.It is not my soul.
The noose swings ever so slightly above her, even though the air is still and since they're indoors, there is no breeze.
It's a bringer of death and justice, made so simply out of rope and knots; nothing else.
She thinks it's beautiful, and so does he. They both have an unhealthy obsession with it that nothing and no one can cure.
"John, it come to naught that I should forgive you, if you'll not forgive yourself." A pause. The girl paused, her eyes elsewhere, as she seemed to be focused on someone non existent, to her side, but she didn't fully face the person either…
"It is not my soul, John, it is yours." She seemed to almost take a step towards the imaginary person, but stopped herself before she could advance.
"Only be sure of this, for I know it now: Whatever you will do, it is a good man does it." She seemed to be looking at the person now, holding eye contact with them, and that seemed to give her strength.
"I have read my heart this three month John." She paused. "I have sins of my own to count. It needs a cold wife to prompt lechery…" Her voice trailed off, her head turned downwards, and the person beside her seemed to disappear. Then, a few moments later, feeling like ages to her, she looked up, a completely different person, and returned to her script, not knowing that there was anyone behind her, watching her every move. If she had known she definitely wouldn't have spoken with such confidence and power. With such emotion. Around him she always shut down and fell quiet, afraid to say anything with her stutter which had seemed to disappear these past few minutes.
Everyone else was out at lunch, including their director. They had earned their parts only a few weeks beforehand, but had only been doing warm up exercises, getting to know each other games, learning the very basics since the majority of the class were drama virgins and last of all, full script readings. He was playing John Proctor, the main male lead, and she the main female lead. She was to be his wife, and by the end of the play they were expecting their forth child together. He would find this out right before he was hanged, by the very noose which was suspended above her head.
They had gone to school together for the past five years, they were in their final year together now, but really had never spoken much. They'd been in the same English class, as well as the same music class, and of course, drama, for as long as he could remember, and yet she had usually kept to herself. It was strange to see her so alive and to hear her Puritan accented voice reach every corner of their large drama room, and he welcomed such a sight. She was to be speaking these exact words to him soon enough, and he couldn't imagine it ever happening. Her to look him in the eyes with the same love she'd had just moments ago? Impossible. He pulled his black beanie a little lower over his eyes, ignoring his Irish red hair as it flicked into his eyes and tickled his nose. Maybe he was taking the play a little too seriously, but it seemed like fate for everything to turn out like this. It made so much sense to him. They had both asked with drama teacher and now director which parts they should try out for and without hesitation she had suggested these very parts for them, saying they were suited to them down to the last button and hemline, a compliment which had made his wife-in-play blush and if truth be known, him as well.
On one of the occasions when he had actually managed to get her talking, they were soon arguing in a joking way over who got their kids. She had made it plain that she planned to never be a mother in her life, and was trying to make a deal with him that he got the children while she the horse and cart. All of this had been ruined when their drama teacher had interrupted. "Oh why? I think you two would have lovely children!"
That was possibly the worst thing anyone could have said. It sent both of them blushing and her retreating back to listening to her Discman, Nine Inch Nails, studying her script harder then ever.
He didn't like her. Or at least he didn't think he did. He was just very, very intrigued by her.
He emerged from his thoughts to be stunned at what he saw. He had in the mean time taken a seat, and hadn't noticed her soundlessly moving, and she obviously hadn't noticed him either. She had retrieved a chair and was now looking at the noose carefully, now at the correct height to see it closely. The look on her face and in her eyes was haunting, her eyes outlined in black and smudged deeply under her golden brown orbs from years and years of lack of sleep. She slowly lifted the noose up and he could see what she planned to do, before he knew it he was out of his seat and was on the floor instead, having swept her off the chair and onto the floor before she managed to slip the rope over her head.
She was shaking underneath him, and he had her hands trapped above her head so she couldn't get away.
"What the hell do you think you were doing?" he demanded, but his voice was low. There were people just outside and this was something he didn't want them to interrupt. The noise of two bodies falling to the floor was enough noise for them anyway probably.
"I don't know." She murmured, and then somehow she had twisted out from under him and out of his grip as well, twisting a part of her hair back into a clip from where it had been pulled from. Even though she sounded angry, she didn't look it in her face or gaze. She just looked sad.
"Tether of delusion
Tether of genocide
Tightening noose of a tether
Suffocating noose of a tether
Neck-breaking noose of a tether
Life-quenching noose of a tether
Like a hangman's
Tether-noose which took away our voice."
She quoted softly, still gazing at him. "'The tether will suffer the wear and the tear' by Akoli Penoukou. Or there is 'On moonlit heath and lonesome bank...' by A. E. Housman." She took a soft breath and then quoted again, her eyes drifting from his. She never felt so exposed before.
"And naked to the hangman's noose
The morning clocks will ring
A neck God made for other use
Than strangling in a string.
And sharp the link of life will snap,
And dead on air will stand
Heels that held up as straight a chap
As treads upon the land.
So here I'll watch the night and wait
To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
And not the stroke of nine;"
"They are beautiful…" that was all he could say. She nodded.
"That is what I was doing. I was trying to create my own beauty, so that maybe once in my life, I can be beautiful too." And with that she turned and walked behind the black curtain at the back of the room, where their bags were thrown.
"I think you already are." He called behind her, only because he felt safer behind her back, and by the time she peered from behind the curtain again, he was gone. But at least she knew now. At least she knew what he had not until he had voiced it.
She smiled, and she said one last quote under her breath. "He have his goodness now. God forbid I take it from him."
Authors Note: Slightly weird, I know. Written for Nataislove, one of my ell-jay (Livejournal) friends, she wrote me something about acorns . The poem used and referenced in the text and everything else comes from The Crucible by Arthur Miller which I studied and performed last year. I would like to thank Matty R for being my muse for the male character, he plays himself in this. The girl…well…she has my part in all this, but I wouldn't say that's actually myself. shrugs Hope you enjoyed it, I enjoyed writing it.