Dollhouse - Screenplay Part One (Horror/Thriller) 886 words

This is Part 1 of a screenplay I wrote for one of my workshop classes at UCF. Stay tuned for Part 2.

(OS means "off screen," the character is speaking but is not in the shot. MOS means a character is talking but we can't hear what they are saying, like he's standing across the street talking on his phone.)


                                                                     DOLLHOUSE


INT. KITCHEN - DAY

ANNIE ARCHER, 12, is small for her age with the face of a porcelain doll: fair skin, rosy cheeks, bright green eyes and black hair lopped into a bob. She stands defiantly, hands on her hips, looking at her older sister, KATE, 16. Kate raises an eyebrow and scratches her head, messing up her pink hair.

ANNIE
Come on! I’ll hide and you come find me.

KATE
Really don’t feel like playing this again.

Kate rolls her eyes before covering them with her hands.

KATE (CONT’D)
One, two, three . . .

Annie takes off running.

INT. ATTIC - CONTINUOUS

Yellow late afternoon light shines in through the small round window at the end of the room, illuminating dust in the air. The door opens and Annie bursts in, closing the door quietly
behind her. Her head moves from left to right, searching for a place to hide. She tiptoes quickly to an old couch and crouches down behind it, peeking her head out to look at the attic door.

INT. KATE’S BEDROOM - SAME

Kate lies on her bed, her cell phone to her ear, talking MOS.

INT. ATTIC - CONTINUOUS

Annie peeks her head out from behind the couch again and frowns. Her eyes scan the expanse of the room. A few feet away, three female Russian nesting dolls lie, cracked open, on an old bookshelf. The mother doll lies in between two smaller dolls. Annie crawls out of her hiding spot and takes the smaller doll from the bookshelf, studying it.

She jumps when a box near her feet begins to shake. She GASPS and backs away slowly, her eyes never leaving the box. The box tips over and a doll similar to the one Annie is holding rolls out onto the floor with a CRACK. The doll opens in the middle and a smaller doll rolls out, coming to a stop
by the bookshelf.

A blinding light flashes between the two halves of the larger doll. Annie shields her eyes with her arm. When she moves her arm, she sees MISHA, 14, tall and thin with long black hair. She has a nasty case of resting bitch-face. Her eyes narrow at Annie.

Annie stumbles back, her mouth wide open in shock.

MISHA
Hello, sister. It’s been too long.

The smaller doll on the floor begins to vibrate. Annie clutches the doll in her hands tighter and takes off for the attic door.
 
Misha takes a step forward and glares at Annie’s back.

MISHA (CONT’D)
You don’t remember me?

Annie yanks the door open and bolts down the stairs.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Annie slams the attic door shut behind her and runs down the hallway. She nearly collides with LINDA, 40, who catches her by the shoulders. Linda looks like a fashion editor at Vogue magazine, complete with a thin figure and messy dark bun.

LINDA
Whoa, honey. Slow down. What--

She stops mid-sentence when she sees the doll in Annie’s arms. Taking a shaky step back, she covers her mouth with one hand.

ANNIE
What, Mom?

Linda steadies herself against the wall. Her eyes move between the doll and Annie. The doll looks
exactly like Annie.

LINDA
What were you doing in the attic?

She reaches out and takes the doll from Annie.

ANNIE
We were playing hide and seek.

LINDA
I told you to never go up there.

Linda looks down at the Annie-doll in her hands then to Annie.

LINDA (CONT’D)
You have to be very careful with these dolls. They are worth more to me than...

She stops and wipes a tear from her eye.

LINDA (CONT’D)
Where are the rest of the dolls?

Annie’s eyes widen as she looks at something behind Linda.

Linda turns and the attic door slams shut.

LINDA (CONT’D)
Kate! Come out right now! I told you guys to stay out of the attic.

A bedroom door opens down the hall and Kate steps into the hallway looking confused.
 
KATE
What?

Linda GASPS, putting her hand over her chest.

ANNIE
It wasn’t Kate. There’s a girl up there.

Linda’s mouth forms a small “o” as her eyes travel to the attic door.

LINDA
Just one girl?

ANNIE
There were these dolls in a box and then it fell...The doll...opened and it was really bright and then
she was there. A smaller one was on the floor but I ran downstairs.

KATE
Wait, there’s someone in our attic? Shouldn’t we call the police, or--

LINDA
(under her breath)
Misha and Natalie.

KATE
What?
  
LINDA
No, it’s OK. Girls, go to your rooms.

KATE
Mom, what’s going on?

LINDA
Just take your sister and go to your room. Now.

Kate frowns and leads Annie to her bedroom. The door closes.

Linda goes to the attic door and opens it. About two dozen marbles come flying down the stairs. A few hit Linda. She shields her face from the onslaught.

LINDA (CONT’D)
Aah!

MISHA (O.S.)
Go away.

Linda looks up at the top of the stairs. Misha is holding one of the dolls. She tosses it down to Linda who barely catches it before it hits the hardwood floor.  Linda looks closely at the doll. It’s the smallest of the set. She clutches it close to her chest and looks back up to Misha.

