In Camera
IN CAMERA
“… certainly Hell for this viewer, forced to endure its full two and a half hour running length at the cinema. A meaningless, and gratuitously surreal, and salacious tale, about the banality of evil; or some other such glibness.
One Star.”
He hits Send.
Pain!
It grips; it clutches at his chest.
He drops his phone.
A fist wrapping his ribs. Clenched hard.
Don’t breathe, it says.
He struggles, flailing, fumbling up the last few steps; spilling his coffee.
Can’t breathe!
He falls to the carpet.
Chest wracked in spasms now, head cracking the last corner of the stairs.
He gasps like a fish, floundering.
Fading.
Graying out.
Passing
“…are you alright, sir?” a smooth, clipped voice, brings him back, and clears away the swirls of neon and dark in his head.
He can slowly breathe again.
His chest released.
“I…
“I…suppose so.” He slowly sits up, vision dimming in the effort.
“Yes. I think so.”
The side of his skull is numb with pain.
“Here. Let me help you.” A firm grasp of his forearm levers him feetward. “You’d best come along with me.” The tone is kind, but peremptory.
His head still fogged, he takes the man at his word, hoping only to sit down soon. He’s so unaccountably exhausted. So drained. What the hell just happened?
They pass beneath a neon lit sign; above a doorway, into darkness.
He recalls now, his current location; he is at the cinema, of course.
But shouldn’t he seek a doctor? Who is this person guiding him?
The man turns, something familiar in the set of his jaw, the straight blade of his nose. His reassuring manner.
The childhood feel of a grazed knee, being tended.
And gently lowers him into a seat.
“There we are, Sir; you’ll be right as rain in just a moment.”
Rest, at last.
“Unfortunately, however, you are late.” Says the man, with some sympathy. “So, I’m afraid you’ll just have to make the best of it.”
turning away abruptly. He leaves him to the darkness, rubbing his temple.
He breathes again, deeply this time. Easily now. The pain in his chest is gone. But his crisp blue shirt is damp with coffee and sweat.
He pays attention to his surroundings.
He is sitting at the rear of the theatre. His usual spot.
The screen is bright; but its tones subdued. Muted shades of an interior. A high angle shot of a staircase; credits rolling.
The film appears to be over.
The stark writing is getting smaller.
But a final scene plays out, the packed audience not moving. A sense of expectation, palpable. Awaiting some undisclosed finale.
On screen, a man in a suit is struggling up the stairs.
He is carrying a cup of coffee, texting, and sweating. He appears to be experiencing difficulty breathing; laboring now
A couple of snickers shatter the hush.
An icy feeling begins to creep within him.
Displayed in projection; his vast likeness, suddenly clutches at its heart, spilling coffee and phone, and stumbling.
The audience explodes with laughter and cheers.
He flops to the ground unmoving.
Alone.
The film ends.
The house lights go up.
The final image of himself; twist-legged, and prone on a stair; imprinted on his attention.
A slow rustle of movement is heard, which grows all around him; as every head in the cinema turns slowly, to face toward him.
He is numb. A hot and cold paralysis has invaded his body. And he can only gape.
“We just watched the story of your life mate,” drawls a man seated in front of him. “Saw everything.” He adds with a hint of accusation. “Mister Hollywood bigshot.”
“Yeh.” A woman near the front, stands, shaking her head and projecting her voice. “Just, wow.”
“Your poor wife,” laments a voice nearby. “Your poor, poor wife.”
“I…I didn’t mean it.” He hears his own feeble protest. “I didn’t set out to hurt anyone.”
“Even, just your like – public persona was toxic enough, man. Your pompous, know-it-all critiques ruined so many good people’s careers.” says a woman lower down. “Their lives.”
“ Which of course, brings us to the private side of your life…Jesus!” leers a man above.
“We had to sit through that!”
Shrinking in his seat, he turns about desperately; a sea of hostile frowns of disbelief. Everyone regarding him with disgust.
“I’m sorry OK. I was just being hedonistic and went along with it.” He wails in self pity. “It’s the business, man! Brings out the worst…
“Look I know it was wrong of me. I do.” he says, in a more measured tone. “I was being horribly selfish, I admit it. I didn’t care about people’s feelings, I know, and I’m truly sorry for it.
“But my career was everything!
“Dude. We didn’t just get to see what you did back there…” Says a young man leaning on a seat back.
“No,” a woman beside him looks across with horror. “We heard your internal dialogue too.” She spits out this last.
“We know everything you were thinking.”
“Yeh”
“Still trying to lie your way out of things.”
“You only ever held back from the very worst, out of fear, not out of consideration for others.”
“Coward!”
“You enjoyed inflicting pain.”
“Never once accepted responsibility…”
“Too busy feeling guilty and sorry for himself…”
“Should’ve suffered more at the end…”
“I think…”
booms a smooth, clipped; and recognisable voice, bringing a hush.
His rescuer.
“I think perhaps, we should make him watch the whole thing again. With us.”
“Yesss!” Hiss dozens.
“But that’ll take forever,” a whining child somewhere.
But
“Yes. Again.” insist the voices.
Again
Again.
the word falling like a hammer blow.
Again.
Like the closing of a huge door.
Again.