When I saw Ida’s theater had come to our city, I knew it was the perfect opportunity to get back at her for what she did with my father. And with me.

We met when she was 12. She, like me, was left an orphan. We were sitting for a long time in the evenings discussing how our day went. I told her what news I had heard from the chefs in the kitchen where I worked as a dishwasher, and she poured out all the delight on me about how she liked to stand on the stage. A few days ago some man said that he saw a great talent in her that shouldn’t be left in the trash, and she agreed to join his theater. For some reason, she never let me in on the details of what goes on offstage. Over time, I understood why.

Their troupe left our city. But the pain she brought into my life stayed with me forever. Even if she doesn’t remember me, little worthless orphan Dart, I remember that her theater killed my father. With her hands.

Now it’s time for my move. I will kill her theater. With the hands of her own troupe.


We were forbidden to go into the city alone, but I was terribly tired of all this intensive routine, Ida’s constant orders, disapproving sighs of the actors and the unfriendly attitude of the decorators, costumers and everyone in general. I wanted to be alone. And for a while I really was alone, until I was accompanied by a good-looking guy, about 4 years older than me, in a local bar.

“Hey, are you by any chance a novice from the Dion’s theater? I saw you at the parade this morning.”

“Hey. Yeah, you are right,” I was a little embarrassed by such a quick recognition. “It’s strange that I haven’t yet had time to play in any performance, but people already recognize me.”

“I’m sure you’ll play your part well. I’m Dart by the way.”

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