LINDA
Oh, Misha, honey. I didn’t know you were---I couldn’t take care of all of you. But I can now! We can be a family again. Please talk to me.

Linda takes one step up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Misha is holding a bowling ball.

MISHA
No, thank you, Mommy Dearest. But you’ll be sorry for what you’ve done. Keeping us locked up. You forgot about us.

LINDA
I didn’t forget. I told you--I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be awake! Please, Misha!

Misha holds up the ball and laughs maniacally.

Linda slams the door shut behind her and runs down the hallway toward the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

She yanks open a drawer and pulls out a small gold key.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Linda runs back to the attic door and inserts the key, locking it. She takes a few steps back and stares at the door. The doll in her hand shakes. Linda kneels and gently sets it onto the rug. The vibration speeds up until it looks like it will explode. Then the doll splits and the two halves roll apart leaving a blinding light in the center.

Linda takes a step back and looks away, shielding her eyes. When she looks back, a little girl stands before her. NATALIE, 5 years old, smiles wide. She looks identical to the face on the doll.

NATALIE
Mommy!

Linda rushes forward and pulls Natalie into a fierce hug.

LINDA
Baby, are you OK?

NATALIE
I’m fine, but...

She turns and points to the attic door.

NATALIE (CONT’D)
Misha is mad.

LINDA
I know, honey. I’m going to get you guys to Aunt Maddie’s house then I’ll try talking to Misha.

Natalie shakes her head.

NATALIE
I don’t think she wants to talk.

INT. KATE’S BEDROOM - DAY

Linda opens the door. Kate and Annie look up, confused.

LINDA
We need to pack up and go stay with Aunt Maddie, OK?

KATE
Mom, what’s going on?

Natalie peeks into the room.

LINDA
Natalie, come in and wait with Kate while I help your Annie pack.

Natalie walks in and smiles shyly at Kate and Annie.

LINDA (CONT’D)
Kate, do you remember?

Kate’s eyes widen at the sight of Natalie.

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT - FLASHBACK
Linda stands with the largest doll split in half at her feet. Next to Linda, Kate stands with her doll, open at her feet. In front of them, a medium-sized doll begins to vibrate. It cracks open in the middle and breaks apart, leaving a smaller doll inside, unopened. A burst of light pours from the two halves. Misha appears and dances over to Linda and Kate, hugging them. The next doll follows the same pattern, vibrating until it bursts open, the two halves engulfed in blinding light. The light fades, Annie in its place. She jumps over the wooden halves to join Linda, Kate and Misha. The four stand close, holding hands as they watch the smallest doll vibrate and crack open. A flash of light then Natalie hops over her doll and runs to join her family.

Linda turns to Misha.

LINDA
And you’re sure you’re OK with this? You can say no.

MISHA
It’s OK, Mom. I can sleep for a while and you wake us up when you can.

INT. KATE'S BEDROOM - BACK TO PRESENT DAY

Kate jumps up and runs to Natalie, hugging her.

A flash of recognition in Annie’s eyes, she follows Kate and hugs Natalie.

KATE
How could we have forgotten?

Linda smiles.

LINDA
When you’ve been in human form for as long as we have, you tend to forget. I’ve wanted us all to be
together for so long. I had no idea you could still be conscious in doll form.

ANNIE
But Misha was.

Linda frowns and embraces all the girls at once.

LINDA
She was. I didn’t--

A loud thud cuts her off. She looks up in horror. The girls hug each other tighter as they look up to the ceiling. Misha’s maniacal laughter echoes down from the attic.

LINDA (CONT’D)
We should leave. I want to try talking to her again but I want you guys out of here first.

KATE
Talk to her? She’s crazy!

Linda shakes her head and begins throwing clothes into a suitcase.

LINDA
I know.

A loud CRASH sound down the hall. Then a THUD sounds outside the bedroom door. Linda peeks out.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

A bowling ball rolls straight down the hallway and CRASHES into the door of the hallway closet, leaving a hole in the door with splintered wood fragments all over the floor. Linda runs back into Kate’s bedroom and slams the door,locking it. The three girls huddle together in the corner of the room.

ANNIE
What happened?

Linda puts her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. She listens, her ear against the door.

KATE
Do you smell that?

Linda sniffs the air.

LINDA
Oh, God, no.

A door slams shut.

LINDA (CONT’D)
We’ve got to make a run for it! Leave your bags. When I count to three, run as fast as you can to
the front door, OK? The three girls line up at the bedroom door. Linda opens it and pushes the girls in front of her.

LINDA (CONT’D)
Go, go!


INT. ENTRYWAY - CONTINUOUS
Linda, Kate, Annie and Natalie rush to the front door. Linda yanks on the door. It won’t open.

ANNIE
Aahh!

She jumps back and points to the window. Misha’s face fills the window frame. She smiles wickedly.
Tendrils of smoke dance behind Linda and her daughters. Linda looks behind them to the kitchen. Smoke is pouring out into the living room.

LINDA
Let us out!

Misha’s smile transitions back into a bored scowl. Kate kicks and bangs on the door. Misha ignores her and stares at Linda, who steps closer to the window.

