Balcony Scene

She lay on the chilly mansion balcony just after sunset. She had imagined wearing a well-designed white blouse that June day, and good jewelry, and having this episode – a death by stabbing – take place on a brilliant sunny afternoon.

Can we imagine our own death? Will it hurt? Which organ will go first? Which one last? She remembered visiting her father as he lay dying, in a coma, at the hospital. She told him what she needed to say that day, having read that hearing was perhaps the last body function to go. His hearing had been failing for a long time, but, in this case, she was certain her words would be understood.

Now, she was forced into silence, into not changing the angle of her limbs or the way her hands were splayed, or the position of her full lips. With a convincingly deep red goo covering the white T-shirt they made her wear, she played dead, half covered in an open black wool coat belonging to someone else.

After the first take, the Assistant Director came over, ensured her comfort, and placed a pillow under her head and a wool blanket over her legs. Before each take, the pillow and blanket would be taken away. A chill penetrated her loins and wet gut. Then the co-star would kneel beside her on the right as she lay trembling under the mountain fog. Each time the scene was repeated he’d lean over her, take a piece of crumpled paper out of her stiffened left hand, and read its contents aloud. Then he’d put it back.

Second take. She’s colder now, shivering. Third take. Trembling, she does everything to hide this, to not indulge her eyes with movement under carefully made-up lids. Something like salvation comes… heat transmitted to her from the actor’s taut body, pulsating with real, warm blood.

“Cut!”

Shaken out of her reverie, she is certain that hearing will not be the last function to go.

©Lisa Carlson