I felt the pulse of the audience as I entered from stage right. I observed the crowd, whose size had been gradually sinking in numbers since opening night.

By January we were all destined to be a washed-out production, stripped clean of its original thrills, lumped together with the rest of the has-beens and never-will-bes.

I could hear my co-star ending his monologue. His voice held the weight of a thousand shows, so rehearsed, so controlled.

The script bound us like puppets. It was showy, and predictable. It toyed with our talents, teasing them.

The same script that had once felt so refreshing, so ahead of its time. But times had caught up.

As I hear the actress scream from across the stage, I can't help but critique the sound of thrill that escaped with her pitchy cries.

Why reduce her character to one overdone shriek when she could save that breath for goodbyes. Why write her character at all when you plan to kill her after one scene.

I clutch the knife, now revealed from my oversized costume. The audience lets the usual gasps, now quieter than ever.

I lunge toward my co-star who takes a choreographed fall over a chair.

I could recite this part of the script word for word.

Bennett Stabs Mrs. Mavis twice in the hands, and once in the heart.

Twice in the hands, and once in the heart.

For the first time since her casting, Rose actually sounds like she's dying, a testament to her spiritless acting.

The audience doesn't realize yet, how could they, if you pay for a show why be surprised when you're given one?

In seconds I will carry this show to the front page. I smile, as the audience roars, and blood pools onto the stage.