Apollo 13.

Theo felt unnerved by their eager questions, for reasons he didn’t quite understand. He watched them pout and snicker at his indifference to the attention, not knowing whether to continue the nonverbal performance.

He’s a martyr alright, I’ll make sure of it, yelled a familiar voice.

A whip of the head met him with the apprehensive eyes of Apollo, slowly approaching him in a blasé stride, easing closer and closer to his sweaty face. Theo looks at the crowded room full of unfamiliar figures and veers back to face the man.

What are you doing here, voices Theo. A bead of perspiration drips into his collar, his precious velvet robes ruined. Was it always this hot in the basement? From now on he will leave the windows open, Theo tells himself, and the thought consoles him. His attention returns to the looming figure.

Apollo’s left eye twitches. Shh. Stop acting so stoic, he says and smiles crudely.  

Theo raises his voice. Get out of my house.

That’s rhetorical and you know it.

I’m serious.

The musky, moist, malevolent air turns earthy. Theo looks down at the familiar dirt floor and is instead met with a wet forest bed, crammed with decaying leaves, hungry insects and red paint. He shakes his head and watches his polished loafers return into view, reflecting the yellowish ceiling light in a mirror-like fashion. He looks back up at the perpetrator and watches his lips part before softly hissing: Memento mori, we all must die tonight.

The crowd erupts in laughter. Mate, you’re a nutter! they say, throwing humorous remarks at Apollo as if their utterances are handfuls of rotten food meant for an insolent comedian in the Middle Ages. Apollo gleefully swallows every morsel and begins circling Theo like a brood mother guarding her hatchling. Dangerous, Theo thinks but really wants to say: You look like an angel. Apollo is somehow both charming and hostile at the same time, always theatrical and witty in the presence of the smallest of threats.

But just as his discomfort begins to quell, Theo hears a weight fall in front of him. Once more his eyes dart down. He watches a crippled corpse gnaw at his feet, debris in the hair, stamping a blood-red handprint on his perfect pinstripe. Apollo looks delectable beneath him in the amber light, he thinks, before looking back up and reaching for the sheath at his waist. Duty strikes and his mouth runs dry.

It all happened very fast. Apollo watches his sweetheart set a foreboding grasp on the curved handle, skillfully drawing out the dagger and piercing the bare iron blade square into his chest. Good things don’t last, the stranger says. The words drip with sorrow. Apollo squirms under the formidable pressure like a man crushed by the moon before reaching for his chest and touching Theo’s bloodied fist: Carpe diem, Apollo whispers.

The crowd erupts once more. This time they holler like a pack of wolves expecting freshly cut mutton on inscribed silverware. This one is yours, sir; I know you like it well-done. Cartilage on the side, right? A lady dressed in pink savagely guzzles down a glass of wine. Awestruck, she releases it for all to taste. One drop even reached the stage, Theo notices.

Thick purple curtains engulf the cast into darkness. The gleaming dagger is eased out of Apollo’s costume and retracted back into the sheath. Apollo brushes himself off, eyeing Theo menacingly. The blade is bloodless.

This is far from over, you know, Apollo says.

Theo giggles, refusing to meet his glare as he trots off the stage. A manic expression floods his face. Good thing you befriended the devil, my dear friend, he says.

The real dragger falls clumsily onto the manmade dirt floor. Apollo spits and trots away, softly rubbing the puncture wound in his stone chest. 

P.S. This micro-fiction was written in tandem with Sally Rooney's prose. More specifically, as a case study of her flat, muted and intrinsic writing, in the form of a story.

30.3.25.