[3] British Invasion ► Marvel Social Media

nine. hamlet

nine. hamlet

Charlotte was nervous as hell. Her flight was taking off at nine, and that was nine hours away. It was midnight; Tom was softly snoring in the room next door, her mother wasn't home yet, and she was tossing and turning in her bed. One moment too hot, one moment too warm, but that was the least of her concerns.

What kept her up was anxiety. The entire thing was too good to be true. She was just waiting to fall asleep and to wake up and find out she never got the role, or the letter. That was probably why she kept it under her pillow. The girl sighed, swinging her feet off her bed. She stepped over her slippers and out of her room, the cool tiles of the kitchen tickling the soles of her feet.

She wasn't in search of something that would put her to sleep; she needed something to ease her nerves, and they always seemed to disappear in the theatre. It was like the stage was in her bones, acting in her blood, and the limelight in her eyes. You could scare her with spiders or snakes, depths or heights, but place Charlotte Vaughan on stage, and she was home.

So she tip-toed down the winding wooden stairs and found herself in the hallway of the theatre. Its temperature was always lower than the rest of the building, and it was beneficial that day in the middle of the summer, when the asphalt was warm even at night. The girl shivered slightly at the change of temperature and wrapped her hands around each other.

Any anxious though had already left her.

Maybe she should have brought her pillow and just slept on stage.

But just as she barely smiled at that thought, at the image of her mother and brother going crazy trying to find her in time for her flight, she heard a voice, and fear shot through her like an electric surge.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone in here in this time of night.

What if they were burglars? Or if they came to sabotage the play? Or kill them?

But despite everything, Charlotte kept walking toward the stage room. Curiosity killed the cat, they say; but satisfaction would bring her back, she hoped.

She perked her ears up and opened her eyes, ready to jump at any slight movement. The voice sounded like she was underwater, and she couldn't understand what it was saying, but it sounded like it was... it sounded like it was singing.

Maybe someone her mother discarded like Christiana came to show her she was missing out on their unique talent, but they chose the wrong time and place - as her mother never came downstairs at that time of night - and way - because it was well-known Carla Vaughan couldn't stand operas or musicals.

So the chances of the owner of the voice being a burglar, saboteur or murdered were slim, as last time she checked, they weren't in a Disney movie. Well, even if they were and she got killed, at least it wouldn't be graphic.