“Typecast” by Christian Barragan

Typecast
It was through an anonymous letter that Eva received the invitation for the audition. An audition was to take place at the abandoned theater where she had first performed, years prior. The same theater wracked with decay and superstitious rumors. The incredulously old paper of the invitation featured elaborate antiquated ink penmanship. “You have potential,” it proclaimed, without giving her name. But who else could it have belonged to? She knew of no other actors in the immediate area. Normally she’d be suspicious, but her prolonged theatrical dry spell had pushed her into a blinding desperation. Upon returning to her hometown of Stromwood, few options had been available to her.
As she read the letter, Eva pondered her past relationships. The estrangements from her parents who left Stromwood while she was at university. The bitter, recent betrayal by Stromwood's theatrical circle. She struggled for so long to start her legacy, and no one ever saw the effort. It was like she never existed. She often wondered if someone else should be living her life.
The taste of acknowledgment in the invitation, however, motivated her to take action.
The letter gave no information as to what kind of roles would be featured at the audition, an event that was scheduled for that same night. She didn’t care if it was some sort of scam, she didn’t have much left to lose. Without telling anyone where she was going, she headed to the theater on her own.
As the evening’s shadows lengthened, Eva arrived at the giant withered doors of the theater entrance. Considering Stromwood’s size, Eva prepared herself to encounter people from her past. Among them could be those from her former theatrical circle. Perhaps they had been the ones to invite her, hoping to humiliate her again. No, she thought. They wouldn’t go through the trouble. Not for her.
The theater’s dim light barely illuminated the faces of the other participants. There were perhaps two dozen people, a relatively large crowd for an exclusive audition. She quickly scanned the room to identify anyone familiar to her, but there were none. The other actors, mostly younger than her, held a demeanor of detachment, as though the world beyond the theater held no relevance. Eva discreetly observed them, her curiosity deepening.
A voice rich with authority, presumably the casting director, called the crowd to assemble in the audience. In front of her seat, Eva found a script excerpt. Instead of character names, it was marked with numbers. She studied the scene intently; a farewell dialogue between a young boy and girl before graduation. It was only when a male actor appeared on the stage out of nowhere that Eva realized everyone else present was female. Might be for one character then. Not so small a production, then. 
Eva thrust all her effort into her audition, especially considering she had gone through a similar scene at the end of high school. However, when the audition was over, she still felt outperformed. As she glanced at the letter that night, she realized there was another audition taking place the next day. Was that information there before? She couldn’t remember. Staring at the letter, she felt a compelling urge to return to the theater as requested. The worst they could tell her was she wasn’t welcome.
The next day, it seemed most of the same people returned. In fact, the crowd didn’t look any smaller than it had before. Eva could recognize most of the women from the previous audition. However, there was something different about them that she couldn’t distinguish. An eerie similarity in their appearances. Still, Eva was careful not to speak unnecessarily. Remaining undetected was easy, considering no one acknowledged her nor made any attempt at conversation.
Again, everyone received scripts marked with numbers, but this time the scripts included a brief description of each character. She looked around, noticing that all the women loosely fit the description of the protagonist. A description fairly similar to her own, but not quite exact. A wave of self-consciousness washed over her.
The scene, expectedly, was also different. It unfolded in a cramped apartment, where the protagonist, a college student, engaged in a heated dispute with her landlord. It was clear she was teetering on the brink of eviction.
Eva’s heart skipped a beat, as the scene nearly mirrored a chapter of her own life. A disconcerting playback of the scenario that forced her back to Stromwood. She was never able to finish her studies at university.
Summoned to the stage, Eva again tried to draw inspiration from her personal experience. However, the emotional whirlwind conjured by her memories only served to muddle her performance. Dissatisfied once again, she anticipated nothing further. Upon returning home, to her utmost astonishment, she realized the letter now featured another date and time. She knew she had to return to the theater and complete her task. It was the only way to accomplish her dream.
Eva arrived at the theater early, bracing herself for the impending emotional tumult. She studied the new scene as the other women assembled but came to an abrupt stop. The scene’s premise gaped back at her — a group of actors her age performing an improv exercise in a theater. The protagonist, attempting to join them, finds herself cruelly ignored. All her efforts to gain attention are met with deliberate physical apathy until she flees the stage in tears. It was clear from just this excerpt that this was a petty method to kick the protagonist out of the group. By pretending she didn’t exist.
Eva crumpled the script in her hands as she reached a ghastly realization. The scene  identically reenacted her expulsion from the theatrical circle she had once cherished. She looked around but no one acknowledged her. It was then that she noticed everyone bared her exact resemblance. Same height. Same skin tone. Same jet-black hair and unkempt bangs. This had to be intentional. Anger surged within her, and she could no longer remain silent.
“Who put you up to this? I know this is about me! You could have just told me you didn’t want me here!”
Even in her heightened state, the crowd’s chilling stoicism unnerved her. The casting director stepped forward. “Who are you?”
Eva, her once explosive confidence reduced to a flicker, choked out her name.
Silence.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Eva’s voice cracked. Her eyes pleaded for answers from the inhuman figures before her.
The casting director shook her head solemnly. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The ghostly crowd regarded Eva with the same eyes she knew too well, but with a vigor she’d long since lost. She looked back at the number identifying the protagonist on the script, as if it would magically reflect what she already knew. She didn’t need to see the name.
Eva panicked, expecting some mass violent movement from the crowd. They simply gazed at her until, one by one, they averted their eyes. Eva hurled herself toward the exit, pounding desperately on the unyielding door.
Her cries echoed through the desolate theater as the audition behind her quietly resumed. 

Christian Barragan

Christian Barragan is a graduate from California State University Northridge. Raised in Riverside, California, he aims to become a novelist or editor. He currently reads submissions for Flash Fiction Magazine. His work has appeared in the Raven Review, Coffin Bell, and the Frogmore Papers, among others.

Headshot: Christian Barragan

Photo Credit: Staff