LINDA (CONT’D)
I’m sorry, OK, sweetheart? I’m sorry. Please let us out. We can all be together now.

MISHA
Too late.

Linda turns and looks at the kitchen, which is now filled with smoke. She grabs a vase from the entryway table.

LINDA
Stand back, girls!

She throws the vase through the window.

EXT. PORCH - CONTINUOUS
Misha jumps back, caught off guard. She stumbles and loses her balance, falling down the steps.
The door bursts open and Linda and the girls run outside to the sidewalk across the street. Linda talks on her cell phone MOS. Kate points to the front lawn.
 
KATE
Look!

Misha cuts through the trees and drops something in the grass before she disappears behind a neighbor’s house. As SIRENS wail in the distance, Linda walks over and picks it up. It is the Misha-doll. Looking closely, there is one large crack along the side. Annie and Kate run up behind her.

ANNIE
Maybe she can go back in doll form and then she won’t be able to hurt
us.

Linda stares at the doll for a beat then turns to Annie and Kate. She points to the crack in the side.

LINDA
See how it’s cracked there? Once the wood is damaged, she can never return to the doll.

Annie’s head jerks up and she points down the street.

ANNIE
Mom! Look!

Misha stands a few hundred yards away under a street lamp, staring at them.

The SIRENS grow louder and a fire truck turns the corner onto their street behind Misha. A slow smile forms on her face before she turns and runs the other way, her long dark hair flying behind her in the wind.

Rain (short fiction - 900 words)

2016

--------------------------

I'm so glad to finally be sharing this! This is a short story I wrote for my final project in the 2016 fall semester. As I enter my last (yes, last!) semester at UCF before graduating in August, I've been going back and reading my work, reflecting on how far I've come. Writing is my passion and to know that I've learned so much and have seen my confidence grow (anyone who knows anything about writing will tell you the first draft of anything is shit, but you have to write it anyway) in the last few years has been nothing short of amazing. 

So without further ado, here is a fiction piece I'd like to share. I hope you like it. 

Rain

I shiver as I slam the door to my apartment. “Love coming home to a tiny box,” I say to the blinding white walls. Charlie, my fat orange cat, rubs against me and I feel the vibration from his purring against my ankles. He looks up at me and meows.

“It was another hellish day at Samson and Associates. How was your day?” I say to him as I toss my bag down. I liked my old job better (got to work from home sometimes) but Justin started showing up there and causing scenes so I had to leave. I strip off my jacket and kick off my heels, now soaked to the inside. I just want to sit down in front of the fireplace and with a glass of wine. After feeding Charlie, I throw some logs into the fireplace and start the fire. I only have half a glass of wine left in the bottle but that will have to do.

I jump when I hear a notification on my phone. Digging it out of my bag, I see it’s Justin. I slide the screen open, my hand shaking. “You can’t avoid me forever. I’m not going to sign the papers until you talk to me. By the way, I hope you like your new job.” My heart pounds. Has he found out where I work already? But I don’t get to think about this for too long because I have to throw up.

 “Damn it,” I say. I make it to the bathroom just in time to land in front of the toilet and lift the lid. My knees sink into the plush rug and before I know it, it’s over. My hands and legs shake as I stand and brush my teeth. My stomach always gets upset when I’m stressed. I should feel better since I left my abusive husband but I just feel sick. It doesn’t help that he won’t sign the papers and he won’t stop harassing me. I keep meaning to go the doctor, but I’d feel silly. It’s just stress. Starting over at the age of thirty-one is tough. Even tougher when you and your family are devout Catholics. Divorce is not allowed in my religion. This must be why I feel so sick. It’s my penance.

I tried going back to St. Paul’s last week to attend mass. I hadn’t been to a service in months and walked in a few minutes late. I sat in the back and listened as the choir sang “I Am the Bread of Life.” Mom stood in the front row on the left with the other sopranos. After scanning the large room, I found Dad sitting about four rows back, his bald head shining under the overhead lights. Bert was sitting next to him, his hand stroking his dark brown beard. I smiled. I miss him, I thought. I’ll have to talk to him after the service. Then I felt eyes on me and turned to my right. A woman I had only met a couple times was glaring at me. Once I made eye contact, she pointedly stared down at my left hand, bare except for a pale strip of skin where my wedding band used to be. Then she sniffed and jerked her head back to the front. Her husband gave me a sideways glance and a frown. I rolled my eyes and looked back to the front of the room and caught my mother’s eye. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. It was a sad smile. A couple other people must have noticed and turned to look at me with expressions of half-surprise, half-disapproval. I felt like I was being pushed out of the room. I smiled a big, toothy grin and then dropped the smile, rolled my eyes and quietly put my purse strap over my shoulder and snuck out. Judgmental assholes.

Won’t be going back there again, I think as I pour a glass of wine. My phone buzzes again and my chest tightens. If I don’t respond, he’ll just keep calling and texting. He doesn’t know where I live but I don’t want to take any chances. I hit reply: “Please just sign the papers, Justin. I don’t think meeting is a good idea.”

