THEATRE OF TRAGEDY

 

[This story comes from a dream of mine. The name is taken by a Norwegian metal band].

She wakes up in the morning and grabs one of Baudelaire's poem collections. Oh how, she loved his Poetry; all this Romantic terror mixed with corruption and morality issues. Sometimes, she, herself as a Poet, felt she wanted to have lived in 19th century France. She would have loved that. She would find a great inspiration for her art. As she delves more into Baudelaire's Poetry, she hears a loud sound, probably from the kitchen. Still in her pyjamas, she walks out of her room, holding an axe. She shakes in terror, as she doesn't know who could have broken into her house and yet, she can't think of herself getting into violence and smashing someone's head with an axe.

She enters the kitchen and finds a girl, having breakfast at the table. When the girl sees her, holding an axe, she steps back and says in an exotic accent: "Easy, easy, girl! I'm not armed".

"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Well, I'm Isabelle. And who are you?"

She shakes her head. "Never mind. I'm a writer, anyway."

"Oh, I see", Isabelle says. "And you love French Poetry."

"Sure, I do."

"I'm French, as you have seen. And I can make one of your biggest wishes come true."

She pinches herself, I am still dreaming, she thinks. I haven't woken up, yet.

"Oh, no", Isabelle replies, as if she has read her thoughts. "You are wide awake, I'm real and you'll come with me."

"What if I don't want to?"

"I'm afraid you have no choice, my dear. Now, join me, before it is too late."

There was something in Isabelle's voice, that mesmerised her and couldn't resist not following her. Isabelle got her out of the house. They started walking a long distance. Halfway she noticed that the place started to change. They passed by a big street, full of neoclassical and palace-looking buildings. 

"Where are we?", she asked.

"Oh, there where you have always wished to be.", Isabelle said. "In 19th century France."

"I am dreaming."

"Ha-ha", Isabelle laughed. "I can reassure you everything is true."

"Punch me."

"What?"

"Punch me", she repeated louder. "Only this way I will understand whether this is a dream or not."

Isabelle smiled and suddenly punched her in the face.

"Ouch!", she screamed and fell down. She licked her lips and tasted blood. She touched her mouth and her fingers were filled with blood. Holy shit! This is true!

"Sorry, honey. Now, you see", Isabelle said and handed her a tissue.

They started walking again and she said: "But how...."

"Shhh", Isabelle whispered. "Here comes the general."

The who?

The two of them gathered before a large crowd of people. Everything seemed so bizzare to her. Of course, this was 19th century, Paris, not the 21st century. Suddenly the crowd started to move back and a large figure started to appear. Indeed, this was a general, who was holding a huge sword. You had never seen anything like that before. The handle had a normal size, but the blade was as tall and sharp as nothing man-made. The general started speaking in French, but she couldn't understand a thing. Then he pointed his finger at her and said: "Elle!"

I get that, she thought. This means "she".

The crowd, along with a smiling Isabelle, started to look at her. Had she done anything wrong? She approached him with unconventional intentions. "Excuse, Mr. General", she said. Isabelle pulled her back and whispered: "No, no, stop what you're doing right now."

She looked at her and said: "Hey, leave me alone". Then she turned again to the General. "Yes, Mr. Fat Man. I am talking to you, alright? I don't know if you understand my language, but I don't really care about who you are and how great your achievements are. I am here, because I love Baudelaire's Poetry and I wish to become like him".

People probably understood her language, because when she mentioned Baudelaire's name, everybody made an exclamation sound. She stepped further forward, approaching the General even more. She looked at the sword and thought Christ, this is extremely sharp. No one survives this! "Now, give me that sword. I would like to have a look at that", she said.

But as she tried to pull it away from the General's hands, the sword slipped and started falling down. It seemed to her, as if a huge tree was uprooted and falling upon their heads. She held it quickly by the handle and slowly tried to place down its heavy blade. When it was on the ground, she said terrified: "See? We prevented ourselves from getting injured".

The General pierced her with his eyes, and then, pointing at her, shouted something in French. Two armed soldiers grabbed her and started dragging her off to somewhere.

Then everything turned dark.

It seems as if she woke up in a dark cell. Was it a prison? She felt dizzy, but then she realised that a rope was tied in her waist and she was tied upside down. Her arms and legs were free, but she herself couldn't move. She couldn't react that much, because she couldn't quite feel what had happened. She wasn't hurt at all.

Where am I?

Then she knew that there was a crowd behind her. She was on a stage, on a theatre. And this crowd was the audience. They were chanting, but what they were saying, she couldn't understand. No, this wasn't in French, this was in English. Soon, it became clear what they were shouting. Kill the Poet, kill the Poet, kill the Poet.... What was this all about?

Am I the Poet?

Her wishes started to turn into a real nightmare, though she knew everything was so true. She wanted to leave, right now.

Where is Isabelle? Please, take me home. Take me to the UK on the 21st century.

Then, she saw the General. He approached her with that huge sword. Oh, the huge blade. How could he lift it up again. She didn't really understand what was quite happening. Well, for sure she realised she experienced pain. An immense pain. And she could see, taste and feel blood.

Maybe the General had sliced her into two.