Chapter Text
Despite what tabloids or paparazzi have said, the late actor Derek Hutchins and his last film, at least in some obscure arthouse memory, did exist.
I have video evidence. Transcripts, audio, pictures, the raw footage that was cut and seared from the film before everything. The studio was beyond trashed after I left the hospital. In the rubble I gave up on finding the film’s script and went back into the car for a repeat of the two hour route.
The hammer was lost in the aftermath. Either buried in the ruins of his dressing room or filed and preserved in police custody as the John Doe’s murder weapon. I wasn’t worried; I had no need for it now.
Let me prove it to you.
My phone has been burning through my jean pocket throughout this whole audition. The skin of my thigh will be hot, sweat condensed there uncomfortably, but I don’t reach down and press the volume key to cancel the recording. That would be antithetical to my needs.
There was no wasting the two weeks they'd left for me. To be scouted out, to be picked apart from the sea of actors and chosen by him—it was a dream. A terrifying, tantalizing dream; if I lost this opportunity then that would mean no money after next month's rent. If I sell the skateboard and maybe the microwave and stop using the heater to risk hypothermia, I would barely have enough to keep the water running and the electricity on.
I couldn't lose this.
A WORLD THAT DOESN’T EXIST — ACT I. SC. 1
EXT. WOODS - BUNKER ENTRANCE - TWILIGHT
A circle of light glides around the dark forest floor. Following the trail his FLASHLIGHT shines, AVERY (early 30s) goes through the forest unperturbed, his rubber boots padding through mulch and rustling leaves, sure in his destination.
Passing tree after tree, Avery walks, mysterious markings beginning to show onto the bark when he suddenly stops, the CAMERA turning from the forest onto a pair of dimly lit metal doors, rusting and barely open. Avery raises the flashlight with his other hand, shining it onto the doors long enough for the camera to refocus until he begins to walk towards it.
As Avery walks the ground is quieter, although the amount of debris is the same, if not more around the doors, until he stops in front of them. He reaches out a hand slowly, the thick leather gloves barely touching the metal as he pushes it open, the creak it emits sharp. Inside are dusty stairs.
Avery doesn’t hesitate, descending down the steps at a brisk pace that slows near the midpoint, when the arch of an empty doorway comes into view. Here, Avery stops, the camera focusing onto the darkness inside, the flashlight shining onto the wall besides it, before he moves it around to face him.
Avery shuffles around with it, trying to find a good place to place it down, and eventually places it down towards him, the flashlight shining onto his face from below, where he’s holding it at his chest.
Avery breathes in, almost taking a glance behind him, then CLAPS, loud and crisp, dust fluttering in the air.
AVERY THE MAYO
Hey guys, Avery here! So I was wandering around my house, and I found this… bunker that I definitely did not make.
Avery gestures around the bunker with his arms frantically, shaking the flashlight in his hand over the metal walls and stairs, before addressing the camera again.
AVERY THE MAYO
I guess it could be… this is about a quarter mile from my house, but I’ve never been here before, so maybe it belonged to the person who used to live here? Don’t know why they wouldn’t have told me though…
Avery falls silent, looking into the bunker over his shoulder and away from the camera. His hand starts to shake besides him before he turns around, a strained smile as he picks up the camera. He takes it down the stairs and into the bunker.
AVERY THE MAYO
(nervously)
Anyways, I found this!
The camera is angled to see the inside of the bunker fully, Avery shining his flashlight around the place and exposing the doors around the rusting walls. When the camera stops spinning, Avery goes towards a door, opening them one by one to expose narrow hallways leading off into the dark. After all of them have been opened, he turns around and exposes a tunnel messily carved out of the walls and made from pure stone.
AVERY THE MAYO
(echoing)
Pretty creepy, right?
Avery takes a step back and turns to the middle of the room, tilting the camera and flashlight down tot he floor. The light catches on a series of scratches against the metal, forming a series of letters that spell out —
“Ready?”
I jolt in my seat, face warm as I nod. A roar rushes in my ears at being noticed, closing up my throat. Get it together, my mind hisses, but I can’t help but smile from the way you nearly glance at me, your body still save for the corners.
My stare sticks to the small curve of your own mouth, the minute movement of your pupils; almost looking, almost smiling. Sweat pricks the nape of my neck, my phone now molten hot against my thigh. Did it catch those two syllables right? Will it preserve the little lift of your lips when you murmured?
My body loosens. It won’t. Wave crashes down, leaving my veins hollow as my head ducks towards the table, eyes darting away, because it will have your voice as just a blur of static.
