Opening Night

My heart pounded irregularly, in heavy, thunking beats. The queasy butterflies were familiar, but this time, they seemed to have no intention of settling. I sat on the apron of the stage in the closed house, knowing that all too soon, it'd be filled with people, and I remained shadowed in the depression and homesickness that had haunted me for days. Notes, instructions, props being set, sounds rattled from upstage and wings. It still felt uncomfortable. My head felt too light, but from dizzily low blood pressure or sheer nerves, I couldn't tell. I felt too hot, my hands clammy and gross. I rolled on my side to press my cheek on the cool, black floor and pulled my knees in feebly, to try to stop the nervous crampings.

There was a hum coming from the floor. Murmurs. Footsteps and laughter. Voices I could vaguely place. I sat back up, startled, and they disappeared. Pressing my ear to the floor, I realize it's the makeup room in the basement, sounds floating up through the floor from the rest of the cast. It suddenly strikes me that these sounds are familiar, my cast, and my friends. It's calming. I stay there, feeling at home. The voices rise, faster, panicked, crossing over each other until suddenly, it's silent. Confused, I listen more intently, but the sounds are gone, leaving just a hum of the theater.

Coming down the stairs, I hit people going up. They walk fast, purposefully. Fearfully.
"What's happening?"
"Someone's sick."

The room is frozen, some people kneeling around her, an officer calming asking routine questions. Is she nauseous, is she on medication, deep breaths. There's a murmur of "it's ok, it's all ok." Tech changes are made and quickly rehearsed, and she leaves for the health center, gone like nothing happened, leaving nothing but a shaken feeling and worry.

Ten minutes till curtain, and we stand in a circle, hands linked, heads bowed. There's a sort of religious intensity to it, as we pray, we beg some force for success, for her, for luck.  We pass a pulse through our hands and breathe together. Vital signs consist of four things. Blood pressure, temperature, pulse, and breathing. Things that keep us alive.