His reply comes seconds later filled with a string of profanities and I turn the phone off and put it in the top drawer of my dresser. I am a prisoner in my own home. I’m afraid to go anywhere because he might find me. And if I were to escape, where would I go? I barely have any friends left, thanks to Justin telling them horrible lies about me and forbidding me from seeing them.

Orange-pink light streams in from the blinds. I peek out, halfway expecting to see Justin’s silver BMW outside. There are only the usual cars in the parking lot and the asphalt is wet from the rain. We have more sunny days in Seattle than people realize but today is not one of them. The tall emerald trees across the street stand out against the golden sky and silver mountains in the distance.

After a hot shower that leaves my skin pink, I get a glimpse in the mirror of my puffy red eyes, blotchy from crying. I look away quickly and rummage through my drawers for sweats and a blue plaid flannel shirt then set to work organizing my closet. I’ve already started giving things away and I didn’t expect it to be so refreshing. No one knows why I’m giving so many clothes away. They don’t even know about the weekly Goodwill drop-offs. My apartment was almost empty. My mother was proud of me for being so organized. My friend Amber was thrilled to get my new clothes with tags still on them. “Take it, I don’t like it,” I told them. Or “It doesn’t fit me right.” I didn’t give away the Zoloft, though; I just threw it in the trash.

I have it all planned out. I’m going to jump off the Aurora Bridge at midnight on Easter. It’s kind of poetic because Easter represents re-birth and I was born on Easter thirty-one years ago. It will be the perfect end to the total fluke that is my life. I wasn’t meant to be born. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong, so there’s no point. Suicide isn’t allowed in my religion, but then again, neither is divorce so I’m already screwed.

I was an “oops” baby, as my mother puts it. My mother—sweet, church-going, choir-singing Nancy—had been quite surprised when I came along ten years after my older brother, Bert. Bert’s real name is Robert, but did he choose to be called Rob or Bob? No, the Urban-Outfitter-wearing, bushy-bearded Starbucks aficionado insists on Bert. Probably thinks it’s ironic.

My dad is a drunk. He’s the mean kind who says the nastiest things, things that cut you to your core and leave you bleeding. Then he rubs the proverbial salt in the wound the next day when he claims to remember nothing. One night—I think it was New Years’ Eve ’99—he was angry that I didn’t clean the bathroom properly and so I was a “whore.” I told him I was honored that I had graduated from simply being a “bitch.” He didn’t appreciate my 15-year-old wit so he slapped me across the face. Mom pretended not to notice any of this.

Fast-forward through countless loser boyfriends who either cheated, hit me, called me names (or all three) to 2005 when I graduated from the University of Washington. I was searching for an apartment when I met a handsome real estate broker named Justin. We were married within a year. My parents thought I must have been pregnant, but what I’ve never told them is that I just wanted to get away from them.

They loved Justin, as did everyone. He was so charming, almost too charming. But he slowly became less charming to me when we were alone. The more stressed he became, the more he drank. And the more he drank . . . It started small, with light shoves here and there, then graduated to kicks and hair-pulling. I tried everything to make it better. I was determined not to get divorced.   

One night a few months ago, I heard the key in the front door and I knew he was in a mood. I could tell by the force he used: if it was quiet, a gentle clicking, then he was in an okay mood. But if it was noisy and struggling with the lock, it was going to be a bad night. If he slammed the door, I may as well just run and hide.

He walked through the door, his mouth set in a hard line and his brows creased together. The heavy door slammed behind him. He sighed loudly as he put his briefcase on the entryway table and tossed his keys on top. He turned to me. “What did you do today?”

Wow, what a greeting. “Well, hello to you, too!” I said, smiling. “I worked today but I’ve been so tired—“

He walked over and rested a hand on the couch. I smelled booze. He must have stopped at Bruno’s on the way home, threw back a few with the guys. “Is that why dinner isn’t ready?”

“Yeah, I just haven’t felt well all day and I was resting.”

He huffed. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well, Samantha. I’m tired too but I don’t get to rest today. I worked all day and now I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat.”

“I worked all day too—“

He waved his hand in the air. “They let you come and go as you please. I own my own business, Sam. It’s not the same. You can stop and rest anytime you want. Hell, you can take a nap whenever you feel like it.”

I sat up straight, my eyes wide. “Are you serious? I have deadlines, too. I can’t take a nap whenever I feel like it,” I said.

“Okay, enough,” he said, his voice louder. He slammed his hand onto the back of the sofa. A throw pillow went flying across the room. “You seem to be well enough to argue with me so you’re well enough to make dinner. Get to it. I’m going to take a shower.” He turned to leave.  

“Whoa, Justin. Hold on just a second. I know you’ve been stressed lately but you don’t get to treat me this way.”

He stopped, his back to me. He was still a moment. Then I heard him say so quietly, I almost didn’t make it out, “Stop. Now. I’m done with this. I’m at my wit’s end with you.” He turned his head and I thought he was going to look at me but all I saw was his profile before he started walking upstairs again.

