Escape

“So I guess that was my mistake...leaving you alive!”

“Boring! Everyone always says that. Can’t you think of something more original?” John’s face smiled; his mouth smiled, but his eyes glared with a coldness Michael hadn’t known since that one winter when he was a kid, when he had destroyed his ankle chasing Donny through the woods just off the lot, that root seeming to spring from the snow, grasping his foot and twisting it, mercilessly, way passed anywhere it should have gone.

He had screamed, screamed forever, but Donny was gone, booking it through the woods like his future scholarship depended on it. Michael was too far from the house; his mother was too far inside. He screamed, screamed forever, but she didn’t hear.

3 degrees. That was all that was afforded to him as the minutes wore on and his nose and ears and fingers began to grow as cold as John’s face. 

The guns were held up almost exactly across from each other. Handguns, glittering in the late-night moonlight, accompanied by the old-timey streetlights that illuminated the cobblestones beneath their feet. Shoes didn’t even shuffle. Eyes met eyes. Barrel met barrel. 

“Nothing’s original. Everyone’s written or said or done everything already.”

“That’s not true. You’re just not thinking hard enough.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about this for awhile now, so let’s see if it’s original enough for you!”

Michael jumped up into the air, tucking his arms and legs in and against his chest as he flew, somersaulting over and over and over as he made his arc above John’s head. Then, as he reached his apogee, Michael unfurled his right arm, and fired three shots down and through John’s head and back, finally landing upright behind him. John’s body slumped to the floor.

“Well, I guess that wasn’t so original after all.”

“And, SCENE!!!” The bell rang, and Craig stood back up, shaking Joseph’s hand. 

“Excellent work, man.”

“Hey, you too.” 

“Thanks.” 

Joseph walked over and sat down off-set. He began viciously chugging a bottle of water. 

“Woah, woah! Somebody’s thirsty!” Mary Silverman, ladies and gentlemen. Tinkerer of the intricacies of the English language. 

“Yeah, I gotta stay hydrated for my voice and just ‘cause it gets hot on set...no matter how many fans they put up.” They’re not cooling anything, just circulating the same air. Everyone pretends they work. Oh, thank god they’ve put up a few more fans in here; it was sweltering before. Well, the fans do nothing. 

“Hey, Joe!” His manager.

“Hey.”

“Listen, Steve wants to move on to that other scene, which means you’ve got the rest of the day off.”

“Really? Are you sure I’m good to go? ‘Cause last time-”

“I know. I know. And I’ve apologized a hundred times, but you know Steve. He’s eccentric. His inspiration dives out of the clear, blue sky and sends its massive, sleek, shiny beak down through his thick skull and into his prefrontal cortex, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Joseph knows.

“So, you’re sure I’m good to go?”

“100%” 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“See ya, Joe! Take it easy.” Joe’s gonna take it easy.

It was so cold that frost reached down from the trees, whose dead, empty branches carried masks of white beauty to disguise the fact that they were murderers. Joseph tried to stand. He had to. He couldn’t feel his hands or his feet, fingertips turning whiter than the tree-snow. His ankle buckled. Of course it did. It was destroyed. That root just laid there, smiling. Ha ha! I got you! Now you’re gonna lay here! Lay here with me!

Beatrice looked lovely tonight. She always did after a long day on the set. Jesus, it’s almost 9:30. What did Stan mean rest of the day? The day was long gone. With the sun. They were both sleeping behind Joseph’s eyes. 

The way Beatrice always greeted him, with a hug and then a kiss, her red lipstick gracing his lips with a warmth he never found on the set. She was his rock, as they would say. He was more like paper. He wanted to cover her and protect her and provide her with everything she needed. 

Wine. Candle-lit dinner. Sitting on the couch together. Her head resting on his shoulder. Fire crackling. She turned towards him and asked, simply: “Are you happy?”

“Of course, of course.” But his eyes betrayed him. They always did.

She wept. He consoled. “No, no, it’s not you. It’s not us. It’s this job. I think I made a big mistake. A big, big mistake. One that I don’t know I can come back from.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean?”

