Curtain Call

R. L. D.

Two friends walked swiftly across University Avenue. It could not have been past 8 or 9pm or so, but it was pitch black out, the type of dark that threatens to swallow you whole if you think too much about it. The air was noiseless except for small outbreaks of laughter from the two companions, which interrupted the atmospheric silence of the moment in small bursts. This functioned quite similarly to how the streetlights along the sidewalk they strolled on disrupted the isolating void of the night sky by casting a warm, yellow glow. 

The pair talked in low voices meant for nobody else to hear, like they were telling secrets they only wanted to be known by the wind and then absorbed into the vacuum of the night. Occasionally, the two companions would break out into shaky renditions of song, the smoothness of the taller girl’s voice overlapped and treaded upon by the warbling, uncertain voice of her shorter companion. Despite this, following each of their brief duets, they would turn their heads and hold eye contact for a few seconds, eyebrows arched, before dissolving into shaking shoulders and smiles that seemed to stretch even wider than the pathway they followed. 

“The Phantom of the Opera is there…”

“Inside my mind!” 

As the friends approached a corner to turn onto a new street (and paused to simultaneously to start a new song) a car sped down the road they had just crossed, as dark as the night it emerged from. The streetlight on the corner where the friends were standing shone like a spotlight, with the curtain of darkness being lifted momentarily by the car’s headlights as if for the star of a show’s debut moment. The air stilled and the audience waited in silence for the big delivery, the opening lines to the story. Of course, a member of the car opted to complete the delivery of behalf of the cast, thinking that his contribution was helpful. Perhaps he was unaware of the fact that his contribution would never be attributed to his name, for he was not standing center stage and would one day become another undistinguishable voice in the crowd. Perhaps he was aware of the advantages of anonymity, and preferred to offer his critiques from afar, a director that is never fully engrossed in a performance. Regardless, he was hollering in the voice that critics use to tear down their subjects, in the voice that crowds use to boo a dissatisfactory experience, in the voice that assumes it is meant to be heard. 

“Faggot!” 

The steps of the shorter person slowed down increasingly as they took a few strides towards the edge of the light’s reach, stopping at the divide where light met dark. They stayed under the spotlight, even when their friend had started to move on. This lasted for a couple of steps before their friend turned around, cocking her head questioningly. A voice rose and fell in pitch, gentle but inquisitive. The friend who lingered under the streetlight moved away from it, offering a shrug that seemed weighed down by the thickening atmosphere. The person who had walked under the light moments before, nonchalantly readjusting stray strands of curly blue hair under a black beanie while standing upright with their shoulders back was no longer.

The person who took their place next to their friend was much different. Their skin was drained of color to the point that if you had not noticed the trees blocking the glow, their paleness would have been attributed to the moonlight washing out their complexion. Eyes cast down with a fixation on the ground in front of them, they stumbled like they were not quite sure if they had followed the right blocking on stage, whereas before they had looked the ambiguous darkness head-on, unaware of the multitudes it contained yet remaining unwavering all the same. Sure footing. Their voice no longer shook in a poor attempt to carry a tune. It shook on its own, low, gravely, much like the path up the hill they had just reached and intended to embark upon. There was no mirth, no desire to entertain, no bravado. The words spoken were soft, uttered in between slight shivers and furtive glances towards the road they had just come from. 

“Did you… Did you hear what they just called us?” 

A pause. The only sound was footsteps in the night, the only visible sight to either figure in that long stretch between streetlamps was the vague outline of their companion’s body. The short, blue haired friend who had just spoke crossed their arms tightly in front of their chest and added on another sentence to their question. The words departed from their lips slowly like the vowels were stuck to the roof of their mouth, like an exclamation was hiding for safety’s sake in their throat, like the fear was reluctant to leave their brain because even itself did not want to be fathomed into existence. 

“Well, what they called me. It was probably just meant for me.” 

The taller girl looked at her shorter friend after speaking, and with a halted, choppy laugh that trembled like her friend’s voice slowly shook her head no. 

More silence. The gravel slid beneath their feet. They neared the top of the hill. A sigh wound its way into the night air, pushing for room, begging to escape, running far away from its captor. 

“I’m pretty sure. I think. Ah. This is a first. They yelled the word faggot.” The blue haired individual spoke again post-exhale. They were at the top of the hill now. They crossed another road, and while every inch of the pathway was lit up with no room for any more mysterious appearances or voices to catch the companions off-guard, the one who just spoke glanced around wildly with big eyes. Their head turned so quickly as if they intended not to look long enough to see anything, as if the voice from moments before still felt so real that it was right beside them, tangible, a weapon wielded against them that anyone at any time could pick up and use to cause injury again. Yet nobody was waiting in the wings, in the dark. The whole stage was lit up, and it is just the two friends once again. 

They finally reached their destination: a tall, stone dorm building with a white tent in front of it. Someone exited the building and the pair of friends flinched slightly in surprise at another presence after their isolated. Yet they caught the door before it swung close and walked inside, safe for the time being. The show was over, for tonight. All there was left to think about was the aftermath of the performance. Behind the scenes, they watch Phantom of the Opera. From a small room on the second story of their dorm, the words to a song floated down to greet anyone who drifted by, relaying to them an important message for the night. 

“It’s there, inside your mind.” 

For those hurtful words, ones that stem from the same crudeness of what was yelled out that car window, whether they are shouted or said plainly or even whispered, they don’t leave. They linger when the blue-hair kid calls their mother and tries to tell her what happened. They settle in the corners of their mind as their parents laugh it off, saying that “It’s funny how many people know the British word for cigarette!” It’s there when they get dinner with their girlfriend at a local restaurant and the group of drunks sitting across the aisle from them glare at them with a hatred burning so bright in their eyes that it almost sets them both on fire. It’s there when their sorority tries to tell the head of the school about the car, and he brushes it off like a fly on his shoulder. It’s unfortunate that this kind of stuff happens. The words linger in their soul every time someone stares just a little too long, every time they’re vocal about their identity, every time they walk down that same goddamn road. They can put on a grand performance, receive praise for their boldness, be applauded for being themself. But when the curtain closes, they’re in the dark again, no streetlights to guide them this time. When the curtain falls, they wonder if the boy who yelled at them even remembers his words. They wonder if they’re safer in the spotlight or out of it. And they wonder how long the world around them will stay shrouded in the oblivion of nighttime, forcing their story offstage.