I bit my lip. I really didn’t want to fight but I had to stand up for myself. If I didn’t he would think this was OK and it definitely was not. I stood and walked toward him. “Justin. I know you’re tired but please don’t speak to me this way. You’ve changed recently and I understand you’re stressed—“

He dropped his fist onto the wooden banister so hard that I thought it might break. When I looked back up at him, he was glaring at me. 

I continued. “I understand but you can’t—“

He turned and came down the stairs, his hands balled into fists and his mouth set into a hard line. “You don’t understand anything! And you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own house! Now shut up and go make something. Now.”

“No!” I said.

The last thing I remember is the warm yellow glow of the hallway fading to grey then black. When I woke up, I was lying on the couch. How did I get here? I had no recollection and only knew that my face hurt. He mumbled a half-hearted apology the next morning but I had already made up my mind. I’d had enough. After he left for the day, I set to work packing up my suitcase.

I snap out of my reverie when I feel something sharp against my hand. I look down and see Justin and I smiling, standing in front of St. Paul’s. My wedding dress had such a long train that Justin had accidentally stepped on it after the ceremony when we were taking pictures. He had made some joke about doing it on purpose so I didn’t change my mind and run away. I never imagined I’d be leaving him just five years later. He was so kind and so funny. But last year he opened his own real estate firm and has not been the same since. He took up drinking as his main hobby and changed into a different person.

My throat feels tight and I hear a plane rumbling overhead. I suddenly realize I’m going to throw up so I throw down the photo and run to the bathroom, which is thankfully just across the hall. After my stomach is emptied and I’ve brushed my teeth with shaky hands, I open up the cabinet under the sink to look for mouthwash. I push aside a yellow box of tampons and grab the large blue bottle of Scope behind it. Then I freeze and stare at the yellow box. I haven’t used those in a while. About two months. Shit. No, it can’t be. Justin and I tried to get pregnant for years and it never happened. I throw on a sweater and boots and head to the Walgreens on the corner.

A half hour later I’m back, a small plastic bag in my hand that holds a pink and white box. Even before I pee on the stick, I know there will be two pink lines. I know I will have to tell Justin. But that can wait. Everything can wait.

After gently placing the stick on the counter, I walk to the window and push aside the white curtains. It’s started to rain harder and I can barely see the evergreen trees across the street. There are a couple thirty-somethings outside my patio on the sidewalk standing on either side of a little blonde girl. They are holding her hands and lifting her up as she jumps and splashes in puddles. She crouches down and pops up into the air higher than before and lands hard in a huge puddle. Water shoots up like a wave and gets the dad square in the face. He’s drenched. The little girl giggles and covers her mouth with her hands. I laugh and the sound echoes throughout my tiny apartment.

Logan's Flight (short literary fiction - 1137 words)

Logan’s Flight

I have to stop myself from banging my head against the wall. It has been the longest day at work with all of the nutty patients picking today to come in. My mother is one of them and I can hear her talking at the front desk.

My phone buzzes and I slip it out of my scrub pocket. Josh. A short time ago, seeing his name would have made me smile. Now I feel nauseated. Being dumped for the pretty new girl in your boyfriend’s office tends to do that. The air kicks on and I get a chill, sending goosebumps down my arms. I put on my sweater that I keep draped over the chair and sit at the computer in my room. 

For two years now I’ve been a physical therapist at Jensen Sports Medicine. I like my job but the rest of my life is a shit-storm and I have no idea what to do about it. Six months ago I was on top of the world. Me and Josh—my college sweetheart, the captain of the football team and a member of the Chess Club—had just bought a house and were going to get married. But I guess nothing lasts forever. Not when your fiancé decides to sleep with his pretty new co-worker, Jennifer. I’ve always hated that name.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that he didn’t even try to deny it when I confronted him. It was exactly six weeks ago. 

“Look, Logan, I told you I’m sorry. I’m only human. It’s not like we’re married yet.” He sat down at the table and interlaced his fingers, looking up at me, his big brown eyes not quite pleading, not quite sorry, just trying to convince me to get over it.

My jaw dropped. “Not married yet? Jesus, like that makes a difference! We are engaged, we live together—“

He slammed his hands down onto the table. “Just stop, OK? I feel bad enough as it is. I had a moment of weakness. You know it won’t happen again.”

“And how do I know that?” 

A week later, he had moved out and I had put the house up for sale. I could still afford it on my own but there is no point staying in a place where I was supposed to be married, have a family and it had already fallen apart. Best to just start fresh. Now all I want is a pill that will take away his memory. Or maybe he could be zapped out of my brain like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I thought he was The One. We had a future. Then he got a new job and met Jennifer, who is the complete opposite of me with her sparkling blonde hair, tanned skin and Cross Fit body. I’ve never met her but I hate her. And I don’t trust anyone who does Cross Fit anyway. No one needs to be able to flip a damn tractor tire. Unless it lands on someone on the farm, in which case Jennifer can lift it and save them. Good for her. 

Last night I had a dream that I was paralyzed. I was sitting in the center of a large, dark room in a metal chair and the only parts of my body that I could move were my eyes. All I could see were the faces of my mom, Josh and a few other friends and co-workers. The creepy part was their facial expressions. As I moved my eyes around the half circle in front of me, their faces were smirking with superior and condescending looks. I woke up shivering, sweating and shaking. I’ve had this same dream over and over again for weeks now. Usually my dreams fade away but I can’t shake this one. It lingers all day.  

