Blood runs off the tip of my butcher knife, spattering the gory, pink-gowned body at my feet and losing itself in the rose-shaped ribbon concealing the girl's tramp stamp. Blonde hair turns ruddy as it soaks up her life fluid from the puddle under her head.

The world drifts in front of my eyes in rivulets of light and shadow. It exists around me in stilted breath. I sense its presence, but it is inconsequential for the moment. My moment.

I close my eyes and allow the rush to fill my face. When I open them again, I will be something greater than I am now. I will be as I was before...

----------------------------------------

Twenty years. A quarter of a lifetime since little Laura Leeds, nobody daughter to a taxidermist in Mellowbrook, Utah, stepped off the bus in Hollywood and became a legend.

That was my first role. It wasn't a very good part. Laura was afraid all the time. Afraid of leaving home. Afraid of missing her big chance. Afraid that her dreams of becoming a successful actress would never pan out. Afraid that she was destined to wait tables until her legs gave out. Afraid, afraid, afraid.

Catherine Fontaine would have taken such a girl and slapped her silly. For two decades, she squeezed Mill Valley under an iron grip. She connived her way to the top, cheating and using people as disposable rungs on the ladder up her corporate empire. When I die, I will die as Catherine Fontaine. If Hell decides to claim my soul, it will become a new empire for me to conquer.

Laura made friends with the other actors when One Day Before Yesterday started airing in daytime syndication. Over time, they all fell by the wayside in the wake of Catherine's relentless pursuit of power and prestige. Her strength and determination became mine. Her empowered, can-do attitude replaced the doubts and fears that Laura whispered in my ear for almost my entire life. 

When I learned they were pulling the plug on One Day after almost thirty years, I begged the writers and producers to kill off Catherine's character. A true death would have been preferable to simply drifting into limbo as queen of the big nothing. Instead, the cast and crew held a party. I wished everyone well on whatever it was that they intended to do, now that the world stopped spinning.

For me, California froze overnight. Even my phone started giving me the cold shoulder.

I read once that acting is nothing short of the reconstitution of self by sheer force of will. Catherine shaped my will for so long that the fading of her voice now cast me adrift. I felt afraid, doubting myself for the first time in ages. Laura responded to my distress like a shark detecting blood.

My old agent, Barry Emmelson, retired five years ago. I recall there being letters. I stopped reading my mail long before that. There's too many crazies. Catherine kept getting death threats from her devoted fans.

I visited Ron Jacobson, the agent who took over his clients. His agency seemed surprised to see me. I think they expected all of Barry's clients to be polishing a seat in a rest home somewhere. His secretary tried to force me to make an appointment, as if I were a panhandler wandering in off the street. I had to subdue Catherine. She wanted to staple her eyelids to her forehead.

I grabbed Ron as he wrapped up a meeting with a fresh-faced blonde actress named Nikki Ash. The girl exuberantly garnished him with praise for landing her a prime role in a new TV series. My interruption of her gush-fest earned me a dirty look on her way out. I didn't care. She at least had a paying job awaiting her outside.

I liked Ron straight away. He was one of the few realists in Hollywood. He laid my chances for a comeback on the table, sparing me the song and dance. As I figured, my situation was grim.

Unlike the budding young starlet prancing out the door moments before, Hollywood's options for a woman facing the ass end of forty wasn't so rosy. "The grinder likes fresh faces," he told me. I vocally broached the surgical option. He shot that bird down as soon as it took wing. In his opinion, there wasn't anything wrong with my face. It was just stale.

Like moldy bread, I thought.

We ended the meeting with his promise to "shake a few trees and see what falls". I left with my heart in my shoes. Laura's discouraging whispers became an anxiety-inducing avalanche.

I expected never to hear from him again. He surprised me by calling a few days later. Over the next few months, he directed me to one casting call after another. Commercials, bit parts in second-rate TV shows, even a couple of webisodes (whatever in Hell they are). Nothing panned out. I was either too old or too young for the parts.

My finances slowly evaporated. Despair sunk its teeth into me. I watched everyone else's world press on outside my window, while mine fell further into the abyss.

