|Just a Chorus Girl
Author: Nightfall Daybreak PM
A Chorus Girl. It's all she has ever been. It's all she ever will be...part of a unit, never singled out, trapped in her role as a Player. How foolish of her to believe that she could be anything else....Oneshot.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst - Words: 5,586 - Reviews: 11 - Favs: 10 - Follows: 1 - Published: 02-25-10 - Status: Complete - id: 5775394
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Just a Chorus Girl
An Eyes Like Stars Fanfiction
My voice, upraised in joyous song, is not one.
My feet, tapping out a measured rhythm in time to a whirling dance, are not one.
My lines, the brief words of script I am permitted to act onstage, are not one.
I myself am not one.
I am only a part of a unit.
The Théâtre Illuminata knows me only as a Chorus Girl; they will never recognize me as an individual actress.
The audience will never know my name; every performance, they will see me onstage, among all the other Chorus Girls, and never think to single me out as a person of my own being.
The sound of my voice is drowned out by the voices of the others; the sound of my feet is overwhelmed by the dancing steps of the others; and even when I speak my few lines, I will always speak with the others.
It is all I am: a Chorus Girl.
I have been a Player at the Théâtre Illuminata as long as I have known, all down through the long years, captured there like a bird in a cage, bound to the script from which I was born.
At a mere, eternal fifteen years of age, I am the youngest of the Chorus Girls. My place on the stage is flanked to the very edge of stage right, tossed aside from the more mature and talented girls, as befits my age.
The Théâtre gave me no name when I was born to dance on its stage.
I was meant to be a background dancer and singer, meant to stay in the background with the rest of the Chorus Girls, given no identification to single me out from their unit.
None of the other Chorus Girls have names, either. Even when addressing one another in their high-pitched falsetto voices, they do not speak of names.
But, attempting to gain some sort of individuality, I gave myself my own name, many years ago.
This name I took from Helena, from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was one of the first plays the Théâtre Illuminata performed —one of the first plays that I performed in.
This play is one I have a particular affinity for, for I adore the plot, the characters, and the music. For A Midsummer Night's Dream, the Chorus Girls were attired as fairies for the scene where Queen Titania's attendants sang and danced to lull her to sleep, and for the final scene.
Costumed as a fairy dancer, in floating skirts of light gossamer and wings pinned to my back, I sang and danced my parts in the chorus, but the main characters enthralled me the most. I envied them so, to be able to lead the plot of the play, to be able to bathe and bask in the glory of the spotlight before the audience.
Among all the characters, I most admired the girl Helena.
Every performance, I watched from the wings, unable to return to my dressing room. My heart cried within as she was rejected by Demetrius, and sang in silent joy as he and she found love in the end. Tears of happiness leaped to my eyes, but I held them back for fear of ruining my makeup.
Helena knew how it felt to always be the one tossed aside, the one in the background, fruitlessly pursuing a fleeing dream.
She was scorned and spurned by Demetrius, just as I had been scorned and spurned by the Chorus Girls and the Managers and the Théâtre alike! She had desperately chased the one she loved the most, just as I desperately chased the tattered filaments of my originality!
So I gifted myself with the Player's name.
Like a shining bauble, I wrapped my fruitless hopes around the name I had given myself—something, at least, the other Chorus Girls did not have.
Stupid of me, really.
Deluding myself with visions that I could ever aspire to become something different from the role I was written for... something other than a Chorus Girl....
Was I the only one who detested the part I had been scripted?
It truly wasn't as if my part was necessary. There were thirty or forty Chorus Girls in all, singing and dancing onstage together. I wouldn't be missed, if I were simply to disappear. They didn't need me.
I was expendable.
I used to try to scream while the Chorus Girls sang during rehearsals, just to see if I would be heard. As the girls around me filled the air with their uplifted song, I clenched my fists at my sides and screamed as loudly as I could, until my voice was grating painfully against my throat. I would scream and scream and scream, but nary a person would hear me.
The other girls' voices completely drowned out the cacophony of my obnoxious shrieking.
In the tumultuous, beautiful harmony of their many-layered voices, my one screech of anger would be lost like an insignificant pebble dipping into a pond, failing to penetrate anyone's ears.
The conductor never knew I was screaming. For all he knew, I was perhaps singing in deeply passionate joy. He, and the rest of the Chorus Girls, never knew that I was shrieking my heart out in fury, in despair, in anguish.
