Suoicodilaipxecitsiligarfilacrepus
Inner Demons prt 3. (perfect draft)

"What was that?!" The director shrieked the second the curtain closed. I didn’t have time to care for it, I knew the intermission would have been used either to praise Adam’s performance and command of the audience or to slate my stutters and distracted acting. Right now it was the latter and I couldn’t bare it.
I hurried away to the haven of my dressing room and away from their criticism, which quickly transformed into rave reviews for Adam, on more than one occasion I heard the simile, “Satan stole the show,” those words burned into my skulls. Having caught my breath, I was repulsed by my own reflection, all I saw in it was failure. Used, upstaged and humiliated in front of everyone, but which was I most upset about? True, I had wanted Adam to have been my moment of rebellion and not his personal conquest. But to see my name midst those other devils, with a star rating of four, somehow didn’t sting as much as the prospect of reviews after tonight. Looking at the photo of us that Phil had placed on my mirror and thought back to the past few weeks with Adam and I saw clarity. I didn’t love Phil. I didn’t care that I’d break his heart, or that he’d feel betrayed. On some level he must know that whatever spark that existed between us died some time ago and became a sludge of schedules and routines that would extinguish any passion. No, the only emotion I had towards him was pity, he tried so hard but seemed totally unaware of what it really is to live and love.
Then there’s Adam. To call that surge of spontaneity “love” would be both foolish and totally incorrect. He was temptation that I couldn’t resist. There was a very specific kind of heat I felt towards him though, jealousy.
If I loved anything it was the stage and what it allowed me to be when I’m on it. I lived for their applause and the freedom to be anything they wanted me to be. If they want me upset, scared or furious I would give it to them. I would have given them my all. Their approval gave me what Phil nor Adam or any one person could offer, feeling that sense of control over a mass audience and their adoration, that is what made me look at myself and made me pleased at what stared back. For two glorious hours I can convince them that despite my Irish combination of blue eyes and dark hair I am an Italian professor who would sell his soul for greatness. I would sell my soul for greatness.
The real tragedy here wasn’t that after tonight I would have lost the only men in my life, I lost the public and I couldn’t live with it. Upon realising this I reached forward for my antidepressant tablets. I didn’t care anymore. At least with this I could give the crowd a Doctor Faustus they’ll never forget. One after the other until I had taken seven tablets were in my system. It would have been more but I had received the call back on stage.
I took to the stage with relish. Each line was filled with raw emotions juxtaposed to the words of the good angels and old men telling me to turn back and repent. There was no going back.
Everyone was captivated by each utterance I gave, there was a brutal honesty behind it all, my peers were stunned by how real everything was. However, the overdose was kicking in. My legs felt like they weren’t there and the most basic phrases became complicated to conjugate. I knew it would kill me, and I wanted it to. But not before I gave the best performance of my life. Lines devoted to slandering Lucifer for the deal and my own existence didn’t take much inspiration to convey at first, but that was until the hallucinations started. It was terrifying, the blurred faces in their seats became twisted and voices in my head screamed it had to be better. Whether it was out of determination to prove the voices wrong or my body’s desperate will to finish the play I didn’t know. But staring, shaking and sweating, during the soliloquies nearer the end, tears naturally painted my face. Not like the crocodile tears I’ve used on Phil or any genuine tears I’d made, they just kept on coming. But despite my mind racing I still knew that the lines, “O God, if thou wilt not have mercy on my soul” were lies. I had no regrets over what I did. To die with my art, with myself and all that I truly love was an honour. After the completion of my final lines all the chaos around me, the horror of the demons that came for me were nothing. All was darkness and I smiled, knowing what I had done. The whole audience gave a standing ovation, my only regret was not being there to hear it.