During this dark, faceless period, Laura chattered incessantly. She drowned my ego in her vile, pessimistic pus. There was no word from Catherine. She, like my telephone, seemingly turned her back on me.

I began to lose myself for long tracks of time. During one such fugue, I found myself standing outside a restaurant, staring through the window at the servers rushing between tables. Afterwards, I slunk home, feeling cold and depressed, with my arms aching from the effort of hoisting phantom trays.

Despite Ron's misgivings, the notion of a facelift wasn't one that retreated easily. I almost went as far as setting up an appointment once, before Laura chickened out.

When my agent called me for the final time, he caught me pawning my jewelry to pay my expanding debt. I was so happy to hear from him, I could have engaged him in phone sex. He caught a tip about a casting call for a new movie that was just green-lighted. It wasn't the lead role, but that of her mother. Ron assured me that the part was solid.

I figured he was right. I saw enough of the original Brian DePalma version of Carrie to recognize the value that its remake provided my flagging career. I acquiesced to the pawnbroker's ridiculously low offer for my worldly treasures and wasted no time reaching my audition.

I arrived out of breath, disheveled, and desperate. The film's producers told me afterwards that I nailed the audition for Margaret White, the lead's sadistic, religiously fanatic mother. I couldn't tell if it was in spite of my haggard state, or because of it.

After months of inactivity, Catherine awoke from her deep slumber to shake their hands and mouth her gratitude for the opportunity. Though we hid it well, I felt her ambition burning in my chest. We both ached for the lead role.

That night, we popped a bottle of champagne to celebrate our change in fortune. Laura, my albatross, was not invited.

My euphoria didn't last. I soon learned who snatched the lead: Nikki Ash, America's favorite new superstar. As rapidly as my fame plummeted, hers skyrocketed since our encounter in Ron's office that day. In just a few months, her face graced the covers of every magazine, due in no small part to the runaway success of her new hit TV sitcom, Mad About the Girl.

I forced myself to endure an episode once. Unfortunately, any promise for the show was lost on me. Every time Nikki opened her mouth, I couldn't help but recognize her acting talent rivaled that of a mushroom.

Regardless of my low opinion of her abilities, I decided to establish myself as a friend and mentor to the girl on our first day of shooting. The garish golden star painted on her trailer's door should have been my hint to continue on to makeup instead.

I caught her in the back of the trailer. She stridently argued with Bruce Willis’ producer on the phone about his decision to advance the schedule of his new film without consulting his leading lady first. I hardly recognized this haughty, overindulged goblin as the same girl from Ron's office months ago.

When she finished her tirade, I introduced myself quickly, lest our second meeting fare no better than our first. She soon recognized me as "the woman who stormed into her agent's office on her big day", immediately putting me on the defensive.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Our visit went downhill from there. To my surprise, she already convinced the director that, as her mother, I should bleach my hair to match hers, since she had no intention of darkening her own to suit the character outline. Though Catherine felt shaving her head presented a more elegant solution, I simply abided by the majority decision, no matter how foolish it seemed. Realistically, upon hearing of Nikki’s involvement in the remake, my expectations regarding its faithfulness to the original movie wasn’t that high anyway.

Primary filming progressed rapidly, though it felt like a lifetime to me. I contracted a scalp rash from my dyed hair and the itch was driving me crazy. I tried not to think about it, but the only distraction provided came from Nikki's mediocre acting skills.

She brayed her lines with the emotive capacity of a diesel engine. Observing the director lap up the steaming slop of her amateurish performance as if she delivered it by angelic choir, I realized the cause for my difficulties in finding work. The world apparently went mad in my absence. No other explanation sufficed for the collective myopia regarding this talentless banshee.

At least the catering was top notch. On days that I couldn't bear to sit through another telegraphed performance, my refuge became the buffet table just outside the set. Slicing off a piece of Brie became my guilty pleasure.

I was in the middle of cutting off another sliver with a butcher knife when they called me back in for my first scene with Nikki. She met me inside, adorned in her prom dress costume. Her toes tapped with irritation as she anxiously awaited my appearance.

