The first shot is always the loudest, echoing in the emptiness of that single fragile moment.
You fall down in the stiff snow, right next to your mailbox. Staying on your knees, you try to stand tall to face the masked man with the hopes of fighting him off. But the two of you are alone on the wintery street.
As you clutch the crimson red stain on your shoulder, the man prepares to fire again, this time straight at your temple. In the next second, you twist your fearful body backwards and crawl away. Two more bullets leave the chamber and imbed themselves in the backs of your legs.
The sound of the gun shot has not yet riled your family inside the house. They are used to that noise on these dark streets. But now your screams are louder and more desperate as you call for friends, family, anyone to save you. Those inside your house hear you just in time, and someone fires their own gun upon seeing the gun in the man’s hand. Now your assailant falls back, but he’s not in as much pain as you. All the men in the house rush towards him, lusty for blood, while their women clutter on the porch to watch with fear. All they want to do is kill him.
With the strongest breath you can muster all while blood floods your lungs, you call out your brother’s name. This brings them all back to why they are here fighting on the street. So everyone finally stops what they’re doing to rush to your side. How could they not? You’re dying.
Why are they just standing there? Can’t they call for help? Why hasn’t someone called 911? Don’t they want to save you? No, they just sit around and cry over you. I really can’t judge them; I’m doing the same thing.
From where I stand, I watch all of this with my hand tightly clamped down on my chin, trying to stop it from shaking as much as your failing body. No matter how much I try to calm my mind, salty tears burn my eyes and then slide down to my cheeks. It’s heartbreaking to watch the one you love die and not be able to do anything. I cannot even take a single step forward to comfort you. My body lurches forward with the sheer desire to aid you, but I have to hold myself back. I cannot move from this spot, no matter how much I ache to.
All this time, the man closest to your side is gripping your head tightly in his hands and lifting it up off the pinkish snow. He’s calling out to you, trying to say something that will save you, stop all the blood. How I wish it was me there with you, holding your body close to mine.
By now, you’ve vomited blood up all over your chest, making it hard to differentiate between the fresh and dried blood. Thick redness gathers at the back of your throat, gurgling and bubbling with each desperate breath you take. I can see it so clearly as it foams and spills down your trembling lower lip.
I can tell now it is your end. With a last smile at the loved ones around you, your head falls back in someone’s hands and your eyes close. I sob along with everyone else as they mourn for the life you had to leave. They all scream out at the heavens, while I just whimper silently to myself.
“Cut! Cut! That’s a wrap! Good job everyone!”
Lights slowly change, and the world along with it. Everything on that dreadful street begins to mold away from the gray bleakness and into a bright lively town. The cast of people around you slowly steps away and watches with dumb smiles as you stand up and wipe the redness from your face. Everyone shares a few laughs and compliments while filing off the set and allowing the crew to rearrange everything to the way it was. Wiping my running nose with my finger and then my blotchy eyes with the other hand, I step aside as the others pass me by. They are all chatting cheerfully with each other, ignoring me as they file to the snack table.
You’re the last one to leave the set of a destroyed city street, but I don’t move at all to get any closer. Instead, I clutch my clipboard to my chest and watch you come to my side.
“Crying again?” you ask and plant a quick kiss on my cheek. It’s a rhetorical question, since we both know the answer, but I lean forward and desperately rest my tired head on your shoulder. I gently sway forward, reclining against your body, desperately feeling the warmth to let me know you’re here with me. For a moment neither of us does a thing. There is so much I want to do and say in that one moment, but I am frozen against you. You know this, you always do, so you let me stand there and inhale the sweet scent woven into the fibers of your shirt. Your loving arms wrap themselves around the small of my back, drawing us even closer together.
“That’s the third time we’ve done that scene and you still can’t stop crying. Why don’t you just not watch when we film this part?” you finally say softly and kiss my forehead. My voice feels trapped in my throat, so in response I lift my head slightly to nuzzle against your jaw line. I can feel the soft vibrations of your vocal cords as you laugh, and it gives me strength enough to speak again.
“I have to be here. As the writer, I have to make sure everything is perfect,” I answer and then look up to stare you in the eyes.
“You’re not here for me?” you ask mockingly and take my hand. Grinning, I slowly shake my head and we both share a small laugh. Oh, how sweet that sounds echoes in my ear. “And if you didn’t ever want to see my character die, why did you write the scene?” you keep asking me.
“He just had to die. It was essential for the plot and character developments and for the theme,” I try to explain, but you chuckle at me.
“Then have them cast me as another role,” you comment with a sly grin and as I try to think of a witty retort, a foghorn cuts us off.
“Everybody! Hurry up and get to makeup! We’re going to do another take of scene twelve!” the director yells into his megaphone, even though we’re all in perfect hearing range of each other.
“Sorry love, but the job calls,” you laugh and then quickly kiss me before rushing off to your chair to have all the fake blood cleaned up and then reapplied. Our brief moment together is gone, for you are transforming into your character.
No comments:
Post a Comment