a movie script ending.

somewhere, between the pages, she was lost.

a loud thud, a quick gasp, and he was gone. she peered outside, only to see the usual street scene. nothing was there, but it had been not moments ago, she knew it. he had waited for her, but she remained hidden from view, fearing the unknown actions of he who lurked. it all seemed harmless once, but it no longer felt that way. she glanced outside again, desperate to keep her face concealed. filled with overwhelming panic, she let herself turn her back to the wall and take the deepest breath she could muster. no one would believe that it had come to this, she hardly did herself. she couldn’t believe she had ever called him a friend. what had once been harmless, now turned terrifying. it couldn’t be, but it was. “I don’t want you to be afraid…” such irony in the words he had said to her in a different lifetime could not be forgotten.

things like this only happened in movies, not in real life, and certainly not in one lifetime.

a quiet bookstore theme. she read a book and sipped coffee, stoically, alongside twenty on thirty others scattered about the store. it was a typical tuesday afternoon, she thought. a stranger came near, but not so near as to speak. she noticed him out of the corner of her eye, but she gave him little thought. he looked at her as he perused. perhaps for too long. she began to notice his nearly constant stare. for what seemed like hours, he continued to stare. she held her gaze on the book for only a few moments, really, before she glanced up at him, unable to ignore him any longer. but he was gone. in that blink of an eye, all she saw was his hem on his coat disappear behind the bookcase. she followed him, but he was no where to be found. she knew him, but wished she did not. she was a part of him, but she wished she was not. she would give back her very blood just to sever that connection. she wondered why after all these years, he would do such a thing. but he would never let he go. he would always haunt her, but he would never accept her.

that whom she believed to be good, was not. that to which she was given, would fail. that to which she was, was no longer.

she was always watched, but never loved. the messages, the notes, the silence. this is how she knew she was hated.  every action was intentional, every line written was for her, every thing left for left to cut to her core.  she wished it would simply end.  she wanted them to leave her alone.

she took a deep breath and opened her car door.  she knew it was coming, she had felt it.  it had been a few weeks since the last box of stuff, the last hateful note.  there it was.  boxes of herself.  her baby pictures, her handwriting, her gifts.  this was every documentation of her childhood, the tangible part of her memory.  and here it was, filling her car.  there were hundreds of items, thing she had no idea what to with which to do. and there was the note. she glanced at it and dropped it on the ground.  she couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. she paced in the parking lot, unsure of what to do, how to feel.  then suddenly, she turned and sunk to the ground.  she couldn’t take it any longer.

she couldn’t keep it together.  there was just too much these days, and every day there was more.

she would be given a few days, even weeks, sabbatical.  life felt normal for that brief moment. she could be happy; she could forget.  but it never lasted.  she knew this happiness would never last.  she would be broken again and again, without warning.

it was in those very private moments, that she wanted to disappear. to call for her stunt-double. to end the story. this hatred that she seemed to provoke in others never made sense. it nearly always began as an obsession, and would turn into this loathing time after time. she couldn’t help but feel responsible. there were a million reasons that made sense why this would happen. but so many times? it couldn’t be.  her mind couldn’t always reason it away.  it had to be her.

there were so few she trusted any longer.  the list grew shorter with each passing day, it seemed.

and she did nothing but blame herself.


~ by Mary Christa on April 26, 2010.

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