After a time, I stopped trying to make myself heard.
Instead, during rehearsals, I would stop singing at certain intervals of the song, and just listen. The beauty of the song swept on past me, all of the other girls caught up in the sound of their own harmonized voices, sweet and vibrating.
No one noticed that my own lips weren't moving, that no sound was coming from my silent throat.
I closed my eyes, trying not to cry onstage, as the song went on and on, regardless of my muteness.
It sounded beautiful without me. I didn't need to add my voice to it to make the song beautiful.
Everything sounded just the same.
I wasn't needed.
That was what hurt the most.
The other Chorus Girls managed to make me feel as unnecessary as possible, as well. Oh, it wasn't as if I didn't feel useless enough. They scorned me with harsh words spoken in their gossipy, high-pitched whispers, just loud enough for me to hear them. They taunted my short stature, my young age, and my face and body, not yet developed and beautiful as they were, and which would never be.
I despise the other Chorus Girls. To me, the Chorus is a nest of hissing green serpents. They lash out with fangs of poison, and their hearts are as slippery and smooth and cold as snakes.
Their smiles are false, and the honeyed words with which they charmed the Gentlemen's Chorus, and the various handsome male Players fool enough to fall into their trap, are false.
Older, more beautiful, and more mature than I, they flirt blatantly, thinking themselves so strikingly attractive.
For some odd reason, some of the boys actually felt flattered, and would attempt to return their feelings through tokens of affection—roses to adorn their dressing rooms, notes of love, trinkets and beads stolen from the Wardrobe Department.
Those poor fools—they should have known these fickle, flirtatious girls would never settle for anyone.
I find it disgusting. I never flirt, and am never flirted with in return. Watching those Chorus Girls flounce around, flaunting before the mirrors and the audience, is a revolting experience.
I wonder if they sometimes feel as I do.
I wonder if they are sometimes tired of the role they play, tired of singing the same words and being the exact same person as everyone else around them. I wonder if they feel that they are shoved aside from the spotlight.
No. Not at all.
Perhaps they enjoy being the same as everyone else. They must feel so inclusive, in their gossiping little groups, in all their garish, prideful beauty. Perhaps being part of a unit is what makes them happy.
They're undeniably shallow, if that's what they think.
I just want to be someone else...to be written as someone else....to act as someone else.
Just for once.
The clock in the corridor rings, sending a long, heavy chime shuddering through the hall in ominous vibration.
Only one hour until the house opens, and then I will be swept onstage to once again sing and dance as a member of the Chorus Girls.
I am huddled in the dark recesses behind the stage, far out of sight of the people in the wings, safely out of the way of the dangerous equipment. Beneath the metal steps leading up to the catwalks, I hunch over, bending my upper body over my knees and resting my head on my encircling arms. I'd have liked to make it up to the flies, but I can't risk anyone up there seeing me—the special effects crew, perhaps.
It is a good place for misery.
I shut my eyes, listening to the low hum of the technicians and stage crew moving and conferring quietly onstage, behind the closed curtains of the Théâtre. Scenic flats, painted in accordance with the production, are lowered from the flies, and the striplights are tinted to set the stage awash in colors.
The air hums with the excitement of the final moments before the beginning of a production. The tension rises, as all the actors and actresses prepare to go onstage, and to prove themselves.
Every production is like a test. Every actor certainly doesn't want their understudy upstaging them, so they do their best to play themselves out to their full role, delivering their best performance onstage.
Theater people are a desperate sort, a desperate sort indeed; desperate to get onstage, desperate to prove themselves.
My eyes open slowly against the rough fabric of the jeans I am so taken to wearing, in accordance to more modern fashion. However, my sight registers nothing; backstage, it is all equipment and black plastic sheets and red-gelled lights.
"You should be in your dressing room."
It is the Call Boy.
Slowly, I lift my head, unwilling to duck out of the tiny, dark space. The Call Boy's face peers down at me from beyond the metal steps, polite and important.
"There's only fifty minutes till the house opens. You're a Chorus Girl, aren't you?"
My heart sinks as reality rushes back in. What else would I be?
I nod dumbly, crawling out from behind the steps. Dust films my jeans and hands, and I try not to swat at my face.
"You should be in your dressing room," the Call Boy continues. "Remember, the Chorus Girls will be in the first scene. You must be in the wings twenty minutes before the show begins in order to take your position in preparation for the start of the production."
