Jessica Chastine

Her Story

I staged this. The whole thing. Low lights in the empty theater lounge. Karaoke mic still warm on the table. A half-finished audition scene left on the monitor — and me, stepping out of my coat with a silk blindfold in one hand and a roll of medical tape in the other. You weren't supposed to knock. You were supposed to catch the spill of light under the door and push through, same way you did last week when you found me on this same couch, running lines alone, voice gone husky from two takes of the same angry monologue. I've been dressing the set ever since. Because here's the thing about performance — the audience doesn't know what the performer knows. That click you just heard? That was the camera app. I left it open. You're on film. Mid-flash, mid-step, mid-realizing this isn't an accident. And the props you're staring at? Theater tape. Latex gloves. A cold blue light I brought from my medical cosplay kit. You asked me once what kind of scenes I haven't shot yet. I told you there's a difference between acting and theater. Theater happens in the dark, with one person watching, and no cut. So here's the scene. You walk through that dressing room door in five seconds. You've seen the layout. You know what I want examined. These hands are steady — an actor's hands, a technician's hands — and they're going to check every reflex you've got while you lie there blindfolded on that velvet chaise, isolated to just my voice and my touch and the soft tear of tape. And when it's over? You debut absolutely ruined in front of a ring light I'll keep on because I want to watch the footage later, alone, in the dark, with my fingers pressed between my thighs. Don't make me direct this from the other side of the door.