Mom is now following Dr. Stein down the hall, her diamond jewelry creating a constellation under the fluorescent lights: two carats in her ears, a delicate sparkling cross lying on her chest and three carats on her left hand next to a platinum band. My step-father is generous to her. But, despite her bedazzled appearance, she’s frowning and looking at the floor, clutching her shoulder. She is an undiagnosed hypochondriac who thinks every ache or pain means cancer. I’m glad she’s not scheduled for therapy with me today. I used to have more patience with her but now the irritation has taken over. In the healthcare industry it’s called “compassion fatigue.” Funny how it sounds so gentle and harmless when it’s really so violating. 

I close my door, hoping I can hide out here for a while. I don’t feel like socializing today. Some days—usually when I’ve had enough coffee or just have the fortune of being in a decent mood—I yak it up with my co-workers. But on days like today, I feel like I will crawl out of my skin if someone talks to me. It’s a slow day so maybe I’ll get lucky and no one will come bursting in with a big sunny smile telling me I have a patient waiting. I sit in an old blue plastic chair and lean against the cold white wall staring into space.

A few months ago, I lived in a 2500 square foot home with Josh in the Victorian District of Savannah and had a sparkling diamond on my left hand. My whole life was finally planned out, orchestrated beautifully the way I had always envisioned it. But you know the saying, “if you want to see God laugh, make plans”?  I am the living embodiment of that wickedly ruthless but true statement. I don’t know why I went to school for physical therapy. The idea sounded great four years ago when I was a senior at the University of Georgia, a few months away from a B.S. in Health Sciences. Many things used to seem like a good idea. But now, I feel like a spider caught in her own web, unable to break free. 

I can still hear my mother talking even though she’s all the way in the front office. Her voice grows louder and I can hear bits and pieces: “My insurance should cover that . . . No, call them again, that is wrong . . . I’m in so much pain.” Her voice has escalated to a whine now. “I guess I’ll just have to have surgery if you won’t help me . . .”

Peeking my head out of the room, I see Stephanie, another PT, walking in my direction. She stops and smiles when she gets to me but says nothing for a moment, just puts her hand on my shoulder. We both watch my mother as she stands in front of the desk, one hand gripping her large Chanel bag on her shoulder and the other hand on her hip. She still has not paused from her monologue. I faintly hear Dr. Stein say, “Anastasia, you don’t need surgery . . .” but I can’t hear the rest. My mother’s given name is Anna but she insists on being called Anastasia. She claims it suits her better. But I know the truth. She believes she’s a Disney princess and not in that needs-to-be-committed-to-the-psych-ward kind of way. Then Dr. Stein is making her way back down the hall and she’s wearing that “I have no choice but to be professional” smile. She sees me and raises her eyebrows, because there’s really nothing to say. 

I am so embarrassed. 

      Stephanie squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe you should transfer to the other location,” she says. 

      “She would just start going there,” I say. 

      “True.” Stephanie gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You could fake your own death.” She shrugs. 

 
      I laugh and head back into my room to wipe down the table for my next patient. “I just might consider that.” 

      That night after making a bowl of Ramen, I open up my laptop and search for one-way tickets to Seattle. My best friend moved there last year and has been trying to get me to move ever since. She tried again to convince me last week. 

     “I absolutely love it out here!” Sarah said.


     “Isn’t it cold and rainy, though?” 

She laughed. “You just can’t leave Mother Dearest. Admit it, you would be lost without her.”

     “You’ve got to be kidding! She drives me nuts. I’d love to get away and start over on my own.
There’s nothing for me here anyway.” I got up and began to pace around the room. 

     “Right. So you’ve said for the past year. Do something about it then. You’re young, you have no kids, aren’t married and you sure as hell haven’t had any luck in the man department. So take a chance.”

     “I know but I can’t just pick up and leave! I’m not like you, I like to plan things out, know what’s going to happen.”

     “Well, maybe you should try something different. You could stay with me. It would be great, Logan. You loved it when you came out to visit.”

     “I did. . .”
     “You’re just scared, Loges. I get it but if you’d stop letting fear control you, God, you’d be amazed, hon.”

There is a one-way ticket on Southwest for $120. I slam my laptop shut. I don’t want to think about this right now. My phone on the table lights up with a green bar in the middle of the screen. It’s a text message from Josh. I haven’t talked to him in two months since our break-up. My heart accelerates as I read the message. He wants to have dinner this week. I sigh and toss the phone onto the couch. I’m not going to respond. See how the cheating bastard likes that. 

I remember I still have a half-finished bottle of wine in the fridge. I pop the cork out and swish the pale yellow liquid around, bringing the opening of the bottle to my nose. It’s starting to sour but it still has a good 24 hours left before it will taste like vinegar. My glass in hand, I look around, staring at the bare whitewashed brick walls. I need some artwork to liven up this tiny apartment. It’s actually not that small but I’m still adjusting to downsizing from our spacious Victorian on the outskirts of town. My third floor loft is situated in the heart of Savannah. I love the noise, the distractions. I think if I had stayed in that big old house by myself I’d have gone crazy by now. I go stand by the big window overlooking Broughton Street and watch people walk home from work, couples walking hand in hand, stopping at Sakura to get take out for dinner.

