A pale light shines upon his face as the film's title floats before him. The horror film leaves the front row holding their breath, as the entire theater sinks into the silence of abject terror. He pinches the ticket stub in his hand lightly. While this film, <i>A Desolate Night's Dream</i>, had essentially no budget, it had an interesting-enough gimmick, and he found himself drawn to its premiere by a poster. The protagonist receives several videotapes filled with strange images recorded by him and his wife, yet he does not recall making such tapes. The tapes are mailed to him one by one, until he receives the final one, which shows him the death of his wife. As soon as he finishes watching it, she actually slips in the shower and perishes... The editing is rather messy, and a few illogical transitions leave part of the audience grumbling, some even leaving partway. The final tape is shown over and over, repeating the woman's death on end, greatly reducing its impact. For the one who was once his partner in drama, what unfolded on stage was always but the one and only death. He finds the film dull. The fake blood's color is off, and the lead actor's acting is too stiff, while the actress playing the wife is too campy, her incessant shrieks stabbing at his eardrums. Film and stage are different. If you're not happy with the results on camera, you can always reshoot, and the audience will be none the wiser. But if you make a mistake on the stage, the die is cast, much like life itself. If it is lost, then it is lost forever. The plays he knows are nothing like this. In those, both exaggeration and excessive restraint were wrong; they were imitations of life. Without death hanging over your head, you cannot express your fear of it. Without true killing intent, you will be unable to fully portray a murderer. Some will record a fake death again and again, but when he ascended the stage, there was only a single chance to perform a true murder. He once basked in such theater. Performance was his mask, and his truth. The film falls apart at the end with the reveal of the final twist. It is all the protagonist's dream, and dreams need not adhere to logic, or have videotapes show us what is real. Before the credits have even started rolling, the audience gets up to leave. He remains seated, watching the list of names slide past the screen. 'Will people always remember the things they've done?' A line from a monologue breaks the silence of the empty theater. He lifts his head, and is greeted by the protagonist as he sits on his bed, exonerated. The man on the screen lifts his own head, letting out an eerie smile as he fiddles with the tapes. 'They will. Those memories will follow you your entire life.' The film ends, and the projector's shine leaves the old curtain. He grips the ticket stub tight, unconsciously using strength to jab his fingernail into his palm, cutting open a streak of bloody red. Need to smooth the stub out so it can slide under the album's transparent film, he thinks.