"It's about time!" she snapped as I found my mark. "I can't wait around here forever."

The scene called for Margaret White's disdain towards her daughter's immoral clothing and her sinful dance. Thanks to Nikki's belligerence, I found my motivation before the camera started rolling.

With a familiar call of "action", silence descended on the set. The lens found Margaret's indignant, horrified face as she stared at her daughter's shameful attire. Carrie glanced at her in the vanity. I pretended that Nikki's blank face actually contained a hint of consternation regarding her mother's obvious disapproval.

"Red," Margaret uttered. "Of course it would be red."

My bleached scalp itched maddeningly. I channeled my discomfort into my performance.

"My dress is pink, Momma!" Nikki bubbled from her seat behind the vanity, as she added the finishing touches to her makeup. Her uninspired interpretation was jarring. It took all my skill to remain in character.

"I think it's pretty," she cooed. Nikki turned in her seat and held out the pink corsage in its box. "See what Tommy gave me?"

I scowled at her, overcome with a sense of injustice. Had I the youth blessed upon this whining reed, I would stop the heavens with my performance. Instead, her words spewed passionlessly from her graceless lips.

"All I can see are your dirtypillows!" Margaret spat.

I sensed that Margaret cared nothing for Nikki's languid performance either. She probably considered the butchery of her daughter's representation as grievous an affront as the sinful costume dangling from this girl's whorish frame. The urge to burn both in a cleansing fire swelled in my bosom.

Nikki fell silent. She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. Everyone held their collective breath. After a period of indeterminable stillness, she finally found her tongue.

"Cut!" she yelled.

As surprised as everyone else, the director reciprocated. Nikki grabbed him by the arm and marched him off to the side, where she bent his ear in private. I returned to my position and waited patiently for her latest tantrum to subside, the same as everyone else.

He came to me moments later in a manner suggesting that he now lacked something between his legs. In a low voice, he revealed some concerns regarding my portrayal in the last take. He diplomatically skirted the finger pointing (as if there was any possible doubt), and instead wondered if I couldn't act more "crazy". My disbelieving expression in that moment seemed to satisfy him utterly. He immediately called for another take.

It took two more before I finally found the level of crazy that Nikki apparently demanded in her movie. By that time, even fainthearted Laura screamed for the bitch's blood.

The only difference between purgatory and the film shoot was that I knew the latter had to end sometime, even if the torture did feel eternal. Most of my remaining scenes with Nikki fared no better than our first. Somehow, I managed to get through them without ripping her blonde head off. By the time that production neared its end, Nikki and I were a pair of Rottweilers in a pit, circling and snarling at one another. Everyone was anxious to see the last of us both.

The final scene remaining ended up being the climactic battle between mother and daughter. The atmosphere on the set that morning was heavy, as it usually was when the schedule called for both Nikki and I to perform, but also electric. We all perceived light at the end of this long tunnel and couldn't wait to emerge.

Everything was ready. Nikki strutted around the set in her blood-soaked prom dress, making sure that everything would go off without a hitch for her big finale. I popped a canapé in my mouth from the buffet table and resisted the urge to scowl at her. In the few months since principal photography began, there remained few things upon which she hadn't felt the need to voice her expert opinion.

I examined the knife in my hand. One of the prop guys handed it over a few minutes earlier. It looked real. I ran my finger along the dull blade and playfully pressed the tip into the handle, watching it spring back upon release. Catherine had some experience with knives on One Day. She once stabbed the CEO of a rival enterprise to prevent a hostile takeover, and framed Chad Taylor for his murder. Good times.

"You ready to do this?"

I looked up. Nikki glared at me from the sandwich tray.

"To stab you? More than ready."

"Don't screw this up. This movie is my big break. I don't want your feeble acting to make me look bad."

"If anyone's acting is feeble around here, it's certainly not mine. You don't need me to make you look bad. You're managing that all on your own."

"Listen, grandma, you might have been all that back in your little soap opera days, but you're in the big leagues now. I'm the star here, not you. What do you have? Maybe five scenes in this entire movie? One word from me, and I'll see your wrinkled ass is back on the street. We'll bring someone in who can actually act and reshoot your scenes in a couple of days. What do you have to say about that?"

