Method (Part I)
A horror short. This is the story of someone who maybe takes the idea of method acting a little too literally.
As her taxi drove through downtown Philadelphia, Carrie thought about how nice it’d feel to wear Eden’s skin. She imagined pinching a small metallic tag at the nape of Eden’s neck and unzipping her like a pretty prom dress. The driver talked to her from the front seat, rambling about his wife or his kid. She wasn’t sure.
The marks were starting to show. There was a bruise on her left wrist, and a few that decorated the back of her right hand—the first signs of decay. Even after nine years, these hands and fingers were still haunted by the habits of their original owner. She still picked at her black nail polish without realizing it, and her fingers mimicked guitar chord progressions when she was bored.
“Yo,” the driver rasped from up front, twisting a look back at her. “Lady. We’re here. You can get out now.”
“Oh. Right.”
Carrie dug through her pockets, handed a twenty up front, then exited the cab and set her eyes on the Chelsea Theater. All its aged bricks and rich history were nestled into the corner of 9th and Chestnut like a relic of a bygone era. The 'T' in the glowing sign had fizzled out, so it was currently advertised as the 'Chelsea heater', but at least the black letters on the white backdrop were up to date. They informed downtown Philadelphia that a production of Rent, the musical, would be playing in two weeks.
She already knew that, though, just like she knew all the names and faces of the cast members displayed on the box office poster. Her gaze homed in on one face in particular. Seeing Eden included up there so casually, as if she were just a small part of the collective, was insulting. She deserved better. And even though she wasn’t here yet, Carrie could feel Eden’s essence in the air; the lingering echo of it—a sprinkle of color in a monochrome city.
Soon.
She’d be here soon.
Until then, Carrie headed inside for her eight o'clock acting class.
"Everyone's a liar…"
The words echoed off the walls of the theater as Carrie moved down the aisle steps, tracing her fingertips along the railing. She was late. The last one in, from the looks of it. Twelve sets of heads and shoulders were scattered amongst the seats closest to the front of the auditorium, attentively watching their teacher.
And as Todd Maxwell sat on the ledge of the stage, he didn't let a lack of spotlight keep him from performing. He looked like he was playing the role of a bohemian scholar tonight—in his plaid dress shirt, khakis, rustic sandals, and square-rimmed glasses.
"To act is to lie," Todd continued. "And ultimately, being a good actor depends on how convincingly you can embody a lie. So, my future thespians in the making, as it's our first day of class, I thought we'd start with—"
Carrie's chair squealed loudly when she sat down in it. A dozen heads snapped to attention and looked back at her, like deer hearing a gunshot.
"Class starts at eight, for future reference." Todd addressed her.
"I'm well aware." Carrie lifted her leg and propped the sole of her combat boot up on the back of the chair in front of her. "Please, continue."
"How kind of you." Todd eyed her, then resumed. "As I was saying… before we spend the rest of class lying to one another, I figured what better way to start things off than by hearing your truths." Todd dug a tennis ball out of his pocket. "Now, I know theater students don't typically fare well in athletics, so don't worry, I won't be grading you on your coordination. But whoever I pass the ball to, please introduce yourself and share what you hope to achieve during our time together. Then, pass the ball along. Got it?"
No one said otherwise, so Todd tossed the ball into the crowd.
The first one to receive it was a middle-aged guy with a patchy beard. He caught it without much trouble. "Uh, hey, everyone. I'm Dane. I'm sick of losing lead roles to this asshole Chris in my local theater group, so I thought lessons might help…"
A few students laughed.
Todd nodded. "Our muses all come in different forms. Happy to have you here, Dane."
Dane tossed the ball to the next person. And that person said their spiel, then passed the tennis ball along. Then again. And again. Todd was right. Passing and catching didn't go so well. The adult theater kids looked like baby giraffes trying to use their limbs for the first time. Carrie spent most of that first half hour watching students crawl around on all fours across the sticky theater floor, trying to track down where the ball had rolled off to. Most students parroted the same answers, just phrased a bit differently.
“It's my dream.”
“I've always wanted to perform on Broadway.”