“I was down, you know, one night, late, on the set. I went out for a drive afterwards. I was just...my mind was in a dark place. I stood on the Parkland Bridge, staring into the water, and I was gonna jump. I swear I was gonna jump. But then, I heard something. A voice, I think. But there was no one there. No one I could see, anyway. But I heard it. I heard it say-”

A loud, reverberating knock at the door.

Her eyes grew wider than her head. “Oh no.”

“OPEN UP!!! WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!!!” 

“Oh no. Oh no. No. No! No!!!”

“What?! What?! Who is it?!”

“I got mixed up with some...bad people. You were just always gone at work and I-I was in a dark place too. I turned to ways of trying to alter my perspective. My state of mind-”

“OPEN UP!! NOW!!!”

“We need to go. We need to-” Her head exploded, the spray coating Joseph’s face. The shotgun blast had gone straight through that massive window that overlooked the lot. The curtains were closed now, save the massive hole through which the slug had punched, before turning Beatrice into nothing. 

“Beatrice! Beatrice!” Joseph tried to find the pieces of her, but they were everywhere. On the walls. The carpet. Him. Then, the door busted down, and bullets flew, turning his face and chest into Swish Cheese.

“And, SCENE!!!”

“Wonderful, wonderful work, Dave.”

“Thanks Colleen.”

“You know, I thought this film was mad when I first signed up for it, but I think I’m starting to see the genius behind it.”

“Yeah, I suppose. If that’s what you wanna call it.”

“Well, you signed up just as I did, knowing full well what you were getting into.”

“Right, right.” Dave couldn’t remember, for the life of him, signing up for this thing, but he was sure he had. Sure. Why not?

Dave crawled. He had to get away from that root. Away from the cold. The root he left behind. But the cold only grew as he dug his fingernails into the dirt, pressing much harder than he needed to (but of course he couldn’t feel his hands anymore), his little jacket scraping along the tiny sticks and stones that poked up and into him even as his coat stretched out to protect him.

Sticks and stones may break my bones

That’s where the expression should end. Because it doesn’t matter how impervious to words you are when a root snaps your ankle and the cold chews away at your extremities.

Dave took another swig, stumbling out of the bar and into the street, that brown, paper bag crinkling in his hand, which was gripping it way too tight (but of course he couldn’t feel his hands anymore). He'd be in trouble tomorrow morning, when he had a scene that would require utmost focus, but he’d let Dominic take care of it, as he always did. Thomas loved him, anyway. Enough to excuse his occasional (perhaps too self-serving), frequent drunkenness. 

The hangovers played well in some of the scenes. When he had to be grumpy. Or unresponsive. Or dead. Did he die? Dave couldn’t remember, for the life of him, if he died. He figured he’d just keep wandering between scenes until Dominic said that Thomas said he was done. 

Thomas was pissed. Dominic was pissed. Dave was hungover. 

“Dave, you need to start taking this work seriously!” Thomas yelled. He never yelled.

“Please, Dave. You’re not making this easy for me.” Dominic was in a tough position.

“You know, I’m kinda...kinda tired of this one.” He shot them both.

The clouds only seemed to thicken overhead, the sun becoming ever-more remote. Negative 2 degrees now. Fingers turned purple. Frostbite. But Dave continued onwards. The house grew closer. So much closer. When are they gonna call SCENE? This one’s not real, is it? The ground was snow, now; a nice ditch stretched out behind him. How could I play a kid, though? On older kid, true. But still a kid. 

The door was so close. Maybe his mom was close. Donny was far now, so far in the woods. Or maybe out of them. 

Why did I sign up for this? It’s not right. Did I sign up? Did I ever sign up for this? Dave reached out for the handle, but it turned before he could reach it. Door swung open. The barrel of a shotgun was in his face. His mom held it.

“Mom! Mom! You gotta help me!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, this isn’t your scene. This isn’t your story.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You never made amends. Never left.”

“I was going to.”

“No, it’s too late. So late that it’s not even your mistake anymore.”

“What mistake-”

“Being here, Michael. Joseph. Dave.”

“If it isn’t my mistake, isn’t my scene, isn’t my story, then whose is it?”

“It’s Donny’s, of course.”

She pulled the trigger.