Fake blood

Cold red like a polyester mat stretches from the character’s plastic spleen and smears across an impotent knife. The man behind the stage wall struggles to find breath, his life ebbs onto a sterile floor, sanitised like a hospital in preparation for the next fatality. A synthetic pool calmly rests on faux wood. Eyes, exhausted to their final breath, sink behind weary lids. Limbs sag under the pressure of weighted necessity, folded in and comfortably twisted. An acrylic mouth sighs through cracked-bottle-lips, and red string loosely stains his tidal chest; two props swell and calmly subside against a well rehearsed fiction while a thousand glassy eyes shimmer in mourning.

John Darley