I need a better phone.
No. What I need is to focus and get this role.
Beside me your hands are clasped around your script, page flipped to Derlord’s first few scenes, the line But I already heard you in the cave catching my eye. I don’t linger, taking one last glance of Avery’s monologue, exhaling low to slow my pulse from its fluttering.
“Mr. Hutchins, Act I—Scene 3B,” the director calls. In the corner of my eye, you rise to the white screen as I turn past pages to find scene 3.
If I can’t catch your voice, I’ll retrace your words.
A WORLD THAT DOESN’T EXIST — ACT I. SC. 3B
INT. BUNKER - MUD TUNNEL - UNKNOWN
The tunnel is slightly lit from the torches lining the mud brick walls, the light flickering from a wind coming from its end and barely reaching the ceiling.
Der lord begins to walk down the tunnel, occasionally pausing to look behind him, the forest getting farther and farther each time. As he turns back, his hand trembles besides him, nearly reaching for his cape before he notices and brings the arm to his chest.
He continues down the tunnel while routinely glancing behind him, making it midway through the tunnel when the wind picks up, nearly taking his cape, causing him to reach out and turn towards the entrance.
Der lord reclasps his cape, pausing afterwards to stare into the distance and towards the first pair of torches, now extinguished.
Another gust of wind blows, and Der lord turns around, continuing at the same pace. At the end is pitch black, the tunnel dropping into an unseen hole, and now at the halfway point of the tunnel, Der lord stops at this sight.
When he turns around, a quarter of the tunnel is now in shadow.
DER LORD
(raising voice, echoing)
I’m not afraid of torches turning off.
He doesn’t wait for a response, turning back on his heel and picking up the pace slightly. The wind gradually lessens then dies off, his cape still when he turns around to see half of the tunnel darkened.
Der lord stares at the tunnel in silence.
DER LORD
I don’t know what trick this is, but I already heard you in the fores —
The wind suddenly picks up, stronger than ever before, pulling at his cape and blowing out the remaining torches faster than he can react.
Frantic, Der lord backs up, his hands holding onto his cape as he’s plunged into darkness.
The pitch black is silent save for the sound of twin breathing.
DER LORD
(quietly)
I’m not afraid of the K —
UNINTELLIGIBLE WHISPERS cut him off. Der lord doesn’t hesitate, turning heel and sprinting down the tunnel, foot tripping onto his cape right as he twists to look behind him, having him fall down the tunnel with a splash.
I flip to the next page quietly as you stop to catch your breath. You do not move to continue scene, even as you do the same with your packet, your brown eyes glancing over the contents as the table hums and murmurs with one another. It’s a buzz, a flurry of
We’ll have to discuss Der lord’s character later with W —
— I just don’t think that Lord would be that monotone, wouldn’t he be more emotive?
Do we have to waste our time on this, didn’t H —?
before it’s cut with a call for “Scene 3C.”
His intrigued tone almost makes me scowl. I imagine that his doubt will be included in the playback, the clipped quality of underlined with static. I catch my curling fingers, smoothing down my annoyance as I look back to you.
You don’t even blink as you nod, casting a final glimpse down before inhaling again. The sound is heavier, sharper, different from the soft breath, like you truly have just surfaced from a plunge into the deepest waters.
“I don’t — ” you start, nearly gasp as you look up, expression shaped into wide eyes and shock. “Why did I jump?”
A shiver comes across me as I look into your eyes, the dizziness in your stare acute as you lower your head, looking not at and not away from the judges’ table. The nape of my neck pricks with sweat. Hands rise to your head as you drag one down your face, breathing into palm, the other clutching your chest as you murmur, “I wasn’t scared. I was — I was compelled.”
Your hands drop to cling to your arms, fingers digging into cloth. Shoulders curve down, your expression once fearful now firm in conclusion. Movements so loud in the quiet, goosebumps prickle on my arms at the sound.
“I’ve never felt like that before in my life,” you breath out, my own inhale cloying in my throat, thick and heavy.
But I can only exhale when you look to the side, away from me, taking a few tentative steps to the edge of the white backdrop. My body relaxes the instant I’m out of the the field of your gaze, a taut rope let go. If only I could capture this performance with video.
You’re fully turned towards the side now, nothing obscuring your face but the bright light shining and sharpening your features. Still, I somehow know your face is veiled with stoicism, evident as you whisper, “But I must go.”