“I just really want to be cast in a GAP commercial.”
Carrie didn't spot the tennis ball coming her way. Unsurprisingly, it was off target and struck a nearby chair. The ball bounced away and rolled down the aisle steps.
"Shoot! Sorry…” The girl who threw it sprang up from her seat and scurried off to chase after it.
Todd interjected. "I think we get the gist of who the ball was intended for. Go on, Miss Punctual. Pretty sure you're the last one left. What's your name? And what would you like to take away from our classes?"
"I'm Carrie," she said.
"...And?" Todd nudged his glasses up his nose.
Carrie glanced around at the group, then back up front to Todd. "And I'm here to become someone else."
A few students gave her awkward looks.
Others nodded sagely, identifying with her artistic depth.
By the looks of it, Todd was perhaps somewhere in the middle. "Ah," he said. "A method actor, hm?"
"Sure. If that's what you want to call it."
"How mysterious. Well, happy to have you aboard, Carrie—I think. I look forward to seeing you in action." He took one more scan of the class. "Is that everyone?"
Before he got an answer, the sound of the auditorium door swinging open echoed through the theater. Heads twisted to look back as a twenty-something-year-old girl bounded down the aisle steps towards the stage, clutching a book bag over her shoulder. A rush of rising whispers from the students followed her movements. The class may not have fared well with tennis balls, but they passed gossip around just fine.
Carrie’s heart leapt in her chest. She watched the newcomer like a hawk.
"Thought you might not make it," Todd said.
"I'm so sorry, Todd." She blew a strand of hair out of her face, catching her breath. "Rehearsal ran late, and my ride took the worst route imaginable getting here."
Todd hopped down from the stage's ledge to land beside her. "Not a problem. Perfect timing, actually. Class… I present Eden Ambrose. It seems like most of you may already recognize her or probably have tickets to see her performance here in two weeks. Eden kindly offered to help out between rehearsals."
"Todd enjoys blackmailing me," Eden said with a smile.
The laughter from the class was a bit excessive.
Todd smirked. "Her father and I are old friends."
"No, I'm happy to be here…" Eden addressed the group. "I adore being around actors who care enough to work on improving their craft. I find it super inspiring. So please, don't think of me as a teacher. I'm here as a peer. And I promise, I'll be learning from you just as much as you'll be learning from me."
Her humility rang genuine, but the truth was obvious. Carrie knew she couldn't be the only one who saw it. Eden was ‘box office’. She was in a different league. It wasn't just her looks: the Audrey Hepburn cheekbones, the wavy black hair worthy of a poem, or all the jubilant life that radiated from her green eyes like a pair of thriving planets. It was her aura—a quiet, affable, magnetic confidence that made people want to lean in. To be in her orbit. And worst of all, or perhaps best of all, is that she didn't even seem to realize it. Carrie wasn't sure whether she wanted to vomit or grin with maddening glee.
"Are you excited to play Mimi Marquez?" A student blurted out.
"Very." Eden smiled. "I've loved Rent ever since I first saw it during my freshman year of high school. I’ll admit, it's been a lil' tough getting into the headspace of a drug-addicted stripper dealing with HIV. That's a new one for me. But it's been a fun challenge."
Carrie picked her spot, calling out. "Have you considered using drugs?"
The question got a baffled expression from Eden. She started laughing. It wasn't until she registered the lack of reaction from the class and the blank expression on Carrie's face that she seemed to realize it wasn't a joke.
"... Oh, sorry. You're serious. Well… um, no," Eden said. "I might've dabbled with drugs a little in my college days. Don't tell Mom. But that's not really my approach when playing a role."
"Then how could you possibly know what it feels like to be a drug addict?" Carrie asked.
Eden's frown intensified. "Well… that's a pretty unrealistic bar to set, in my opinion. I like your passion. But I don't think anyone expected Brad Pitt to start an actual Fight Club before filming, yanno?" She laughed. "An actor doesn't need to experience murdering someone to play a convincing serial killer."
"No, sorry, you're right. Not all actors," Carrie said, keeping her eyes on Eden. "Just the ones who take their craft seriously."
