Eight

February 21, 2006

Eight

I arrive at Studio 4 a little bit earlier than usual.
It’s too cold in here, my knee is the first to resent it. The A/C must’ve been running on high for a couple of hours. All the doors have been shut for a while. As my eyes get adjusted to the darkness of the place, I make out a figure somewhere infront of me. Slowly it starts to take shape. I squint and right there, sitting in my make-up chair is Marcia. She’s got her back turned towards me, but there are only so many people who’d wear their hair the way she does. A cold feeling climbs up my back and to the bottom of my head. I try to say something, but nothing comes out. My mouth is dry and my lungs seem to have run out of air. I come closer. The emptiness of the studio gets to me and I feel someone somewhere is hiding. Looking at me. Smiling. Expecting. Marcia’s still not saying anything. Neither am I. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing in my mouth to swallow. I take a deep breath. The freezing A/C air makes my lungs hurt. I take a step towards her. Nothing. My stomach feels like a hole had just been drilled into it. I take another step closer. I look around, there’s nothing there. Just the cameras, un-used sets and lots of props. I feel a drip of cold sweat go down my back.
Step.
Another cold drip follows the first one.
Step.
Everything seems ok.
Step.
But the studio is empty. Well, I am early.
Step.
Nothing seems out of order.
Step.
Except that there’s no one else there which could be because I’m early, but Marcia isn’t moving.
Step.
I tap her on the shoulder and she moves a little.
Breath.
Frozen sweat.
Pause.
I tap her again a little harder.
Her head violently swings back and hangs there. She seems to be looking straight at me. But she isn’t looking at anything. Not anymore.

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