Should this have been a full set or this room in possession of simply a bigger backdrop then you would have returned to water, diving deep into the waves underneath without cameras. Instead, you dissipate under our eyes, the performance deflating with a single exhale, everything gone with that huff of carbon dioxide.
No eruption of noise comes forth. Instead, nothing disturbs the room, save for the scratch of pen against packet from the head of the table. We were all at once connected in our waiting, me from sheer second-hand anticipation, and you from what I could only infer was patience learned from experience in plaster-white rooms.
In a split-second shift of movement, I meet your eye, the curve of a smile glancing towards me, and catch the faint sheen of sweat on your brow. A glimmer of an afraid self-satisfaction residing in your stare. It was reasonable.
I couldn’t understand it.
No one in their right mind would doubt you after that small taste. You were wonderful, better than video could have ever told me. Deliberation and fluidity, your limbs careful, a marionette’s swaying motions; who would cut your strings? Who would — ?
“Adequate.” My gaze tilts to the head of the table. Around me, noise returns with that low exhalation; air shifting to accommodate the syllables, my breath released with everyone else at that cue. Pens against papers. “Delivery could be improved, but blocking is well. We’ll deal with characterization once your agent confirms you’re booked.”
How desensitized was he to beauty to act like that? Tearing my mystified stare from him slowly, I look back to you, unblinking in front of the white backdrop, awaiting your cue.
“Thank you,” you eventually murmur, your voice laced with apprehension. I felt for you; I could understand nothing about him either.
For a few moments the silence stretches as you stand there, the light shining into your eyes, nothing spoken until he asks:
“Did someone teach you breath control?”
Your face shifts at the question, mouth pinching into a slight grimace. You sound as uncomfortable as you look as you answer, “My local theatre had a good coach teaching its actors, Iani S — ”
A dismissive hand cuts you off. “I see,” he says, looking squarely down towards his clipboard. His head stays lowered as he tells you, “I think that’s enough for now; why don’t you have a seat?”
You nod, the script now pressed underneath your arm as you make your way around the table. I exhale softly as you do so, moving a hand down to my phone, finger to the volume key to disable audio recording. I have what I wanted now. I don’t tremble at all as you return to the seat besides me, your shadow next to mine, nearly touching shoulders.
“Mg. DeMayo, Act I — Scene 4A and B.”
It’s only when I glance to my packet do I realize that my hands are shaking.
A WORLD THAT DOESN’T EXIST — ACT I. SC. 4A
INT. BUNKER - PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT
The flashlight shines down into the mouth of the tunnel, exposing the jagged stone going down into the earth, seemingly clawed through the bunker’s metal plating. The light dims further inside of the tunnel, illuminating only a foot of bumpy stone until it descends.
AVERY THE MAYO
(echoing)
Okay. So this thing has definitely killed people. Prime tragic news setting, I’d bet that this is already some poor caver’s tomb already. But I’ve gone caving before, and my buddies aren’t squeamish about any cave regardless of its history, so when I saw this —
The flashlight moves, angling downward slightly and shining on the inner stone walls.
AVERY THE MAYO
(CONT’D)
— I went right home and it turns out I already had most of the gear I needed! What I’m missing is just a harness and some rope, but those are used mainly for when we’re in the vertical caves, and this looks more like a mining passage to me, so I’m confident it’ll be alright.
The flashlight lowers, and the camera moves to where it’s sat facing Avery who looks tired, shadows under his eyes despite his small smile which falters as he leans against the metal next to the tunnel, his head resting on top of its mouth.
AVERY THE MAYO
It’s kind of odd though. There’s not a history of mining in this area as far as I could see. I searched it up after first finding this place, then I tried contacting the old owner, but this place has nothing but a folktale attached to it, and I don’t even know if that guy is alive, so… dead end there I guess.
Avery sighs before glancing to the tunnel. He stares into the darkness, his hand reaching out to touch the inside, before he snaps his hand back and turns back to the camera. He reaches for something off screen, retrieving a HELMET with a HEADLIGHT attached, putting it on. It at first looks awkward, before fitting into his appearance. The camera un-focuses as he turns on the headlight.
When it refocuses, Avery is standing up and reaching down for the camera, turning it around from his chest and to the tunnel mouth. With the headlight, the fact that the tunnel inside is resistant to light is more obvious, as even though its light is bright on the metal panels, there is nothing able to be seen inside. But Avery doesn’t remark on it as he steps forward, his feet on the edge of its mouth, and ducks inside of the darkness.
