That Sleep of Death
Flyer by Lethally.
Ficlet by Pani Kulek. (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pani_Kulek/pseuds/Pani_Kulek)
Julian Raley loved gardenias and always wore one in his buttonhole. His legion of fans idolized his every quirk, of course, and one of the first tasks on opening night was to clear a path backstage through masses of heavy-scented bouquets. Another task was to make certain Richard had been supplied with loratadine before the flowers arrived; otherwise, he would appear onstage as Hamlet red-eyed and sneezing.
“Emma!” The director whispered. “I’m tired of this shit. Get these fucking things gathered up. Send them to a hospital, throw them out, I don’t care what, just get them out of here.”
“I heard that.” Raley entered, removed his cloak, and tossed it to Emma. “I don’t care if the sniveling little weasel’s nose is running. My flowers will not be touched, or else my understudy can take my place tonight. Is that understood?” He plucked a particularly large blossom from a bouquet, examined the flower, flipped it onto the floor, selected a larger one, sniffed it, and tucked it in his buttonhole. “I said, is that understood?”
“Of course, Julian.” Freeman patted his arm. “Sorry. You know how opening night gets me tied in knots.”
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The audience was ninety percent Raley fans; they oohed and aahed whenever he walked onstage. Their adoration crescendoed during the sword fight, and several women shrieked when he bared his burly chest to reveal the painted-on red mark where the point of the rapier had touched him. “Why, as a woodcock to mine own sponge, Osric.” His booming voice broke. “I am justly killed with mine own treachery.”
Richard whipped his rapier in the air. “The point envenomed too! Then, venom, to thy work.”
“Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, unbated and envenomed.” As he did at every performance, Raley tore loose the gardenia blossom he wore pinned to the front of his doublet. Just before his “death throes,” he would kiss the flower and clutch it. It would remain on his upturned palm when he “died.”
After the play ended with both men lying on their backs, bouquets of gardenias pummeled the stage, and Freeman frantically signaled for the curtain to be closed. Too late-Richard’s “corpse” sneezed, but the wildly applauding audience appeared not to notice or to care. Freeman smoothed his hair back and glanced to his watch. Best to give the audience at least five minutes to calm down before curtain calls began.
Richard came up beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Dom.” He pointed to Raley, who still lay stretched out on the floor.
“Julian,” Freeman called, but the audience drowned him out. What, was Raley taking a nap? He approached and shouted, “Julian! Wake up!”
Raley’s eyes were open, and his skin was an odd shade of blue. Frothy liquid had puddled from his mouth.
“Oh my god.” Freeman dropped to his knees beside him.
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In the eerie silence of the empty theatre, the police quietly examined Raley’s body. A distant wail made Freeman glance toward the dressing rooms. Richard, far too sensitive to handle the concept of a real death, seemed inconsolable. He had been crying non-stop on Emma’s shoulder for close to an hour.
One officer stooped to gently pry the gardenia from Raley’s fingers. “Jesus shit!” He jumped to his feet. Raley’s hand thumped on the floor, and the flower fell loose. “Is that what I think it is?”
The rest of the police officers, along with Freeman and the remaining backstage crew, gathered around and tracked his point. On one of the petals of the gardenia was something dark brown. Something moving.
Another officer stepped closer and bent to look. “Shit. Get me a glass or something, so I can catch it. Hurry, before it takes off. That’s a false widow, I’m sure of it.”
“Not usually fatal, though,” another officer said. “He must have been allergic.”
Freeman nodded. “Yes, to insects … bees and wasps, so spiders as well, I imagine. Not many people knew he was allergic. He carried an EpiPen in his make-up kit in the event he might be stung by anything. The spider must have come in on the flowers.” He gestured to the wall of white bouquets. “Poor Jules. He loved gardenias so. Whoever would have thought they’d be the end of him?”
Richard’s muffled cries became an agonized howl. “Oh how, how could this have happened?