Olivia stood on the stage feeling the heat of the spotlight burn into the side of her face. She knew if she turned her head slightly it would blind her. She felt the red start to creep her neck and the blank, black faces of the audience suck all thoughts from her mind.
Was it time for her line? She had been too focused on the heat of the lights, the dark faceless mass of the audience and the fakeness of the set. What was she doing here on a fake set, with these people and their fake sounding..
Oh God - was it time for her line yet? She started to feel self conscious - what was her face doing? Her hands where limp by her sides she knew how to control them. Her face though - it was something she could never control properly. She'd been told often she was pretty enough to believe it should be true but whenever she saw photos where she thought she looked pretty she was told they looked nothing like her. The side of her face was definitely red now in that patchy dark way it always did where it looked like badly applied make-up -
"line from Pinter"
"line from Ibsen" she said.
She turned trying not to walk too quickly - relief flooding through her as she felt her part come to an end. As she moved past the black curtain that hid her from the audience she brought her face up to her cheek - her hands were cold as usual, her left side felt hot, her left ear on fire. She wandered past the other actors still on an adrenaline high into the makeshift dressing room.
She started into the mirror at her half red and white face. She examined herself under the stark fluro's as if examining her face would make it any better, any clearer like it would reveal some sort of truth to her.
Nope.
Was it time for her line? She had been too focused on the heat of the lights, the dark faceless mass of the audience and the fakeness of the set. What was she doing here on a fake set, with these people and their fake sounding..
Oh God - was it time for her line yet? She started to feel self conscious - what was her face doing? Her hands where limp by her sides she knew how to control them. Her face though - it was something she could never control properly. She'd been told often she was pretty enough to believe it should be true but whenever she saw photos where she thought she looked pretty she was told they looked nothing like her. The side of her face was definitely red now in that patchy dark way it always did where it looked like badly applied make-up -
"line from Pinter"
"line from Ibsen" she said.
She turned trying not to walk too quickly - relief flooding through her as she felt her part come to an end. As she moved past the black curtain that hid her from the audience she brought her face up to her cheek - her hands were cold as usual, her left side felt hot, her left ear on fire. She wandered past the other actors still on an adrenaline high into the makeshift dressing room.
She started into the mirror at her half red and white face. She examined herself under the stark fluro's as if examining her face would make it any better, any clearer like it would reveal some sort of truth to her.
Nope.