I fumed, but said nothing. I could barely think of a response over Catherine's outraged howling.

"That's what I thought," Nikki snorted. "Knock 'em dead out there, mom. If you're really good, maybe I'll even get you a job on my next film. I can always use another person to fetch me coffee."

With a satisfied smirk, she whirled and strode away.

My heart thundered in my ears. Blood pounded through my veins with such force that I thought I might explode from the pressure. I couldn't think, couldn't move. My lungs became a furnace. That was when I heard her voice.

Let the lying lips be mute, which speak insolently against the righteous in pride and contempt.

I searched for the speaker, but found I was alone. The woman sounded like Catherine, only much older... and more deranged.

Witch! Send her to the closet.

I gently placed the knife on the table. Voices called for me from behind. They were ready to begin filming. I would go to them soon. But first...

----------------------------------------

First, I want some cheese. I'll just cut off a piece of Brie. Just a slice. Just enough to calm my nerves.

I'm relaxed as the camera rolls. Margaret is here with me. Her voice soothes me. The camera can't find us. We're hiding. Waiting. Our daughter is coming home. Carrie is coming home. The witch is coming. We wait. So quiet. Listening. Listening to our voices.

"Momma?" she cries in that blank voice of hers. She’s so plain. She's nothing. Just a face. A pretty face with nothing behind it. I had a face once, too.

"Momma? Are you here?" My cue. My time. Nikki was wrong. This wasn't her big break.

It's mine.

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!" Margaret howls, emerging from the shadows of our concealment.

We drive the blade into her back. Nikki sputters blood, her eyes wide with shock, her limbs rigid. We push again, driving the cheese-stained tip deep into her, relishing the touch of her blood licking our fingers. 

At first, nobody realizes that it isn't an act. I could have told them otherwise. Nikki just isn't that talented.

She turns her head to face my eyes. Her breath hitches from her punctured body. She looks puzzled. I smile reassuringly. Catherine whispers in her ear.

"What's the manner, dear?" she says. "Aren't you happy with your big death scene?"

Thou shalt not suffer...

We twist the knife. Nikki rewards us with a gargled shriek. The girl has good vocalization.

Voices start to cry out in the darkness. It's clear to the faceless mob in the shadows that something's wrong. Somebody shouts for an ambulance. Figures rush into the light.

Nobody takes what's mine, bitch! Catherine snarls.

We extract the knife from Nikki's body. The sharp blade slips from her effortlessly. That's because she's nothing inside.

Nikki gasps, expelling more blood from her lips. Her body begins to sag, now that my knife isn't holding her up. I reach around and pull her body to mine. Her blood warms me. She doesn't struggle. Without a script, my little puppet is clueless. My pretty little

Witch!

marionette. My blade caresses her cheek. Such lovely skin. She tries to tear from my grasp, whimpering. I hold her tight.

Remember, Laura intones. Remember dad.

I remember my father. I remember how I used to watch him work. Cutting and stuffing so carefully. You could hardly tell the difference between his creations and their living counterparts.

My blade finds Nikki's throat. Everyone stops. The heavens stop.

Nikki stops... and drops.

There is cutting, and blood. Laura hums a tune, like we did when we watched dad at work. He made it look easy. It's not. I do the best I can, slicing carefully so I don't damage my gift.

I'm pleased with my results. Catherine congratulates me. Laura congratulates me. Margaret warns me not to covet. She's odd.

The others, hiding in the shadows, say nothing. Some scream. A few faint. Flashbulbs pop in the darkness like the winking of dying stars.

I close my eyes... draw a breath... and face my adoring public.

Nikki's gift to me fits perfectly over my stale, moldy bread face. The camera gasps at my beauty. Nikki's perfect cheeks tickle my pores. Her flawless forehead cups my wrinkled brow. Her shapely jaw drapes my aging chin. I smile behind my fleshy mask, and know what it is to be young again.

"I'm going to give you a present, Momma," Carrie croons from my lips.

Her voice is an aria of innocence behind my fresh, new face.

END