The Writer: Chapter 8

Hell’s Kitchen. My favorite English words. Like the neighborhood in New York. I wonder what they would be cooking in Hell’s Kitchen? Is it for employees only? Is there even a kitchen in Hell?

Never mind. Today I’m going to read you one of my stories. Don’t look so upset. This one is special. I wrote it just because I’ve always wanted to start a story with a line of dialogue.

 

The Great Actor

 

“Look, sir, at all the letters you’ve received,” the nurse said as she looked at the pile of letters that lay on the desk. “More and more every week,” she added as she took a letter out of the pile and stared at it as though she were trying to read its content through the white envelope.

She turned around and smiled at the Great Actor, who was agonizing on the bed. His blue eyes were fixed in the direction of the TV and didn’t even seem to notice her presence.

The nurse took a seat on the armchair next to the bed on which the Great Actor slowly faded away. She wore a white dress, a red cross covering her generous breasts. For a while she sat there, watching over the small man.

Narrow waves of orange light came into the room through the small windows and settled on the white floor and shadows rose from every corner of the room and melted together, enclosing the feet of the bed. The voices of the characters inside the TV set murmured away.

“I would have liked to be as loved as you are,” the nurse said and a long sigh came out of her mouth, as if she were one of those debutantes of the stage. One of those debutantes that didn’t know what acting was all about.

Acting means suffering, thought the Great Actor. “Nonsense, madam,” he said. “I am sure your husband can’t even breathe without thinking of you.” Continue reading

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