Author's Note: I'm trying out another style here to see whether this flows or not. Any comments and constructive reviews would be very appreciated. I'd intended this short to be based on Torres, but the story can apply to other characters as well. Translate however you will through your own interpretations; I've found I can look at this through many angles. Thanks.
Disclaimer: The following is a piece of fanfiction. No money is made off this. There is no copyright infringement intended; all characters, concepts and backgrounds belong to the Star Trek franchise/Paramount.
Curtain
It's all about the act.
Part of the act is about living. I work, I argue. I joke and I smile, forcing the corners of my eyes to crinkle, practicing while I hide in the wings. I'm a good performer; my acting runs away from me. See: a quiver in my lips, and they'll mistake it for fury or laughter. Feel: a trembling, and he'll think it anger or desire.
It's all in the eyes, they say knowledgeably; it's all there. Look into their eyes and you'll see their lies and their soul, bare for the entire world to scrutinize. I suppose that's what they really believe.
There's no refuge. So I run along, running to my work and my friends, running to the ends of the galaxy; but here I am and I'm still running. Because the truth is there's nowhere to hide from myself, nowhere else to go 'til the act ends.
If I can't do that- disappear, there is at least one thing I can do. I've had practice. They'll never find me, but they won't be the first to try.
They won't ever see, because it's really all in my hands: tanned and stained, large with blunt fingers, unfeminine and inelegant. These hands can't ever lie. Feel them: all sharp knuckled and roughly calloused on the palms. See them as they are: a fighter's hands, a murderer's hands. Keep them close. This is me. This is who I am, all corners and angles and secrets that keep me awake at night. My hands are truth, themselves and nothing else, myself, my lies and my soul.
On stage the lights are always on, cued and glaring maliciously down, waiting for the faintest stutter or hesitation, or even better yet a breakdown. But I'm practiced. They won't catch me, not yet. I refuse to be caught; I ignore all the others, ignoring their eyes full with undisguised truth, pitying and reflecting me. I can't give in. My voice is steady, my steps sure, my gaze unwavering; it's all faultless.
But of course it's my hands that give me away once again. I'll cross my arms or clasp my shaking hands behind my back; either way works fine. That's how they see me, defensive, protective. They think it's an attitude. Maybe it is; I don't really know anymore. There: I'm cocooned and safe, nobody can see me and my audience is unsuspecting. My hands are clenched tight together and I can't let on now, I just have to keep this up for one more act.
It's an end, a curtain is falling, and a day is over. I'm done, I'm through, I'm sick of this act, and I'm gone into the wings as fast as I can push them aside.
I might be alive still; part of the act is living. I don't know anymore. I've pretended so long it doesn't seem to make much difference. A malicious voice whispers inside my head, whispering the one truth I can never hide or run away from.
Run along, girl, run along, run from it all, run 'til the end and you'll still be running—