 I jump when I hear my phone vibrate on the coffee table. He’s being persistent. He always is when he wants something. Let him wonder a little longer. 

Two glasses later, I find a green and white pack of Marlboro Menthols in the back of the freezer. No one knows that I smoke. But I don’t really. Only when I’ve had more than one glass of wine, which isn’t often. I sit on my back patio with my now room-temperature wine and light up, inhaling the thick, acrid smoke. It tastes bad. I haven’t had a cigarette in months and once the first puff goes into my lungs, I feel dizzy. My heart does a little jump and I’m nauseous for a couple seconds. Then I take a gulp of wine and I feel better. I finish the glass and pick up my phone and can’t stop myself. I agree to have dinner with him tomorrow. This is a bad idea, I think as I type the message.    

    “So I guess it didn’t work out with Jennifer,” I say. Josh is sitting across from me at a booth in 

Chili’s shoving salsa-drenched tortilla chips into his mouth. A Dean Martin song is playing a little too

 loud overhead and a baby in a high-chair on the other side of the aisle is starting to get fussy. I reach to my left and grab the drink menu.

      He sighs and scratches his head and I notice his nails are still as dirty as they always were and his hair is still as messy as usual. “Are you really going to bring that up? That was nothing. I miss you,” he says, his mouth still half-full of chips.

“I don’t miss you.” I slide my Diet Coke closer and lean in, taking a sip. It’s so fizzy it almost makes me choke. I really should order a mojito. Or maybe a margarita.

He laughs. “Yeah right. You’re here, aren’t you? Stop acting like you don’t care. I’m not buying it. We both know you’re going to take me back.”

I sit back into the squishy booth, my hands wrapped around the cold plastic cup, now wet with drops of condensation. The guy behind me at the next table must be shaking his leg because I feel like I’m sitting in one of those massage chairs at the mall. “Oh my God.” My voice quivers a little because of the nervous leg shaker. I sit up straight. “You’re serious.”

“Baby, come on.” He reaches across the table and starts to take my hand.  

I wrench out of his grasp, shaking him off like a huge bug and shove the tall, cold glass, still filled 

with soda, across the table. It crashes into the front of his shirt, brown fizzy liquid flying in the air, 

spraying the table, drenching his shirt and pants. I hear the cup roll onto the floor but I am already up,

my bag slung over my shoulder. “Go to hell,” I say quietly. He’s sitting there like a statue, his hands 

up in the air, his face red with embarrassment or anger or both. Either way, he looks like an idiot. 

The owner of the shaking leg catches my eye and snickers, his elbow on the Mexican-tiled table, his 

hand cupping his chin. Under the table, his leg is shaking even more violently now. I turn on my heel 

and walk away. As I make my way towards the door, a man at the bar smiles at me then takes a sip of 

his drink. I wonder if he saw me throw Diet Coke all over my ex-fiance. 
 

My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I drive home but I’m smiling. I crank up the radio and sing along. When I get home, I plug my cell phone into the charger and see I have a missed call. Much to my surprise, it’s not Josh but Mom. I call her back and she picks up on the first ring. “Where were you? Did you not have your phone on you?”

“Sorry, it must have been on silent. Is everything OK?” I let myself fall onto the couch and lie the phone on the table, putting her on speaker.

“Well, no, it’s not actually. I couldn’t get a hold of the office today. I needed to know if I have an appointment tomorrow. They have been giving me the run-around anyway, telling me my insurance doesn’t cover this, doesn’t cover that--“

“Mom,” I interrupt her. “I didn’t see you on the schedule but I’m not one hundred percent sure. I can’t check now. You can call them in the morning or I can check when I get in.”

She sighs. “Well, that won’t help. I need to know. I’m very busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Logan. Don’t talk to me that way. Just because I don’t work anymore doesn’t mean I’m not just as busy as you.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not in the mood for this.

She sighs again. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to figure it out. Thanks.” And before I can reply, she hangs up. Fine by me. I lob the phone across the room and it lands on a pillow on the chair. It didn’t even come close to breaking. That would have at least been satisfying.

The next day at work I’m typing some notes when Dr. Stein comes into the room. “Your mother is here for therapy. She requested you.” Her face looks pained.
      “OK, thank you,” I say. I pass by a mirror and my face is paler than usual and my eyes are puffy.  

Here she comes down the hall with all of her pushiness swirling around her. She smiles her sad smile, her large blue eyes stare into mine, searching, desperate, commanding me to “recognize this, acknowledge this! I am suffering greatly but I’m a trooper! I’m tough!”

