Serpe Baixo Flor

After being cast as Lady Macbeth in an upcoming production, Sophie slowly begins to lose her mind....
I'm not going to be updating for a while. I'm going to complete it, then review it and change bits that don't work so much for me. As much as I want to just write something and then post it, it may not be my best work, and I want to make sure my writing is as good as it can be. Thank you for staying with 'Serpe Baixo Flor' so far. I will post the complete version whenever I finish it, but I'll keep this one up and have it as a first draft, maybe even a complete first draft one day.
Cheers again.
~Child of the Jago, 26th August 2012


3. This Dangerous New World

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible  To feeling as to sight? or art thou but  A dagger of the mind, a false creation,   Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

-Macbeth, Act II, Scene i

As I step out onto the platform, I am surrounded by people and noises and colours.  Life rushes by, in the form of clothes and coffee and couples and coats.  Phones and suitcases, watches and high-heeled shoes.  All the little things that have somehow escaped me until now.  Dressed-up people running about like dolls.

I am suddenly struck by how out of place I seem here.  Charity shop clothes and fish 'n' chips, the BBC and alarm clocks.  These are the small things that make up me.  So different to this world of professionals.

I want to go home.  But I can't.  I'm here to audition and audition I will.  I can't let this pass, I can't-

With one sickening crack, my body is hurled against the cold unforgiving train.  I blink, and through hazy vision, can make out a large figure, all in black.  A man, going by the height and build, but anything else that could identify him is wiped away by the fact that my vision's gone all blurry.  

It's only when I open my mouth to draw breath that I realise his fingers are closing around my throat.

I can't breathe.  I can't even scream.

"You can't go."

"Wh- what?" I manage to choke out, as I desperately battle for another lungful of air.

"You can't go!" the figure repeats, and suddenly I realise what they mean.  My body feels cold all over.

"You mean the audition." I whisper.

"Yes, yes, the audition!" they agree.  "You cannot be allowed to audition, you must go home!"

Before I can react, a black, gloved hand punches the 'open' button, next to my head.  The train doors slide smoothly open and I am roughly pushed inside.  My arms windmill, trying to grab something for balance as I fall.  I try to scream for help, but find I can't use my voice.  With an almost-silent whoosh, the doors close. The train suddenly jerks into life, pulling me away from London, away from my dream.  

I finally manage to raise a hand to the window, knocking it weakly in feeble, false hope that the train driver will look up from his morning fag and see me...

Wait a minute.

If the train driver's smoking on the platform...

Who the hell is driving the train?

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