I nod once more, wordless, and climb to my feet. With a heavy heart, I stalk to the door, open it, and slip inside. Once within the narrow walls of the corridor, I head for Dressing Room Nine.
The dressing room is a blur of bright lights; color; soft, gauzy material; feathers floating everywhere; the scent of makeup and perfume.
Already the Chorus Girls are at their mirrors, peering at their faces as they apply their stage makeup, or at the racks, pulling costumes off hangers and fitting on heeled dancing shoes.
Here, too, the thrill of tension pervades the atmosphere.
This is the life of the theater—a blurring, wonderful haze of costume fittings and singing and dancing and rehearsing and acting.
If not for the fact that tonight, no one will see me.
"Late!" coos one of the Chorus Girls in an irritatingly high-pitched voice, pointing straight at me.
The comment stings, but I glare at her. The girl is seventeen, with long thick hair of gold and a small, rather shrewish face. Her lips are wide and pouting, and the voice that issues from it grates on my ears.
I do my best to ignore her, and hurry to the racks where my costume is. One of the other Chorus Girls shoulders me roughly aside, tears her own costume from her hanger, smirks at me, and returns to her mirror.
This is also the life of the theater—jealousy, desperation, and greed.
"You've only a half hour left," fusses another Chorus Girl in a high decibel, flouncing past me as if I am something repugnant. "You'll never get ready in time. Perhaps we'll have to leave you behind for the first dance."
My hands tighten on the hanger, and it is all that I can do not to whirl around and slap that Chorus Girl across her makeup-encrusted face.
I take a few slow, shallow breaths, however, and content myself with imagining a bright red handprint across her rouged cheek.
"A tryst, perhaps," whispers another lass. I know her well—she is the sort who always has to know the business of others. "Perhaps she is late because she was secretly meeting a member of the Gentlemen's Chorus backstage."
"I hate the Gentlemen's Chorus," I say bluntly in an effort to stop rumors from circulating, as the other girls crowd together, whispering eagerly. "They are the sort with overdramatic personalities and unappealing mustaches."
"Who would she be meeting with?" a piercing voice calls from another mirror. "A scrawny baby duckling, she is, without a single good look to call her own. Anyone fool enough to fall for her would be most unattractive—certainly not one of the major Players. An ugly little shoe-shiner lad, perhaps."
"At most!" screeches another girl, and the Chorus dissolves into giggles.
My cheeks flare red-hot, but I slowly carry my costume to my mirror and sit down at the counter.
As I do, I fantasize about pelting them with their cosmetics—perfume bottles exploding over their heads, lipsticks snapping, dishes of powder shattering, scattering glitter over the floor and over their meticulously applied makeup. They'd scream, their beautiful faces ruined, and I'd laugh. What a sight.
Instead, I force myself to sit down at the counter and lean towards the mirror, assessing my reflection. Lights circle the rim of the mirror, softly illuminating my tan skin like miniature spotlights. They throw patches of weak warmth on my cheeks.
My features, I think as I stare at my face, definitely reflect my age.
My face still holds the traces of the roundness of youth, while the other girls have slim, sleek faces, with chins tapering to a point. My eyes are round instead of almond-shaped, and my nose is flatter than the other girls' handsome, barely hooked noses. A line of bumps has exploded near my hairline.
But stage makeup can change anything.
Yes, makeup can take away everything that you don't want to be there.
They can't take away a role you don't want, though.
I powder my face until my tan skin looks pale, with a hint of rose, and apply layers of concealer to hide all the unsightly bumps and blemishes. As I have done for all the other nights of production, I twist the tube of lipstick out and paint my too-thin mouth bright red.
As the other girls leave their mirrors to collect other various articles of clothing, I apply black mascara to my lashes, and line my eyes with thick streaks of black so they look defined beneath the lights of the mirror. My eyelids are covered with a pale blue, glittering powder, like butterflies' wings.
I pencil my eyebrows so they are extended over my eyes, dark and dramatic, and then I am done.
I don my costume at my mirror. The Chorus Girls perform very complicated choreography in this production, and the skirts are so short, it's barely dignified.
Tonight, my costume is black velvet and dark silver gauze, with gold silk. The bodice is black, while the sleeves are puffed and slashed to reveal the gold silk lining beneath it. Beads trace a path upon the bodice in gold and silver, and the skirt is stiffened black tulle layered with dark silver gauze and golden silk.
