into this time. You are me. We are him.

Are you already digging your way out with bare hands, or are you still there? You are still here; you have no choice. The door is closed.

It’s closed as long as I hesitate to breathe. To speak. Then I open my mouth, I let you free.

Tell me, how sweet is freedom? Are you breathing a sigh of relief? I can’t breathe. The pain is too great. It’s been eating away at my body. It’s the dull throbbing in your chest. Could you live with that?

The last sentence stumbles out of my mouth and pushes you over the cliff. Then there are no more words that could hurt anymore. There is silence on the stage.

There is no one left but you.

You and the anger that fills the room. The anger at what happened, at the injustice. At the circumstances that drove a young man to suicide.

I’m standing in a darkened room in the middle of the spotlight, but my story was someone else’s.

© 2023 Annie Avery. All rights reserved.

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Best, Annie