Revenge, the complete story

We're in the midst of the holiday season, and that means Thanksgiving has gone, and Christmas is barreling down our throats.

It's like a freight train of good will, shopping, and increasingly cold weather.

I decided to turn that on its head with today's writing prompt. "She would get her revenge. She scratched his face from the photograph."

Hmm... What to do with that? No Christmas joy there.

I decided to make it between ballet dancers, where one is trying to undermine the success of a rival principal dancer. It's a dose of bright smiles and on-stage good will, but underneath, more is happening.

Enjoy it here.

Revenge

2017 © Farley Dunn

SOFIA WOULD GET her revenge.

With a perverse sense of satisfaction, she scratched Orlando’s face from the first photograph.

And the next.

Of course, she couldn’t remove him from all the pictures. That would be an impossibility. There were hundreds. But if, in the heightened sense of Orlando’s euphoria at the pinnacle of his success, she could mar his joy in the smallest way, she would find a measure of pleasure, and it would be more than worth it all.

With a feeling of thrill working her fingers faster and faster, she worked through a stack of images, brushing the tailings of her efforts aside, as she mutilated Orlando over and over. Only when her fingers tired did she set her cutting blade aside and stroke her stack of marred glossies.

Orlando would see each one. After the performance, he’d sit at the table to sign them for adoring fans, and he’d be shocked to discover his marred face. In front of a worshipful young thing, he’d crumple in a moment of supreme embarrassment.

Over and over.

Sofia smiled, and she took a larger stack of identical photographs and worked the damaged ones in between. She smoothed the edges, pleased they blended in nicely, and no one would be able to tell the difference between her special pictures and the ones that would lull Orlando’s suspicions to a stupor. She set them by a stack of similar photographs, each with her picture on the top.

She tossed her blade in the garbage and stood, glancing around to ensure her devious deed wouldn’t turn on her. This must be Orlando’s debacle, and not hers. When Orlando was crushed, she would rise to take his place, and it would be her turn to shine.

Exiting the room, she walked down a short corridor, up a half-flight of stairs, and to her dressing room door. Sofia Ferrari, principal. She glanced across the corridor. Orlando Romano, principal. She’d see about that, she gloated, as she entered her room and flipped on the light, closing the door behind her.

Her costumes for the evening’s performance lined one wall. There were Romantic tutus, full and flowing, soft and bell-shaped; and Classical ones also, short and stiff, projecting horizontally. Many were beaded with pearls or rhinestones, and others glittered with sequins.

All were beautiful.

Orlando would be as finely outfitted, in a dance belt overlaid with welted and belted jackets, matching leotards, and even caps to set off his long arms and finely proportioned legs. Each costume change would refresh his performance, bringing new levels of magnificence to the beautiful backdrops filling the stage.

As would hers. It was time to prepare.

Sofia sat at her mirrored table, surrounded by cannisters of cosmetics, and studied her image in the reflection. She practiced her smile of superiority, imagining the rush of pleasure when Orlando was taken to his knees. Then, she opened a glass container of sponges, removed one, and lifted a tube of foundation from a drawer.

She would soon be more beautiful than even Orlando.

THE PERFORMANCE WAS a mastery, by all accounts and measures. As the final curtain fell, Sofia intertwined her arm with Orlando’s, and she curtsied as he bowed, his chest heaving with his efforts, and his face beaming with success.

She was infuriated. Orlando felt the triumph of the night’s performance was his alone, and he reveled in his superiority. Even as she smiled for the cheering audience, she imagined Orlando’s face as he discovered what she’d done. When Orlando disengaged his arm from hers, stepped aside, and gave her center stage for the final bow, she knew it was his way of looking down on her, of telling her she was beneath him, and his skills far surpassed hers.

As she accepted a bouquet of flowers, she nodded her head in appreciation, and she evaluated the cheers and applause. Was it less than when Orlando had stood at her side? Could she tell? Did the crowd love her with less ardor than when Orlando was also center stage? She was certain it must be so. She lifted her head, smiled into the lights, and the applause went wild.

See, Orlando. They love me!

In fresh costumes, although very much still in character, Sofia and Orlando found themselves side-by-side in the corridor outside the mezzanine, where a double table was festooned with silk skirting and swags, in imitation of the stage backdrops from the evening’s event. At each end, a stack of photographs, white oversized envelopes, and several fine tip markers were prepared.

Excited theater-goers were lined up, with bright smiles, and they applauded as the dancers were seated. Each person in the line had paid a handsome fee for an autographed photograph. They expected to be charmed.

Sofia smiled brightly as a theater employee shifted one of the photos in front of her, with a marker already opened. Sofia chatted, as she signed her image and passed it forward, along with one of the fitted envelopes for protection.

Over and over, she repeated her actions, glancing occasionally at Orlando, waiting for his reaction to her dastardly deed. She intended to express dismay, but her revenge would be complete. She failed to see even a modicum of pain on his face, even as the final photograph was passed to an adoring fan.

Then, Orlando was a master at performing before a crowd. She was certain he was devastated inside.

She understood when the lights were dimmed, and she stood and prepared to exit. Scattered on the floor behind her were dozens of images, with her face scratched away. Behind Orlando was the same. The staff had tossed them aside, saying nothing.

“Orlando!” she called with a laugh, pointing.

“Sofia!” He looked around the floor, came to her, took her arm, and kissed her cheek.

They left arm-in-arm, chatting amiably, offering one another praise for the evening’s success.