The costume is pretty enough, if not for the skirt that comes barely past my thighs. The Wardrobe Mistress has, like on all occasions, done her work well.
I smooth the bodice over my flat chest, straighten my skirts, and lean over to pull my hose over my spindly legs, trying not to rip the fabric as I do so.
Last time, I tore my hose while putting it on before a rehearsal. The Chorus Girls mocked me to no end, giggling and pointing at the holes on my hose. Mrs. Edith was able to mend the hose, as skilled a seamstress as she was, but the Chorus Girls continue to jab at me with their shallow remarks whenever they see me putting my hose on.
"Be careful, there!" one of them squeals. "Don't rip it! Then you'd have to kick your legs with holes in your hose!"
The rest dissolve into giggles, as if that girl's shallow remark was the most humorous thing in the world.
It's bad to cry before a performance. I bite my lip in an effort not to shed tears of humiliation, instantly regretting it as I taste lipstick, and grab for a cloth to dab at my mouth.
I reapply my lipstick hurriedly, and brush carefully at my eyes to make sure they don't appear reddened. I would hate for the Chorus Girls to think they'd gained some sort of victory.
Trying to shut out the mocking whispers and rumors coming from the corner, I turn my back to the room and face the mirror, smoothing my thick dark blond hair against my head. Scooping my hair into a ponytail, I twist it and coil it around and around, until it has been curled into a bun, with spiky, fluffy ends spraying delicately above my head. I tie it into place with a ribbon and affix a black-and-gold flower just above my ear.
I gaze into the mirror, watching my reflection, who calmly regards me in return. The darkness of my garb only makes my makeup-pale face stand out more beneath the lights, while the applied glitter and eyeliner defines my eyes and conceals their round, childish shape. My eyes look almost as exotic as the other girls'. My hair is pulled back in a tight bun in the manner of a young woman.
Just my dancing shoes left now.
I snatch my high-heeled shoes from the shelf before someone can knock them to the floor in jest, and shove one of them on, wincing as they bite viciously into my ankles. Hopping, I manage to force my other foot into the shoe, and manage to secure both of them onto my feet.
"What is it?" one of the girls mocks, noticing my clumsy movements by the shelf. "Your feet too big?"
She smirks as if she's made a clever joke, and the others—predictably—giggle.
I roll my eyes. I have had enough of this joke indeed—ever since the Théâtre performed Ain't Misbehavin'.
If they begin singing Your Feet's Too Big, I might just have to leave before I crush something delicate to miniscule pieces.
As expected, the girls break out into song.
"Don't want ya 'cause you're feet's too big! Can't use ya 'cause your feet's too big! I really hate ya 'cause your feet's—too—biiiig!" they croon, laughing clear through the lyrics.
It is an old joke. And as with many jokes, extremely irritating once its humor has lost its value.
However, there was never any humor to begin with.
My cheeks blaze crimson. I have had enough of the Chorus Girls taunting me, mocking me. I almost do not want to be dancing on the same stage as them.
My pride forces me to grab my script and sheet music and swiftly take my leave, slamming the door of Dressing Room Nine. A wise choice on my part. I might have slapped one of them, and from there the violence would only escalate.
Breathing hard, I storm down the corridor, my dancing shoes forcing me to walk at a hurried clip, the sharp sound echoing against the walls.
My face must look a sight, blotched with the redness of an anger no amount of makeup could conceal, but I could care less.
I hate every last one of those Chorus Girls.
I say it to myself every day of the week, and before every production, but tonight, my anger lingers in my mind like poison.
I walk faster, my gaze blurred with fury and helplessness. Numbered doors flash past like brief illusions of sunlight, insubstantial, blending in.
Like me, I think acidly.
It hurts so much inside. Knowing that I will never stand out...never stand in a spotlight of my own...
I choke back a sob and break into a run.
I want to run away from all of this...all of the hurt; the greed; the jealousy; the wild, passionate need that flickers like wildfire behind the closed curtains of the stage.
If there is justice, every one of those Chorus Girls will break their ankles dancing, and let me have the spotlight all to myself.
The idea both horrifies and fascinates me, and I am shocked to feel a tingle of pleasure as I imagine standing by myself, center stage, in a pool of spotlight, before the audience.
Hysterical laughter mixes with my silent, dry sobs, and I stumble down the corridor, feeling blindly for the walls with my hands.
I am a desperate girl, indeed.
