Prima Donna
Mina had seen her fair share of long days, but this one, by far, was the longest.
Stumbling up the steep steps that led to the front porch, the woman pressed her forehead against the door and knocked tiredly, slumped, desperately hoping her brother was in. She had forgotten her keys earlier.
When no one answered after three weak thunks, she peered into the foggy windows and saw that all the lights were off. She glanced at her wrist watch and rubbed her stinging knuckles. It was almost half-past-six.
He wasn't home. Bloody brilliant.
Resigning herself to a night of sleeping out on the old rocking chair, with the pesky mosquitoes and occasional raccoons as company, she dropped her backpack and kicked it into the little doggy door. She heard it land on the carpet.
Her bag got to spend the evening warm and cozy under a roof, while she had to deal with the cold night air and animals. Mina tried to laugh, but a low groan came out instead.
What was the world coming to?
Rubbing her eyes tiredly, she staggered towards the chair and miserably plopped down. When it tilted back and bounced back froward, she yelped and stiffened, almost sliding out of place. Clutching the seat's arms, she steadied herself, and then covered her face, embarrassed.
Her head drooped forward, heavy and lumbersome and whirling with thoughts that refused to rest.
Attempting to make herself comfortable against the prickly woodcraft and failing, the woman pulled out her phone from her pants with a huff, and sent her brother a short message. That boy was probably up to no good again—womanizing, drinking, doing whatever it was college boys liked to do.
Stifling a huge yawn, she sleepily took note of what she had done, and what she still had to do. Being a teacher was difficult.
Volleyball practice, 5 PM to 8 PM. The first game was in a week. Karen didn't even know how to set the ball yet.
Two quizzes for the Grade 8 students. One practical exam for the Grade 9 on basketball. Cooper had to re-take the last quiz; the girl had missed it because of a family reunion.
Papers to submit so that she could be paid for everything she was doing. That included a trip to the University's main office. Did she have gas money?
She had class with the college students, too, during the weekends. She had foolishly agreed to sub for an older Professor for a couple of weeks.
More paperwork. The deadline for grades was long past.
That promise to show Jim to the—well, to the gym.
And a staff meeting next Wednesday. A presentation about the new curriculum?
Distractedly, Mina reached for her earphones, and carefully plugged each bud into each ear. Blindly swiping at the phone's screen for the music-playing app, she pressed for shuffle, and was promptly deafened by an electric-guitar version of "Phantom of the Opera".
Flinching, she frantically lowered the volume, and wondered despairingly how long it had been since she last sat down, watched a proper opera or musical, and enjoyed herself completely.
Too damn long, that's how.
She wished she could just go back and experience that simple pleasure again. At least, for a short while.
Thick eyelashes fluttering close, she leaned back and exhaled deeply. Her grip slackened, and she evened her breathing, pacing every intake of air, controlling every outtake. The chair's faint movements eventually rocked her to a fitful sleep.
BANG.
Mina startled awake. She inhaled desperatedly, and coughed, unattractively hacking out lung-shaking barks that did nothing but bring in more dust into her open mouth. Tearing up—her allergies, oh my God—she ungracefully pushed herself up in a sitting position from where she lay crumpled on the floor. Faintly she saw a dark shadow dart from the catwalks, and disappear into the shadows completely.
Wait.
What catwalks?
She clutched her stinging throat and waved the other hand in front of her face, fanning away the smoke that billowed around her. A single sack lay above the splintered floorboards, innocently sitting about a foot away. "What the f-"
"Carlotta! Amica mia, are you a'hurt?" A rotund man shouted in thicky accented French, running to her side. She took a look at him and gasped, taken aback by the fierce, overdone make-up he had on. His face was completely covered in stark white, bold colors, red swipes that faded into orange, marking his eyes and his fat cheeks.
With a small grunt he pulled her up, patted her dress free of dirt—her what dress—and finally noticed her accurate imitation of a fish. She looked at him like he were crazy.
"La Carlotta?" He prompted reluctantly.
Mina pushed him away and looked around wildly, taking in the awful sight and smells of whatever dump on Earth she had ended up on. She wasn't in her front porch anymore—that was the understatement of the century.
Instead, she stood at a broken stage, having a panic attack in front of give or take two hundred other bewildered, frightened people. Her breathing grew short and fast, and she quickly sat back down. Or maybe her legs had just given up on her. Either way, her ass hit the ground hard, and a deeply violet skirt pooled around her waist. She stared at it. Because where did it come from.