A WORLD THAT DOESN’T EXIST — ACT I. SC. 4B
INT. PASSAGEWAY - NIGHT
It’s silent inside. The headlight catches onto the edges of stone as Avery feels out the height and width of the space. From his stretching and the light, the tunnel is exposed to be quite narrow, with only enough room to shuffle through, but widening further on. Avery takes a shaky breath, like there’s not enough room to take a deep breath, and starts to move.
Avery moves slowly, each step echoing through the tunnel as he traverses the bumpy ground. His headlight shines on the walls, slowly expanding the further he shuffles until he has enough space to begin walking through, though with his arms trapped against his chest. There is not a single word spoken, and each breath he takes is rare, quieter than the last.
Eventually, the tunnel opens up enough for Avery to move the camera, enough to expose his sweaty face, expression pallid and eyes fearful even with his grin. Avery breathes in, the inhale louder than the last, and a whistle of wind blows through the cave, making him shiver.
Avery stays there, breathing in and out slowly, before he stares into the camera, his expression unreadable. The headlight is dimmer.
AVERY THE MAYO
(quietly)
I never said what the folktale about this place was, did I? I didn’t need to search it up to know it. I grew up around here, so I heard it growing up before I moved up north, but after all of this time, I’ve started to forget it. When I found this place, I… I barely remembered the story.
A beat.
AVERY THE MAYO
(musing)
Imagine that. I spent my whole childhood trying to find this place, and now look at me exploring it, barely even remembering the story.
Avery’s smile twitches into a frown. Tilting his head to the side, his hand rises to the stone wall behind him, nails scratching the rock. Avery stares at the stone until his head leans fully against the wall, leaving him blinking back to the camera, his gaze heavy.
AVERY THE MAYO
This was one of my favorite stories, y’know? I had a lot as a kid, loved the ones about royalty, and especially knights most of all, but this one was one of the few stories that would get me to settle down and listen to whatever was being said. Even if this one had no princess to be saved. Or—well, there’s plenty of difference between a princess and a king.
Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I… I can’t say that I remember how I used to hear it unfortunately, but I do remember what happened in it. So you’ll have to settle for a bad summary I guess. Sorry.
A king of a far far far away land had gone missing. The kingdom was suffering and the villagers were in disarray without his majesty’s royal order. Eventually, the time passed long enough, with enough strife and turmoil, to push the King’s most loyal servant to abandon his post and go out in search of his King.
The Lord — I think he was a Lord, I know he was, but when I searched up this story, apparently he was a Knight who acted as the King’s personal guard? Stories change, I guess — anyways, the Lord went through the gates of the kingdom that used to have fields of gold and greener grass than all other land, only to find lands of war and violence, ones that tried to eat him with their beasts, ones that tried to trick him into losing his faith, and ones which then tried to outsmart him with knowledge of its own.
But the Knight - Lord - whatever did not falter, and went through each land without complaint, searching far and wide for his King’s shining crown, of whose shine rivaled gold — oh I do remember some parts, nice — to no avail.
It was a long time which he searched for, and he went through trials unseen with their rigor, until one day, the Knight stumbled into a church and came to its pastor, who told him to rest and to lighten his weight with confession, as it could tell from his crooked armor and denting sword that he had enough burdens to fill God’s own ears.
And so, the Knight did, lying his helmet down as to no longer hide and confessing to his wait and his trials and the lands of which he had traversed long and wide in search of his King. The pastor did not speak when the knight finished his long and languid tale, and it did not speak when the knight asked it if his soul would be free of its burdens. It did not speak even when the Knight raised his sword and commanded it to do so.
Instead, it only moved to its podium to where a box had lay in wait and opened it, revealing a light shining so bright, it overtook the sun.
Avery stops, catching his breath heavily, staring off into the distance behind the camera. As his breathing slows back down to normal, his eyes squint at something off camera.
Besides him, his nails dig further into the wall until he throws his hand off the wall and stares down at it. He lingers on his palm, a hint of blood shown before he pulls it to his chest, hiding it from the camera.
AVERY THE MAYO
(unsure)
I guess I remembered it towards the end, huh?
A beat.
AVERY THE MAYO
I’m not sure about the ending though. That’s the clearest part that I remember, but when I searched it up, I got really conflicting results, so now… Some people have said that the reveal was that the pastor killed the king and took its crown — which I think it is really dumb, but whatever, and others say that the pastor was the king testing its knight’s loyalty. I believe that too.