My wild, grasping hands push against a door that is slightly ajar, and before I can register what is happening, I tumble into the room, hurtling blindly towards the floor. Panic lurches in my stomach, and I slam out my arms, catching myself against the wall just in time.
I lean against the wall, breathing hard, waiting for the world to cease its spinning.
This must be what the pirates feel when they have partaken of too much rum, I think dazedly, sliding down the wall to the floor.
One of my hands loosens, and unclenches. The sheets of paper I had been holding slip from my fingers. I had forgotten I was holding them.
I tilt my head upwards, still dazed, vision still flickering in and out of clarity. When my gaze is finally able to focus, I sit up slightly, and let my eyes rove over the room.
It is an old storage room, little used these days, somewhere in the Properties Department. Shelves and racks line the plain gray walls, groaning beneath the weight of years' and years' worth of objects and artifacts, dusted down with ancient glitter. From one corner I can see a heavily plumed ostrich-feather fan; from another, a plate of false food glued to the white china.
I let my head hit the wall once more.
Somewhere down the corridor, the clock chimes a quarter till eight.
Fifteen minutes until the house opens.
My breaths are fast and shallow, stuttering. The hysteria has still not completely left my mind, and tears hover at the corners of my eyes, on the verge of bleeding down my face.
I hold my head in my hands. It suddenly feels like a metal deadweight in my fingers.
The world is spinning again—too fast, too many emotions, too much thought, blurring into a screaming, tangled, writhing mass.
I breathe slowly.
Slowly, I stretch out trembling fingers to the papers that lie abandoned on the floor, scattered like leaves. My music and my script.
My hand is shaking so violently that I cannot secure a grip on the sheets. I know the symptoms well; it is stage fright, which I experienced at the very beginning of my career as a Player.
But I abandoned stage fright long since; I cannot be having stage fright now. Not with all of my years of experience.
Perhaps it is.
As the thought occurs to me, I nearly break out afresh in insane laughter, mingled with anguished wailing.
Fear of the stage....
...in that I will never be seen upon it.
My lips sputter forth unintelligible noises that could be sorrow, or fury, or some sort of dark amusement. I do not know whether to weep in bitterest pain, or to laugh as if nothing so hilarious has ever occurred to me.
In these few minutes...my entire life has spun around on its axis. My thoughts and feelings are no longer my own.
My mind has been seized by this madness; this madness born of desire, of desperation clawing at me, of a fear that I will never be proven onstage.
I must review my script.
Though my eyes are blurring with tears, I raise the sheet close to my gaze and look for my entrance line. Lines and words meld together in a blur of printed black ink, but somehow I untangle the mess and locate my entrance line, though my eyes are burning with tears.
ENTER CHORUS GIRLS FROM STAGE RIGHT, ASSEMBLING ONSTAGE IN FORMATION.
My head pounds.
I stare at the script, my gaze swimming with barely suppressed tears.
ENTER CHORUS GIRLS.
ENTER CHORUS GIRLS.
ENTER CHORUS GIRLS.
I let out a long, desperate shriek of something animal and feral—something that had lain dormant within me for so long. Pushing myself away from the wall so fast I stumble, I dash the script to the floor, tears threatening to spill over my eyelashes, and bring my heeled shoe down it.
I crush it, once, twice, thrice. I feel the paper crunching, destroyed beneath my vicious heel.
Then I kick it into a corner, and watch it skitter there as if afraid of me.
It has reason to.
Throughout this entire fit of mad temper, I feel no fury. No anger.
Only an aching sense of loss.
I scream again, a horrible sound without words, rebounding off the walls.
I have no name.
The playwrights who scripted me—did not give me a name.
The theater that I gave my life eternally to—gave me no name in return.
And the script that I appeared in—gave me no name.
I have no name?!
Not even in the script! Not even in the script!
It said only:
ENTER CHORUS GIRLS.
I feel my mind descend into madness.
I feel the screaming and the horror rising up in my chest, the words pushing against my lips with fierce insistence.
Only part of a unit.
Only part of a group.
Only part of the Chorus Girls.
I stand up, slowly, my hands sliding across the wall behind me for support. When I look down, I tower over my shadow.
In measured, deliberate steps, I make my way to the slightly open door.
Each step of my heeled shoe strikes the floor precisely, like a death drum.
I don't care anymore.
I hate the role I was written for. I hate the character that I am.
I will be the star of the Théâtre Illuminata.
