[Theatrical Muse] Response
Talk about something you lost.
They had told her not to wander off. But natured had called and there was absolutely no way she was going anywhere near that Byron. He’d certainly be the sort to catch her in a compromising position. The Dark Forest was a far better choice now that the trees were at bay. It was beautiful out here; peaceful. The foliage was comforting, the flower blossoms beautiful.
She stopped to touch one, wanting to pause and smell the flowers. Life was always so busy, so rushed. And if she was dreaming, for that mask that suddenly appeared instead of a blossom, could not be real. Everything seemed foggy. Everything seemed amazing.
“Who are you?
“I’m the spirit of the trees. I’m the light of your life.
I’m your father.”
Daddy? But oh, he was dead. He had died years ago in a car accident with her mother, didn’t he? But the man standing in front of her now had that face with the mask removed. He had his smile. It was just as she remembered. She tilted her head, eyelids half closed as she stared at him dreamily.
“I’m your father, Sarah.”
“You can’t be. He’s dead.”
But the world is full of magic. The world is full of surprise and joys. The Doctor had showed her that. He had taken her from planet to planet, time to time. Everything was amazing. Everything was magical. And whether she was in a dream or under a spell, did it really matter? This was her daddy. Her daddy was the Big Bad Wolf, playing with her and joking about as they used to. And more than that, they were going home. The Jolly Coachman was taking her home.
She wasn’t lost. She was found.
*
Shara was a lovely name, wasn’t it? It was as exquisite as a Lady in Tangerine. As the actress she was, the actress in the absolutely gorgeous shabby orange gown with white lace and a hole in the neck. Her face was done up with make up. Nothing at all like Incarnadine’s blood lips, but something much more befitting to the girl she was. Daddy had brought her here; he wanted her to do this.
She looked in the mirror and the face that looked back seemed that of a doll’s. For a moment, Shara thought she recognized the flicker of someone else. But that name - that horribly plain and simple one - seemed so far away. What was it again?
Sarah. It was Sarah. She was Sarah Jane Smith, wasn’t she? Not Shara, whoever she was. She was Sarah.
“Shara,” a voice whispered in her ear seductively, “show me how you look.”
Oh, she was a silly girl, wasn’t she? That’s why she had been brought here after all. All silly girls needed someone to look after them. And she should consider herself blessed that Daddy had done this much for her. The face in the mirror now seemed vague and distorted. It was cloudy and dreamy, just like her mind. But she was certain that she looked as dazzling as she felt. She was that exquisite Lady in Tangerine.
“How do you look?”
“A woman of many parts, milord.”
*
Shara Intangerine was determined to be a credit to the Theater of Transmogrification. Daddy had written her a play just so she can prove herself. A Stab and a Scream in the Dark on a Gothic Night by a Big Lake: a Drama with a Point. A rather clever name, if you asked her. It rolled off the tongue like a bittersweet gumdrop. It was her chance to become as popular as the Lady Incarnadine if Daddy deemed it so.
She believed she had done well. The blood dripped from her hands and she bowed to a roaring audience as she slipped off her mask. She bowed again, beaming and feeling absolutely radiant. The blood was sticky yet silky, coating her hands as she clutched the dagger still. The body on the floor wasn’t moving, but her father was. And he was smiling. He was proud.
Shara felt elated. The Doctor was dead at Mary Shelley’s hand and she had performed wonderfully. She’d be an actress yet, a woman of many parts who would leave a lasting impression on the world. And perhaps one day she’d be able to wear the ruby red lipstick of Incarnadine. All she had to do was honour thy father.
And even when she forgot to tell father of the two hearts, Incarnadine said she could pluck chords from the moonbeams anyway.
She’d get to be in the play tomorrow as well.
*
Mum wasn’t there though. Daddy had adored her last performance. Why wasn’t Mum there to see her for this one? She used to come to all her games and all her recitals and call her her little Sarah. Oh, no, that wasn’t correct. It was Shara, wasn’t it? Shara, the girl of many parts, the Lady in Tangerine.