"What the-what the-what the absolute fuc-"
"Carlotta!" The man shouted, taken aback by her reaction. "Carlotta, me'diva, take a deep breath—take a really deep breath-"
She covered her lower face. She could already feel the rashes forming; her face was itching something fierce. "Who the-who on Earth are you?" She demanded shrilly, backing away from him. Her hands spasmed as she tried to grope around for her phone, or anything else that could help her in the situation.
He stopped short and stared at her.
"Where in the world am I?" She continued, taking in large, shuddering breaths. Her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together tightly.
He looked shocked. And then he recovered, looking faintly bemused. The other people in the room mirrored his expression. Some even cracked out amused smiles. A middle-aged man with an outstanding moustache covered his eyes and turned away irritably, and Mina felt furious at their gall.
"Carlotta, dis is not da time to be a'joking around." The fat man chastised. "Come, let us see if you are hurt."
"I am not joking around." Mina snapped, struggling to get to her feet again. She managed to pull herself up, and looked around. "Who are you? Where am I? Is this some sort of joke?" She asked. She caught sight of a long, thick piece of wood—a prop, it seemed like—just within her reach and snatched it up. She raised it and snarled at the large man and his entourage. "It's not funny. Take me back home!"
The amused smiles fell. The middle-aged man turned back and faced her again, shell-shocked.
The fat man's eyes were wide. It looked strange on his round face. "You...do not remember?"
Her nostrils flared. "Oh, I do bloody well remember!" She tightened her grip on the stick. "I was at home, on my front porch. And now all of a sudden I'm in a bloody stage with all you bastards-"
Horrified cries came from the crowd.
"Merde, she has hit her head!"
"What about the rehearsals?"
"Forget about the rehearsals, what about the production?
"Isn't this a good thing?"
"Carlotta," the man began after a short, clipped silence. Mina's eyebrows furrowed, and her gaze darkened. What was with this guy calling her "Carlotta"? Bloody freak-
"Amica, calm down, si?" He was saying, approaching her slowly and carefully, like she were an angry horse. "Calm. Something bad has happened, and now you 'ave lost your memor-"
"Try that again, you little bag of limp-"
"Calm. Calm."
Mina stepped back, alarmed by his increasing proximity, and heard footsteps come from behind her. She glanced around and let out a startled shriek. Two huge men were coming up from the backstage, arms held out like they were hoping to pacify a wild beast. "Madamoiselle-"
While she was distracted, the fat man—the ring leader, she guessed hatefully—lunged and siezed her waist, hoisting her up like a sack of potatoes. Howling, she kicked him across the stomach and thrashed. He was unprepared for such a response, crying out, and she was able to knock him on the head, sending them both crashing down. Rolling off him, she staggered up and ducked as the other two flew past her, tripping on her skirts.
"Back off, asshole! I will fucking end you if you even—sshiiiit-"
A wave of men drew towards her, boxing her in, and Mina was suddenly held up and carried away. The stick was ripped from her clawing hands. A strict-looking woman appraised her worriedly and directed the grunting men towards the corridors, speaking in rapid-fire French that was drowned out by Mina's high-pitched death threats. They thrust her upon an old-fashioned room, and locked the door just before she could launch back out and pluck their eyeballs from their sockets.
"Someone call the doctor, quick! I fear the blow to the head has made her mad!"
Mina sat down and stared at her hands. She looked at it for a couple of moments before stumbling up, taking up a chair, and slamming it against the window.
Colored glass shattered and rained upon the concrete below. The passersby gasped and yelled. She stuck her head out into the early morning air and appraised the height. Bloody hell. Shouts came, then, her kidnappers (or whatever they were) seeing what she had done, and she knew that sooner rather than later they would be running into the room and keeping her away from her freedom, but-
She stared at the horizon that greeted her.
This was not Connecticut.
Motherfucker, this didn't even look like the 20th century. Carriages, gentlemen in tophats, ladies in dresses, children in the streets, vendors and grocers and butchers and bakers—all paused to stare up at her slackened expression of complete bewilderment, framed in shattered, stained windows, disheveled and distraught and suddenly feeling faint.
When the hands siezed her arms and pulled her away from the gaping hole on the wall, and checked her forehead and felt her pulse and touched her scalp, and voices that asked, "Does this hurt?", all Mina did was turn away and slip back into welcoming unconsciousness.
Mina had seen her fair share of long days, but this one, by far, was the longest.