Even if it means breaking the ankles of those stupid, shallow Chorus Girls; yes, every last one of them.
That spotlight is mine. I have waited too long in the wings, stepped aside too many times in the shadows.
I have cried too often over my place in this unit. I have screamed too frequently over the feeling of being unappreciated, useless, denied.
One step more to the door.
I feel huge, towering. Whispers fill my mind from corner to corner, speaking in beautiful voices of one vision only:
Me, standing in the spotlight, the star of the Théâtre Illuminata forevermore.
My soul is consumed by this selfish desire, and I must give in.
There will be a wave of destruction over the Théâtre Illuminata. I will punish everyone for never granting me the position I deserve.
But someone is at the door before I reach it.
One little voice, as small as a silver needle.
And like a silver needle lightly touching a bubble, I burst.
And suddenly, I am no longer the tall, powerful figure I once was.
I'm just me...a tired, confused Chorus Girl in dancing heels and a skirt streaked with dust, with smudged makeup and a face that speaks clearly of desolation.
In a span of a second, I have shrunk.
All my weariness rushes upon me with the force of ten winds once more. The whispers fade from my mind.
I lean against the wall, clutching the doorframe in exhaustion.
"Who are you?" I rasp.
There's a girl at the door, perhaps thirteen. Her hair is dyed crimson, falling in tangled locks about her shoulders, as if her head is on fire.
I've never seen her before among the Players. Apart from the various heads of Departments and the Management, there are no other here.
"Who are you?" I whisper again, haggard and faded. I feel a thousand years old before her flaming boldness of youth.
She regards me, tilting her red shock of hair sideways. Her expression is calm, confident, the air of someone accustomed to being in the spotlight.
Instantly, another jolt of jealousy shoots through me.
But the fatigue is too great to fight.
"My name is Bertie," the girl says.
Her voice, too, is confident, even in that single brief sentence.
And somehow, that is enough.
"I need to get onstage," I tell her. My voice is hoarse from screaming. I must look more like an apparition from a horror than a bright, joyful dancer.
"Okay," Bertie says, though she is clearly bemused.
She touches my hand gently, and leads me down the corridor where I moments before run down, my mind a whirlwind of passion and angst and envy and desire.
Now, I re-enter the corridor, feeling as if my back as been forced down a few inches, my head shoved down between my drooping shoulders.
"Come on," Bertie says, and I envy her ease of tone, her comfortable self-assurance. "Eight minutes until the house opens."
I put one heeled foot into the hallway, and look back at where my script is scattered across the floor.
It is time to join my fellow Chorus Girls onstage.
It is time to deliver a performance I have delivered so many times before.
It is time to experience the heartbreak of obscurity onstage, and the pain of never being seen.
I was a fool to think I could become anyone else.... a fool to believe that I could change myself with my desires...
Because it is all that I am.
Part of a unit.
Not a star actress.
Only part of a unit.
Just a Chorus Girl.
A/N: And there it is. Thanks for reading! :D
You've probably noticed that this is extremely different from what I usually write for "Eyes Like Stars." I usually write cutesy fluffy stuff for ELS...mostly involving Ariel. ;D
But this one came about after I read the quote about "ugliness and filth and greed." And it's true.
Sometimes the theater is a pit of snakes, where hissing rumors circulate, where people will literally kill just to get onstage and to prove that they are worthy of the spotlight.
In a production that I was in, I listened to the chorus girls speak horribly about the lead girls, out of jealousy. And this is where this came about...born of a desire that I observed from the actresses.
The problem is, the Chorus Girls are bound to the Théâtre, and as such cannot leave their roles. And they're always in the background.
So...at least one of them has to be unhappy...dissatisfied with their role in the background...
Yep, so this one turned out a lot angsty-er than what I usually write. :D
And I had to sneak in the Ain't Misbehavin' reference. Your Feet's Too Big is one of my favorite songs in the play. This play is one of the first major ones I ever did. :D
I also love how I played First Fairy in A Midsummer Night's Dream; First Fairy is basically Queen Titania's right-hand girl, and she gets to boss around Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed. xD
So...as always, please review. I'm not sure whether an 'angst ELS fic' would work so well, but I want to see your reactions.
Tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, and what you absolutely detested. :D
Remember, I love reviews. And reviews are super motivation!
I was also wondering...does anyone want me to make this into a full-length fanfiction? Like, a chapter story?
Thanks for reading! Review, please! :D