But… in those stories, the knight is taken back home to the kingdom or lives in the church with the pastor forever more. I — it’s confusing. I don’t think that I had a grim sense of humor as a kid, but in the version I know I was told, after the King revealed itself, it killed its Knight.
“That’ll be enough. Thank you.”
My voice clogs my throat, the words twisting into a knot. Blinking up from my script, I stare at him blankly, the rest of the scene still in my hands. Scene 4B was nearly done, but cutting it off before the final lines—
The sound of pen against paper resumes. “Your delivery was alright,” he starts, his stare directed down to his packet, red pen upon the page. “But your blocking could use some work.”
Oxygen returns to me in the form of a low, hitched inhale. To admit, I hadn’t done as much blocking as I could have in the past weeks, but given the stage directions; climbing down stair, crawling through a cave, it wasn’t like I could’ve devoted as much attention to it as I did to dialogue or voice. Still, beneath my wrists I can feel my pulse ticking, my palms sweaty as fingernails etch crescent moons into the skin.
A page is flipped over. “I’m curious on how you characterized Avery though,” he murmurs, voice dull like he’s reading off a note. “What made you play him as solemn?”
“Solemn?”
He nods. “In scene 4B. From the scenes included in your email, I would have assumed you thinking of him as prideful or at least confident.”
“Oh. I—when I was first reading over the script, I admit I did see him like that too, but the longer I read over his lines and his environment, it made me rethink that. The scenes in the bunker read more like him playing it up for the cameras to me, with him losing that bravery in the tunnel. To me.”
There is no way I’m getting this role, I realize, my teeth sharp against my tongue as he doesn’t react, save for a short hum and a hand wave for me to sit back down. My lungs feel tight, throat seared shut with shame.
He didn’t say I was awful. He hasn’t said much of anything. I pull the packet to my chest, my fingers nearly holding my arms, and walk from the backdrop towards my seat. I try not to think of anything else but my next step and your small nod, the minute curve of your lips noticeable now that I’m in front of the table.
My hand freezes in the middle of reaching for a seat, my breath caught in my throat for a moment before brain reconnects to body and I pull out the seat, sitting down. The script stays in my lap, fingers gripping the packet like the lifeline it is.
In the corner of my eye, I see your eyes darting towards me for a brief glance then back to the head of the table, my eyes following.
“—be waiting for your agent to confirm your booking. And we’ll contact you through another email soon, Mg. DeMayo.”
I misheard. The hum of the overhead lights rings in my ears as I stare blankly at him, my heartbeat loud in my head, surely loud enough for everyone else to hear.
“Thank you,” you say behind me, sounding like you were only waiting for him to say so, like you knew that those words were the last lines of this scene. Clumsily, I repeat your words, my voice blurry underneath all of the noise.
This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. I’ll wake up in my freezing cold apartment and wait for my landlord to pin an eviction notice on my door.
He continues without noticing any inner conflicts, “We’ll work on your chemistry next time, but I’d suggest practicing with each other before to strengthen your characters’ interactions with each others and to get used to working together. We’ll keep in touch.”
His hand reaches out over the table towards me, tilted down to where I’m sitting. It takes my brain a moment to work, for me to reach out and shake his hand hazily. When I let go, him turning to you then doing the same, you stand up and push in your chair, myself following your lead.
There’s one exit, so there’s one hallway to go down. Our shoulders don’t touch, but they come close, the distance between us too small for what you are. Before we’re far past the midpoint you stop and stare at me for what feels like the first time. Looking at me fully.
“Do you want to say in touch through email or number?”
I stare at you for a moment, your words catching up to my ears. “What?” I ask, before cutting myself off, saying, “Uh—number would be easier, wouldn’t it?”
You nod, pulling out your phone and stretching it towards me. “Call your number,” you say when I hesitate, my fingers tentatively latching onto your unlocked(!) phone, loaded onto the homepage, open for me.
I don’t linger with you watching me, putting in my number as slowly I reasonably can, desperate to savor this moment of trust between us. Eventually, I have to hand you back your phone, our fingers brushing when you pocket it, the contact making my heart jolt.
We walk down the hall without another word, but I don’t need it when my thoughts are racing faster than they ever have, adrenaline rushing underneath my skin. I’ve exchanged numbers before yeah, but it’s you.
You with my number in your contacts; you who will inevitably either call or text me to ask when we’ll start practicing scenes; you walking out of the door with me, reaching out and placing a hand on my shoulder, passing me a smile and a “See you soon.”
In the parking lot, my shoulder still electric, I sit in my car, all the windows raised, and scream into my hands.