The Stranger I Loved

"Sometimes I think she was a figment of my damned head. How else can a woman get under a man's skin so well?"

"You loved her?"

"I would have died for her. A thousand painful deaths I've suffered since, but to keep her alive, I would have submerged myself into freezing water time and time again. After a while, your body grows numb, and the shivers take over. At least I would be numb." His voice trembled with the rawness of his pain, his eyes distant as he relived the memories.

They say that life imitates art, don't they?

Ironic how, now, hearing those words spoken aloud in the play, even in Stuart's Irish brogue, Rose thought of another. Her own life. A man whom she had loved endlessly. A man whose absence still haunted her, a ghost she couldn't shake.

Alone within her dressing room and faced with just a reflection of her features, Rose watched the rise and fall of her chest. It was steady. Seeking the stability of her hands, she picked up a brush and ran it through the ends of her hair. Calm. Collected. Without an ounce of nervousness.

"She was a butterfly. The most beautiful creature on earth. She made all that was beautiful look sour and stained."

The lines continued. Flowing. The pages of the excellent script sat in front of her upon the mahogany dresser, but there was no need to seek any reminders of her lines. The words were ingrained. She was not a character but herself, for the first time in her whole career. The part was a woman, in love with a man who thought her dead in the war. A war fought in America many years ago. A war like the one she had witnessed first-hand mutilated not only the men but also the beautiful country. A war which had changed her entire life.

"How many photographs do you need? Another batch delivered this morning!" A trail of cigarette smoke clouded her dressing room, and Clara, the dressing assistant, stood in just a short shift dress and black stockings, clutching a parcel within the doorway. "You better clear some of these out, or there will be no room left for anyone else."

"I like to have my pictures when I travel," Rose sighed, flipping away her hair, lightly annoyed that the examination of herself was interrupted, but that could resume at some other point. Perhaps her sanity was lost. The only anchor she had to life was this play. This very play. This very character. It was puzzling...

Could she ever play another? Really?

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Clara stepped out from the doorway and simply handed her half-smoked cigarette to Rose.

"What are these anyway?" She dropped the parcel onto the dresser with a thud before examining one or two of the framed pictures that sat upon the ledge of the dressing mirror. The frames were nothing more than four planks of wood nailed together, impressively, one had to admit, but still, they held everything for Rose.

"My life." Rose hesitated. ''Every single moment of insignificance.''

"I can see." Clara tutted, wafting the scent of her perfume over Rose. It was sweet, slightly overwhelming. Clara pointed a delicate, manicured finger across a wood-framed frame, then another. ''You travelled a lot?''

''Yes.''

''So, tell me, how does a well-travelled girl get stuck out here in London doing the same play she has for, what, three years?''

Rose puffed the cigarette, allowing it to soothe her. She had smoked on and off since she could recall. The smell was fantastic, the taste not so much. Clara raised her thin, black and arched brow to Rose, expecting a response soon enough. They were friends, she supposed. Clara was everyone's friend, but never one to brag or breach. She was loyal, or so they said. She enjoyed men as she did the latest fashions; here one moment and gone the next. It was admirable in one way, Rose always thought. Why should a man in these modern times define one?