Improvised play PART 2

The killer had taken responsibility without leaving a name, but not before making sure to finish the job thoroughly enough to avoid getting caught. The whole scene looked like the stage manager had been tortured.

Maor snapped back to reality and managed to move. It wasn’t just a feeling— it was real. A murder had just happened.

He ran as fast as he could. Not as fast as he might have in pure adrenaline, but considering the overwhelming fear that gripped him, it was fast enough.

He sat down for a moment. He could have fled right then and there and saved himself, perhaps preventing any of the events that were about to unfold. But he didn’t. he knew that if he ran, more victims would pay with their lives. But he was a moral man — he wouldn’t let that happen.

Sometimes people say actors are a bit spoiled, that the fame gets to their heads, and that they don’t care about ordinary people — not even a little bit. Maor was not like that. He intended to warn the audience, to tell them to run.

He had no idea how deep into the mud he was—deep, very deep. he began walking toward the stage, always cautious, always checking and looking around, terrified that something worse might happen.

Then came another scream, a woman’s scream — similar to the first but... less terrified. At least, that’s how it sounded to him.

The bad feeling kept attacking him, growing stronger the closer he got to the source of the scream, but it never reached the intensity of that first terrifying sensation. he almost guessed what he would see when he pulled back the curtain, but still, he was more afraid than ever before. Maybe except for the first time.

There she was — the actress who was supposed to play the good woman, the one the man with syphilis caught in the end.she was beautiful — because the good woman’s heroine always has to be beautiful. No one wants a good woman hero who’s ugly.

He guessed he even liked her a little. But who wouldn’t like someone a little if she was beautiful? Even just a little. That’s how life is. She had been kind in real life too — one of those people who volunteered to help disabled children or the elderly, the type who felt sorry for cockroaches. Another actress who shattered the usual myths.She had brown hair and green eyes, something Maor always found oddly striking.

Now she was dead.

She too hung by chains from the ceiling. Her jaw looked as if someone had tried to rip it off but hadn’t succeeded. Her eyes were gouged out and covered — this time with a red scarf. Blood still seeped beneath.

Her arms and legs were twisted, like the stage manager’s, but less aggressively so. However, the scratches remained, and there was a long open gash across her abdomen. Some organs protruded — probably kidneys.

This time, Maor’s shock was less intense. He felt nausea, but he didn’t vomit. He quickly stripped off his clothes and decided to examine the body.

You might say, “How disgusting! How could he even do that?!” but you have to understand — it was a mix of adrenaline and a moment of clarity. It’s hard to explain that sudden surge of courage. It’s possible, but very difficult.

He noticed the chains were cold — which made sense given the weather.

The killer must have taken a long time to carry out this act. It was likely that he had captured his victims before killing them, because the claw marks seemed a little old, as if they were part of a different story entirely. But they weren’t.

Maor had to remember: he was probably next .There was no time for nonsense. He had to warn the audience sitting out there. He couldn’t let anyone else die.

He stepped onto the stage. It goes without saying—the curtain didn’t rise. The audience didn’t know whether to applaud or not, so a few scattered, uneven claps echoed in the theatre.

He spoke quickly but clearly:

“There’s no reason to panic,” he said. “But there have been some technical difficulties and a serious danger. Please leave the theatre carefully and quickly. Tonight’s performance is canceled, and you will receive a refund.” People began rising from their seats — some confused, some frightened, some resigned.

Then the lights went out.

Complete darkness swallowed the entire theatre. When the lights came back on, Maor was still standing—breathing rapidly in panic—exactly where he had stood moments before.

The audience was in the same place, no one was harmed. But the crowd stared at Maor with terror, and Maor didn’t understand what was wrong with them, even though deep down he already knew.

He looked to his right—and standing beside him was a man. But this was no ordinary man. He was... anomalous.

Maor immediately knew it was the killer, as if the man himself had screamed it into his face with sheer force. His legs and arms were twisted and distorted. It looked like he was about to collapse, yet he stood firm and upright. His clothes were stained with fresh blood. He wore sunglasses and held a metal chain in his hand.

Maor would testify he was genuinely frightening. In fact, the situation itself—the panic—was scarier than the mere sight of the man.

A heavy silence fell, and that was the most terrifying thing of all. Silence can be unbearably piercing sometimes. Everyone hated that silence—every single person present—except for the killer.

Then he opened his mouth. He began to speak without expression. Maor now noticed he had been expressionless the whole time.

It was infuriating.

It was exhausting.

The stranger spoke:

“Good evening, everyone. You’re probably wondering why I committed these terrible acts, and why I gathered you all here.”

His voice held little emotion, yet there was a faint undercurrent of sorrow. A simmering rage.

A scream erupted somewhere in the crowd, followed by frantic footsteps—and then suddenly cut off.

Silence returned.

The man continued,

“Don’t worry, none of you will be harmed, that’s my promise. Except for the nice young man standing here beside me.”

Maor saw the audience shifting restlessly, and decided to speak. “What do you want?!” he demanded, his voice a mixture of anger and fear—it was, after all, an incredibly frightening moment. “Who are you anyway?!”

“Me?” said the stranger.

“You might find out before you die—in a few minutes, actually. I want to leave you with a taste for the rest of your life. Now, allow me to say a few things.”

Silence engulfed the hall. No one spoke. It seemed people barely breathed under the weight of the tension.

“You, ordinary people, who’ve lived comfortably, some of you never even tasted suffering in your lives. You spat on me, laughed at me, mocked me—you slowly destroyed me.

I feel dead inside, and it’s all thanks to you. Just because I’m different from you. I thought we’d moved past the whole acceptance-of-differences thing. Apparently not. The most frustrating people are the beautiful, the successful, the good. They utterly despair me.

No more!

Today, one of the nation’s most beloved actors died. That’s how you all will learn not to let fame go to your head! From now on, Maor is equal among equals.”

He raised his iron chain. Maor tried to reach him, “Please, sir, I’m a good person. I’ve always respected those who are different—I even volunteered at a center for children with intellectual disabilities.”

“Excuses, excuses,” the stranger answered. “Your excuses won’t save you today, Maor David. Watch and see!”

And he swung his iron chain over Maor.