An uneasy silence fell over the room.
For that brief moment, while she and Eden locked eyes, she felt filthy black fireworks shooting off in her heart. It was the first domino. Carrie knew from experience how combustible friction could be—all the little fires a challenge could ignite in the right type of person. Contention was its own form of love.
"Well," Eden said. "No wrong way to make art, right? Appreciate the input, but I think I'll stick with what works for me—..." She paused and glanced at Todd.
"Carrie…" Todd added like he knew what Eden was searching for.
"Carrie. Yes. Thank you, Carrie. Maybe we should be careful with what roles we give Carrie in class."
The students laughed, grateful for the break in tension.
Eden snuck another glance at Carrie.
Carrie still hadn't looked away.
Todd gladly cut in. "Anyways. As much as I enjoy the artistic discourse, I say we take the rest of our time and have some fun, yeah? Nothing like some good spontaneous improv games to break the ice and help get everyone out of their shells. Class, up on stage."
En masse, the students left their seats and noisily migrated to the side of the theater, where a door led to the backstage stairs. Todd and Eden led the way. A congregation of pleasant small-talk and buzzing energy flocked onto the stage together. It looked like a few of the students had never experienced that view before, soaking in the theater from the perspective of a stage performer. Most of them didn't seem to notice the sound of the auditorium door opening and shutting again in the distance.
But Eden did.
She looked just in time to witness the door across the theater swinging shut, and then she scanned the faces of the students on stage, immediately realizing who was missing.
It was another fifteen-minute drive back to her place. Carrie spent it in silence, staring at the air freshener that dangled from the taxi’s rearview, daydreaming. Any time the cab’s turn signal rhythmically ticked like a clock, she couldn’t help but dwell on how much time she had left. A week. Maybe two. As much as she wanted to spend more time with Eden tonight, there was no room for error now. The taxi arrived at her building, and she took the elevator up to her third-floor apartment.
Once she was alone in her place, violent coughs ripped their way through her chest, making her wheeze and spit up blood. She wiped the mess off her chin and then dragged her bloody fingertips along her hallway wall on the way to her room, like a stick across a white picket fence. Carrie stepped inside her bedroom and switched on the lamp, illuminating a barren space: a gray carpet, white walls, a bare mattress on the floor, a shabby desk in the corner, and a pair of third-story apartment windows overlooking the city. One window was open. It allowed bits of Philadelphia to bleed inside: rolling tires, far-off voices, and the smell of food vendors and gasoline
She eyed the far wall as she passed it. Not the wall itself, but what was on it—a big collage: photographs, printouts, newspaper clippings, magazine cut-outs. A few articles were written about acting troupes and the recent Rent castings. Sticky notes with random facts scribbled on them idly fluttered in the breeze: Born 4/10/1996 - Dated Adam Drysdale for 6 years - Shoe size: 7.5 - Pollen allergies - Graduated from CEG Performing Arts Academy in 2019.
It was all dedicated to Eden Ambrose.
Carrie paused in front of her full-length mirror and tugged up the hem of her shirt to inspect the side of her body. Deep bruises were visible along her pale stomach, reaching up the side of her ribs like blended watercolor paints strewn along her milky canvas—a muddled mix of browns, purples, and blues. She traced her fingertips over the marks and winced, studying her expiring flesh in the mirror.
She took stock of the rest as well.
Her shoulder-length brown hair was unkempt and lifeless, hanging down her gaunt face in grungy strands. The brown eyes she watched herself with looked burnt out. Numb. And her pasty skin itched in places she couldn't reach, down in those murky depths of vein-wiring, aching bones, and black soul matter.
When Carrie fell back on her bed, she didn't sleep. Even miles away, she could sense Eden out there—could feel her proximity. And Carrie wished with all her being that she could succumb to it. She wished she could allow that magnetic attraction to drag her from bed, yank her out of her third-story window, and then drag her smiling, bloody face across the city’s asphalt right to Eden’s doorstep.
But she had to wait.
Wait until the time was right.
In the meantime, she stared up at her ceiling and thought about tomorrow.
More please.