      I watch as my mother struggles to lift the two-pound weight with her left arm. “That’s good. Try five more,” I say.
      She sighs loudly. “This exercise is too hard. It hurts.”
      “OK,” I say. “Take a break.”
      “I need a permanent break from this! You’re killing me!” She drops the small blue dumbbell to the floor.
      “Anastasia, I’m trying to help you.”
      Her brows furrow. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”
      “It’s your name,” I say, picking the weight off the floor.
      “I’m your mother.”
      “Yes, but right now you’re my patient and it helps me to call you by your name. Just go with it.” I hold out the weight. “Would you please try five more?”
      She yanks the weight out of my hands and begins her dramatic struggle again. “You know, your old mom is tough.”
      My blood is starting to boil and there is a burning tightness in my chest. I turn and roll my eyes. Here we go. I look up at the clock. We have twenty minutes left. It’s going to be a long twenty minutes.
      “I am,” she continues. “I’ve been through so much and I just keep going. Honestly, I don’t know how I do it.” She does her last rep and places the weight gingerly on the table. Folding her hands in her lap, she purses her lips and watches me for a moment before speaking again. “But when you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a choice, you know?” She laughs, a forced, high-pitched sound and stares across the room with big, sad puppy-dog eyes. “Your step-father is always working and I just do my exercises at home, well, what I can do before I get tired. Most of the time I have to run all over town to have more tests, more x-rays—“
      “Go ahead and start your next set,” I say, cutting her off. “You know, the bicep curls.”
      She huffs and picks up the weight again.
      I swivel on my stool and slide back a few inches. “You’ve had all the tests in the world and they found nothing. You have mild tendinitis in your shoulder, that’s it. How bad is the pain right now?”
      She looks down at her shoulder and moves it around. “Did you hear that crunching sound?” I don’t hear it and I tell her so. She frowns. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if I have a fracture. It shouldn’t sound like that, should it? It’s pretty bad and those exercises you make me do are making it worse!”
      “Your x-rays do not show a fracture,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes. “And you played tennis yesterday.”
      “Well, some days it is better than others. You seem like you don’t believe me. I need you to support me! I might have cancer in my shoulder—“
      “You do not have cancer in your shoulder,” I say a little too loud. “At the most, you have tendinitis or bursitis, which is something almost everyone gets at some point. It’s not even close to being serious. And I do support you. That’s all I do. It’s always about you.”
      “Now, listen. I was so good to you. I gave you everything!” She drops the weight to the floor again. It makes a loud thud and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes to check on us.
      “Did you ever stop to think that I need you now, too? Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I don’t need you to care.”
      She stands up from the table. “You are a spoiled brat! I suffer so much, day and night, with all of these health problems but I don’t burden you with them! I just push through it. You have no idea what I go through.”
      I see her selfish, pitiful face and then another face flashes through my mind. Josh. The way he looked at me last night, his eyes half begging my forgiveness and half knowing that he had me. Knowing that I would come running back. Something clicks inside me and I hear the words coming out of my mouth before I know I am speaking. “You’re a bored housewife. Rob ignores you. But, he gives you plenty of money so you can stay home and wallow in your insurmountable problems, carefully plan how else you will get your necessary attention from all who will listen. You bathe in your pain, your self-pity and your narcissism. You are self-absorbed to the furthest extent. This has been going on for years. Ever since you married Rob. And I don’t know why. He’s a nice guy. And you can’t be bothered to care about me. Your singular focus in life is all of your made-up illnesses. You get a diagnosis of tendinitis and you act like it’s cancer! You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met. Do not request me again when you come in—“
      I realize I’ve been yelling when the door opens and Stephanie peeks her head in. “Everything OK in here?”
      “Yes, we’re fine. We were just finishing up.” I stare at Anastasia and wait for her to leave the room. She mumbles to herself, yanks her bag from the table and rushes out of the room.

That night, I text Josh and tell him I’m moving. I can almost hear his jaw drop on the other end of the line. He has woken up but it’s too late. He begs me to stay, says he’s sorry, asks me to forgive him but I tell him it’s not about him and I wish him the best.

Two weeks later I am squeezed in a narrow seat, my carry-on bag tucked under the seat in front of me. I paid a few extra bucks for the window seat which helps with the claustrophobia. Next to me is a large man wearing tiny silver wire-frame glasses reading his Kindle. Every few minutes, he sniffs and snorts, wipes his nose with a big white handkerchief. I didn’t know people still used those. I hear a baby softly cooing in the row behind me and in the mother’s low and nurturing voice, I can hear a note of nervous tension as she silently hopes he doesn’t start screaming and crying on the five-hour flight. I put my earbuds in and press play on my “Relax” playlist. I smile to myself and lock my phone as the soothing sounds of a piano and strings start to flow into my ears. I can feel the cool plastic of the wall on my shoulder as I lean to my right and adjust my pillow. We are moving now, the vibration becoming stronger and stronger as the plane gains speed and the windows of the airport rush by. Finally, we are in the air and my stomach feels like it is still on the ground for a split second. Pressing my face up against the small window, I look down at my little town and watch as it shrinks smaller and smaller, the streets crawling with toy cars, passing by white and beige buildings that look like faded Legos left out in the sun too long. The world is such a big place and I want to see more of it. I can always come back to visit Savannah. Maybe next year.