Bicknell’s dreams were finally coming true. After all the hard work, all the money he spent (and was still spending) on his degree, all the fast food meals, all the jobs as a waiter to make ends meet, he was finally going to be a star. One of Broadway’s highest critically acclaimed directors was giving him a chance.
Jim Rash, the director and playwright, was to direct the twenty-first century’s newest tragedy. The title role was a malevolent killer whom the people would not be able to help but love, regardless of his lust for blood. The director liked Bicknell partly because of his malnourished look. The kid had potential, and Rash told him that enough for Bicknell to believe it. Enough times to keep his dream afloat for the next twenty years.
Bicknell read the script three times before he sat in front of his mirror in his shabby, overpriced studio apartment to recite his lines. “I do have potential,” he said out loud to himself.
He didn’t outwardly possess conventional dark eyes or features that made him appear menacing. Rash saw those features deep within him. They were present, they just had to be drawn out like blood. Rash told him, “We’re going to bring your inner killer out. The people are going to be terrified of you but they won’t be able to help loving you. It’s in you, kid.”
Hell yes, it is, Bicknell agreed. He didn’t hold a priceless diploma in theatre arts for nothing. He had a dark side. What neither of the two recognized was how dark that side of Bicknell was.
Each day the director pushed him a little harder. When he didn’t deliver a line terrifying enough, he made Bicknell do it again. Every time he started over, his brain pumped a little harder. His lips trembled. His hands shook. His vision grew black around the edges, creeping in to seal his tunnel vision. After repeating the lines for the fiftieth time, Rash shouted at him from off stage, “I want my body to go cold!”
He delivered his line the fifty-first time but was stopped short. Rash climbed onto the stage, grabbed him by the collar, and growled, “I want to see that killer inside you.”
The thing was, Bicknell looked less and less like a killer as rehearsals went on. He wasn’t eating or sleeping, and he spent what little free time he had in from of the mirror in his unkept apartment. The thing was, Bicknell didn’t even scare himself. He feared he had no killer in him at all. He feared there was no more potential to be drawn out. He feared he had already reached his peak, which really had not been a peak at all.
“I am more evil than Jack the Ripper,” he recited, gazing into his wide brown eyes. “I am more ravenous than Hannibal Lecter.”
His hands coiled then uncoiled the papers between his sweaty palms. His back hunched forward. His neck stretched to be an inch from the mirror. His head pulsated with hot blood.
“I am the one who stalks all doors,” he spat on the mirror.
The chair fell back as he shot up. He smashed his fists into the mirror, sending shards of glass everywhere.
“I am Gerard the Rogue!” he shouted fiercely. He punched the mirror again. “I…AM…Gerad the Rogue!”
Blood ran down his arms, hooking on his elbows and dripping onto the moldy carpet. “I am Gerard the Rogue,” he muttered. His hair––dark from the sweat––hung over his eyes. He picked up a shard of the mirror. The edges cut into his hand, drawing more blood. “I am more evil than Jack the Ripper. I am more ravenous than Hannibal Lecter.”
He recited the words like a chant. His body convulsed not as Bicknell, but as someone else. The darkness that lived inside him, that lived inside every man, spilled out of his mouth, off the tip of his tongue. His potential seeped out with his blood. Bicknell was Gerard the Rogue.
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Opening night was sold out. New York’s wealthiest men and women were in attendance, clothed in silk and jewels, as well as Broadway’s most feared and revered critics, each with a pocket-size notebook and a ballpoint pen in their pockets to take notes during intermission. Although the director formally hung back and gave his hat to the stage manager, Rash was backstage with Bicknell, coaching him until the last possible moment.
“You’re ready, kid.” He massaged his shoulders, speaking to the back of his neck. “You’ll never be more ready than tonight.”
“I am Gerard the Rogue.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to be the next Edwin Booth, kid. I saw the talent in you the second you auditioned.”
“I am Gerard the Rogue.”
He slapped him on the back. Outside, the lights dimmed. “Your time has come.”
I am Gerard Rogue.
The play exhibited consistent dim lights that emphasized the recent darkness achieved in Bicknell’s face. During rehearsals, Bicknell tripped repeatedly over props in the dark; now, he moved around the stage like a fluid, thin fog. The audience immediately liked him, for his charm and for the darkness that made them slightly uneasy. Everyone double-checked their playbills in the dark to know the young man’s name. He was more than talented, more than natural––he was revolutionary. He was born for this role.
Bicknell wasn’t Bicknell anymore. Where he was from, who his mother was, his name, it was all forgotten. He was blind to reality––blind to everyone’s version of reality. The only reality that existed to him now was one of a murderer, which he was not.
Yet.
Samantha (or victim number one to Bicknell) danced out on stage in a pink, fluffy dress. She was a spectacle that would remain in all men’s minds the next day. In one minute, she would be burned in everyone’s minds forever.
The choreography of her dance required her to move all over the stage. Bicknell hung in the background, following her like a shadow. This was the first scene in the play that was bright. Gold lights seemed to project from Samantha, though they were projected on her. Hanging behind her, Bicknell’s heart thumped from his stomach to his ears. He couldn’t hear the light music that gradually became deeper and slower. The only thing he saw when he looked at Samantha was her throat. The only thing he felt was the knife in his hand––Gerard the Rogue’s cherished friend.
The music suddenly stopped, except for one violin’s high-pitched whine. That was his cue.
The audience gasped as he emerged form the shadows. The knife gleamed in the golden light. Samantha––paid only to dance and be beautiful––let out a well-practiced scream when she turned to see Bicknell advancing on her. He raked the knife from ear to ear. The audience gasped again. Some people even shrieked while Samantha’s scream died away. Her blood sprayed on Bicknell’s face, on his hands, on his cream shirt. The blood looked more real than in rehearsals. It projected a spray more powerful than the cheap bags of corn-syrup and red dye. Offstage, seeing Samantha’s bag of fake blood fall out of the bottom of her dress fully intact, Rash’s jaw dropped.
Then, every man and woman in the audience sprang to their feet. They cheered and whistled the bloodstained murderer. The stage crew rushed out to collect the body during their elongated praise. One of the crew members let out a breathless scream when she touched Samantha. The audience cheered even louder. The scream made Rash’s hair stand on end. It was an authentic scream; a scream worthy of a Tony (surely there had to be a “best extra” category). More crew members ran out to escort the body and the now hysterical crew member. Everyone continued to applaud.
Bicknell raised the knife, blood running down his wrist in red stripes. He brought the knife to his face and licked it. The blood trickled down his throat warm and thick.
As Samantha’s body went cold backstage, the crowd went wild. There was no logic to it, yet they all cheered like animals. Garnering a reaction Rash merely fantasized about, never fully anticipating, he realized he had created something––someone terrible. Bicknell was born for this moment, but he wasn’t Bicknell anymore. He was Gerard the Rogue.
The curtain enveloped the stage, cutting his glory off. Rash rushed to him but kept a careful distance from the knife that was supposed to be fake in his hand.
“What the hell did you just do, kid?” he asked incredulously. He looked down at the puddle of blood Bicknell was standing in. “What the hell…”
Despite the blood, despite the knife still gripped in his hand, the audience demanded more. They hadn’t even made it to intermission and critics were already scribbling exalting words into their notes. Rash recognized the increasing hostile situation they had to deal with. He was sure if they denied the audience more, a riot would break out.
What have I done? Rash couldn’t help but wonder.
He saw the monster he had created in Bicknell’s face. He looked back with eyes that were black in the dark. His shoulders huffed with every breath. An insidious smile crept onto his face.
There were still five victims left to slaughter.
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