The man with the mechanical eye

I sat gently within the darkness, my only solace the lamplight that bathed a faint orange over the interior of the theatre. Being indoors had become strange to me, for I had spent an entire month underneath the glaring red sun of Crelle.

In an instant, and without warning, bright-red curtains rose high into the air. Caught up in the cobwebs upon the ceiling, it served to reveal the gentle setting of the storyline that had been set before me. Several strangely-dressed figures stood upon the stage, holding hopeful expressions as they gazed out upon the crowd before them.

Rather, they all seemed to gaze upon the absence of the crowd. I was the only person who sat within the seats of the quieted theatre. The silence was chilling, as if I could hear the heartbeats of the actors and actresses upon the stage so simply.

The attendance was sparse, yet Theresia still held an abject wonder within her eyes as she stood at the edge of the stage. I could tell that she was writing passionately for no one but herself.

“Thank you for coming.” She spoke aloud with a smile, even though I was the only one listening.

She took a step forward, her feet nearly meeting the very-edge of the stage as she continued.

“The story I will be sharing with you today is one written in the quiet hours of the night. It is one of regret and grief alike.” Theresia continued, her voice softening upon each continued word. “It is titled as simply as I could have put it. Please listen closely to the product of my words — ‘The man with the mechanical eye’.”

It felt strange to be the only one to applaud, but I did so anyway. I was worried wholly, for her passion was going unnoticed within the bronze city. I wanted the playwright, the actors, and the crew alike to know well that their efforts weren’t to be simply met with silence.

I knew well of that unnerving quiet. Theresia didn’t seem to mind, as if she had grown used to it.

To a creative however, that silence was ruining.

As soon as Theresia had adjourned from the stage, a man quickly followed her.

Suddenly, the lamplight softened around the theater, and a bright light shone on the figures that stood center-stage. It was an amazing concept I had been witnessing. Using a system of mirrors, the theatre crew had established a spotlight fashioned from the bright ruby-sun that pierced through a skylight on the rooftop. One would focus the rays of the light, and the other would bend it to bathe upon a certain location.

It was genius born of necessity.

The man that stood in the center of the stage had been dressed quite strangely. He wore what seemed to be a tunic of a juniper shade. Draped atop his tunic was a blackened cloak, one dressed with both epaulettes and aiguillettes of bright golden hues. His outfit was tied together by a reddened sash, one that was reminiscent of the sky that hung high above the theatre in that moment.

He held an unnervingly unmoving expression upon his face, one that had been torn of its budding emotion. The man was one who could not bear to confront his own heart.Beside him sat a woman that seemed his age, dressed in casual-wear that wasn’t too unlike what one would normally wear. She held in her arms a small child, one that seemed too lost within their imagination to worry about the scene of the play.

“How could I even begin to place my eyes upon you...” The man muttered, his scene beginning in a dark, unnerving tone. “Can’t you place your trust in me...? I’m looking forward for your sake...”

“The war hasn’t touched our land in years, Dietrich.” The woman shook her head in response. “You’re doing nothing for our sake. This is the product of a paltry excuse to leave us behind.”

“Sable, my heart has always loved you.” Dietrich spoke softly. “My running off to war is not to escape you...”

“Spare me your excuses. Even now, you can’t bear to look at me...”

In an instant, the scene changed, the light of the mirrors taking on a hue that bathed the stage in bright-red. The man named Dietrich lay wounded upon the floor, his face bloodied and his eyes lost in fading emotion. Clouds of smoke burst forth through the air around him, as if the landscape had been torn by greed and violence.

“I never looked back at you...” Dietrich muttered softly. “Because I didn’t want to say goodbye to you...”

Once more did the scene switch, the stage bathed in a solemn, melancholic blue colour. Dietrich knelt in front of two standing stones, each one marked with pressed white-petals. He held a lost expression upon his face, as if his heart lied within the truth of turmoil. The eye that had been wounded in the war scene had quickly been replaced by a metal contraption. It wasn’t too unlike an eyepatch, like a monocle that had been strapped upon his face.

He was a man with a mechanical eye.

“My child of illness, and my wife of grief...” Dietrich mumbled. “How is it that I, who fought a war for my love, am the only one who did not die...?”

Dietrich shook his head, as if refusing to lie from the depths of his heart.

“No... I wasn’t fighting a war for love...” Dietrich cried out. “It was simply because I wasn’t ready to marry her, wasn’t it?”

He clutched at his shirt, which now sat torn and frayed by the conclusion of war, both upon his land and in his heart.

“It wasn’t because I didn’t love you...” He smiled amidst his cascading tears. “Our life was perfect. Our home was small, and our grass always seemed to wilt... our food was stale, and the sun was always hot on our backs-”

He choked up amidst his own words, as if he could not bear the recollection of his own memories.

“But our child uttered his first words within our arms... you held my hand so gently when I felt sad...” He continued hesitantly, his voice wavering within grief. “In the quiet of our home, you filled it with a warmth that not even the sun could parallel... have you left me, because I have left you?”

Within his sadness, he laughed if only to pity himself.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it...? Now only through a glass lense, can I truly see how I failed to love you correctly...”

Sinking down into the ground, he placed his forehead upon the stage, his falsified tears dripping onto its surface.

“I should have looked back...” He spoke in a tone of finality. “You deserved at least that much.”

His words were callous, and in that way they struck my heart with an ache that I could not dispel.

I knew of this feeling that she had written down onto parchment, of running away from love, which I knew nothing of. I knew of how regret felt as a consequence of that.

There was no joyful conclusion to Theresia’s story. The final lines were bitter, unresolved, and tragic. Yet, as my ears sat amidst her words spoke by a brilliant actor, a widened grin stretched across my face.

Watching her play was like staring at the stars once again. It was as if the playwright Theresia Hayes had fulfilled a final regret of my previous life.

Staring at the long and paled fingers that grasped at the fabric of my trousers, I noticed that gentle droplets dripped off of my cheeks. In a quickly-passing moment, I had stained the greyed fabric a darker colour. My softened eyes had unknowingly and willingly produced a clear-film of tears that dried quickly against my flushed cheeks.

A grin and tearful eyes sat upon my face in unison. It was an unapologetic, enigmatic expression.

Her works had moved me in a way that I could not even move myself.

If Theresia’s works could control the pace and stillness of my ever-beating heart, then I began to ponder what effects they could have in the future.

I wanted to follow alongside her on her path. Whether as Agreste, or as the Baron of Lilacs, I had suddenly determined myself to work with Theresia Hayes.