THE END OF THIS STORY HAS BEEN UPDATED.
The shining lights in your eyes. The hard stage beneath your feet. The wane and waft of cheers and applause. The thrum of the not-yet-present melody you recite over and over in your mind. And the music begins.
The words are on your tongue, ready to fit in with the space cleared especially for them. They are your creation. You caress every syllable, and treat the sounds with the respect you have for their meaning. This is about love, this is about life and the encounters you endure every day. This is serious, this is no joke. This is what you live for.
The adrenalin sings in your veins. The microphone is the gateway between your emotions and the crowd's ears. The only thing stopping you is your own lips, the betrayers of your deepest secrets and the keepers of the muscle that tells them. The world will know of your love, your pain and pity, your laughter and your revenge. The world will hear your feelings, but no one will understand them. No one will know their true meaning, the dark hurt they hide. No one will ask why because no one will know to ask.
The grin that plays across your features is not that of glee or happiness. No, your smiles are never that way, not unless he is with you. Even then, most are forced. No, the smirk you show now is of slight amusement, of no interest but really cold, dry laughter. The kind of laughter evil masterminds give to their fallen enemies. The silent malice that no one could ever expect from the normal you, the childish, fun-loving you. The mask you can only take off on-stage, when they think you are just pretending. But you only pretend when it's over, until the next time.
If anyone would leave you alone, then maybe you would have the time to try and sort out your feelings, to identify this overwhelming hurt you feel constantly burning in your gut. Then maybe you could have a reason to justify your pills, your frequent trips to the bathroom, the criss-crossing scars you keep hidden from others. You want to do it again. Your fingers burn with the desire to puncture the flesh beside your palm. To open that bottle that keeps rattling every time you open your drawer. To feel the tight, burning sensation when you're staring into that cool, unforgiving pool. To cause yourself more pain than your emotions ever could. To just make them go away.
The blade is still at home, in the cabinet above the sink, closed and safe from prying eyes. Safe from the demands of explanations. Your hand travels down to your pocket, and you wish more than anything to feel it's lithe, slender form outlined in the leather material. Oh how you wish you could take it out and run it slowly along your arms, while every one knows you're serious. But then he'd never forgive you. Which is why you don't have it, or the pills. Which is why they've been away for quite some time now. If he found out about them, he'd get worried. And that was the last thing you wanted, for him to worry. And you definitely didn't want to be the one who caused it. When he was in pain, your pain heightened. Right now, you could just barely endure the pain you held already.
But as the last words escaped your mouth, you were almost ready to go through anything. As long as you could make the coldness go away, you'd be fine. You could last a little longer. As soon as they were off-stage, you would go home and find it. You would tell them you weren't feeling good, and that you just needed some time alone. Don't worry, you would tell them, I'll only be a little while. And you'd go into the bathroom and click the blade up until it was high enough to satisfy the itch. After you let the sharp wounds stop bleeding, you'd cover them up again and smile, and no one would ask what was wrong because no one would be able to see the fakeness in that smile. No one ever could, that's how good you've gotten at hiding it. You would pretend to be happy, and that would make him happy. That was good enough for you, as long as you still had your release.
The lights flash once more and then the spotlight spins around the stage. You lend the crowd a wave filled with no emotion whatsoever. Your mind is racing to the moment you have it, when you have all the pain you need. You join the others backstage and smile reassuringly. It's so hard to smile now. But it will get easier again, just like always. And no one will notice the blood you spill for him, the pills you take to keep him out of your mind, the meals you make your stomach reject to stay beautiful enough for him. But the more you harm yourself, the more you need to hide, and the harder it gets to cover up your messes. One day the masquerade will fall apart, and you'll be left in shambles. But with your pills and your blade, you can ignore that fact until it happens. And once it does, nothing will matter anymore. No one will matter anymore. No one but him, and he wont be there to stop you.
"Shuchi, that one's for you." you whisper to the closed curtains.