Sarah was such a silly name. She didn’t know why she kept thinking it. It was daft, really. It made her giggle, much like Incarnadine told her to giggle at the strange little shadows. She was Shara and Father needed her. She’d make him proud again. Just see.
But the play went horribly wrong when a man from the audience jumped to Incarnadine, calling her by Beatrice instead by her proper title. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand when Daddy reached out and pulled off her crone mask in front of the audience. She didn’t understand…
Sarah. It came rushing back to her, the memories of a life properly lived. A life that wasn’t a dream: it was a life where her parents were dead and she was travelling. It was a life where, she remembered, she was Sarah Jane Smith. Shara was a figment. Shara was a façade.
Shara didn’t exist.
But when she heard a man shout the Doctor’s name, Sarah Jane didn’t have time to contemplate what had happened. All she knew was that she had to find him. She had to be Sarah. She had to help.
*
That night, with everything said and done, she let herself cry. They had done it in the end. They had stopped Persona and Managra and set everything back to proper in Europa. Or as proper as it could ever be. And in a big part, she had helped save the day. Sarah Jane had been true to herself then, facing her fears for the sake of the great good.
But she hadn’t been true to herself earlier in the day, or even in the day before that. She had allowed someone to manipulate her in a way she hadn’t ever thought possible. Persona had taken her self away from her: her memory and even, she supposed, her soul. The very thought of it scared her more than she had ever been scared before.
How could she allow herself to forget so easily?
Was her life really that horrible? Did she want her father, her parents, back that much? Were there really that many problems in being Sarah Jane Smith? The Doctor had told her that Persona’s magic was strong. He had said that anyone could have easily been sucked into it, even the strongest willed of the strong willed. Sarah didn’t believe that though. Everyone had a choice, even over something like this.
She had lost herself. How could anyone lose themselves like that?
It would be one of the few memories Sarah Jane would ever want gone from her life.
[ooc: Heavily based on parts of the novel “Mangara” by Stephen Marley. Therefore, quotes and pretty much three-quarters of this prompt? Are not my idea. I’m just writing it with more emphasis on Sarah’s pov.]
They had told her not to wander off. But natured had called and there was absolutely no way she was going anywhere near that Byron. He’d certainly be the sort to catch her in a compromising position. The Dark Forest was a far better choice now that the trees were at bay. It was beautiful out here; peaceful. The foliage was comforting, the flower blossoms beautiful.
She stopped to touch one, wanting to pause and smell the flowers. Life was always so busy, so rushed. And if she was dreaming, for that mask that suddenly appeared instead of a blossom, could not be real. Everything seemed foggy. Everything seemed amazing.
“Who are you?
“I’m the spirit of the trees. I’m the light of your life.
I’m your father.”
Daddy? But oh, he was dead. He had died years ago in a car accident with her mother, didn’t he? But the man standing in front of her now had that face with the mask removed. He had his smile. It was just as she remembered. She tilted her head, eyelids half closed as she stared at him dreamily.
“I’m your father, Sarah.”
“You can’t be. He’s dead.”
But the world is full of magic. The world is full of surprise and joys. The Doctor had showed her that. He had taken her from planet to planet, time to time. Everything was amazing. Everything was magical. And whether she was in a dream or under a spell, did it really matter? This was her daddy. Her daddy was the Big Bad Wolf, playing with her and joking about as they used to. And more than that, they were going home. The Jolly Coachman was taking her home.
She wasn’t lost. She was found.
*
Shara was a lovely name, wasn’t it? It was as exquisite as a Lady in Tangerine. As the actress she was, the actress in the absolutely gorgeous shabby orange gown with white lace and a hole in the neck. Her face was done up with make up. Nothing at all like Incarnadine’s blood lips, but something much more befitting to the girl she was. Daddy had brought her here; he wanted her to do this.
She looked in the mirror and the face that looked back seemed that of a doll’s. For a moment, Shara thought she recognized the flicker of someone else. But that name - that horribly plain and simple one - seemed so far away. What was it again?
Sarah. It was Sarah. She was Sarah Jane Smith, wasn’t she? Not Shara, whoever she was. She was Sarah.
“Shara,” a voice whispered in her ear seductively, “show me how you look.”
Oh, she was a silly girl, wasn’t she? That’s why she had been brought here after all. All silly girls needed someone to look after them. And she should consider herself blessed that Daddy had done this much for her. The face in the mirror now seemed vague and distorted. It was cloudy and dreamy, just like her mind. But she was certain that she looked as dazzling as she felt. She was that exquisite Lady in Tangerine.
“How do you look?”
“A woman of many parts, milord.”
*
Shara Intangerine was determined to be a credit to the Theater of Transmogrification. Daddy had written her a play just so she can prove herself. A Stab and a Scream in the Dark on a Gothic Night by a Big Lake: a Drama with a Point. A rather clever name, if you asked her. It rolled off the tongue like a bittersweet gumdrop. It was her chance to become as popular as the Lady Incarnadine if Daddy deemed it so.
She believed she had done well. The blood dripped from her hands and she bowed to a roaring audience as she slipped off her mask. She bowed again, beaming and feeling absolutely radiant. The blood was sticky yet silky, coating her hands as she clutched the dagger still. The body on the floor wasn’t moving, but her father was. And he was smiling. He was proud.
Shara felt elated. The Doctor was dead at Mary Shelley’s hand and she had performed wonderfully. She’d be an actress yet, a woman of many parts who would leave a lasting impression on the world. And perhaps one day she’d be able to wear the ruby red lipstick of Incarnadine. All she had to do was honour thy father.
And even when she forgot to tell father of the two hearts, Incarnadine said she could pluck chords from the moonbeams anyway.
She’d get to be in the play tomorrow as well.
*
Mum wasn’t there though. Daddy had adored her last performance. Why wasn’t Mum there to see her for this one? She used to come to all her games and all her recitals and call her her little Sarah. Oh, no, that wasn’t correct. It was Shara, wasn’t it? Shara, the girl of many parts, the Lady in Tangerine.
Sarah was such a silly name. She didn’t know why she kept thinking it. It was daft, really. It made her giggle, much like Incarnadine told her to giggle at the strange little shadows. She was Shara and Father needed her. She’d make him proud again. Just see.
But the play went horribly wrong when a man from the audience jumped to Incarnadine, calling her by Beatrice instead by her proper title. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand when Daddy reached out and pulled off her crone mask in front of the audience. She didn’t understand…
Sarah. It came rushing back to her, the memories of a life properly lived. A life that wasn’t a dream: it was a life where her parents were dead and she was travelling. It was a life where, she remembered, she was Sarah Jane Smith. Shara was a figment. Shara was a façade.
Shara didn’t exist.
But when she heard a man shout the Doctor’s name, Sarah Jane didn’t have time to contemplate what had happened. All she knew was that she had to find him. She had to be Sarah. She had to help.
*
That night, with everything said and done, she let herself cry. They had done it in the end. They had stopped Persona and Managra and set everything back to proper in Europa. Or as proper as it could ever be. And in a big part, she had helped save the day. Sarah Jane had been true to herself then, facing her fears for the sake of the great good.
But she hadn’t been true to herself earlier in the day, or even in the day before that. She had allowed someone to manipulate her in a way she hadn’t ever thought possible. Persona had taken her self away from her: her memory and even, she supposed, her soul. The very thought of it scared her more than she had ever been scared before.
How could she allow herself to forget so easily?
Was her life really that horrible? Did she want her father, her parents, back that much? Were there really that many problems in being Sarah Jane Smith? The Doctor had told her that Persona’s magic was strong. He had said that anyone could have easily been sucked into it, even the strongest willed of the strong willed. Sarah didn’t believe that though. Everyone had a choice, even over something like this.
She had lost herself. How could anyone lose themselves like that?
It would be one of the few memories Sarah Jane would ever want gone from her life.
[ooc: Heavily based on parts of the novel “Mangara” by Stephen Marley. Therefore, quotes and pretty much three-quarters of this prompt? Are not my idea. I’m just writing it with more emphasis on Sarah’s pov.]