running draft for opening of "Insomniac: A Fictional Method."


she's walking up with her light in my face. it's bright and burning my eyes, but i know better than to squint. method-acting.

(insert: first showcase- young. unshaven. unkempt hair. black rain-coat. a hat trying to cover his eyes. and a dirty shirt that he's probably been wearing for days. smoke bellowing out of his hand. trash brings trash brings filth and decay. i operate like a gallon of bleach. my duty is to clean.
to protect and serve.)
(as i process: she misunderstands us already. has she not seen the new glamorous? prompter fill her in over the television monitor.)
i wasn't just a passenger. but she didn't seem to care.
1: so why are you acting so nervous?
2: "because i'm afraid of having your gun pointed in my face."
1: and where are you going?
2: "just trying to get back to my place."
1: well it seems you're a little bit lost.
2: "not really. you were just in our way."

(insert: uneasy deliberate pause. this is when the light intensifies. but you have to keep your eyes wide open. but your pupils will tell her if this goes on too long. and the cigarette smoke is burning something awful. the whites are growing into reds. but you just keep the burning filter stuck neatly between your fingers. she points that light into your crotch. onto the floor. there's nothing. at your bag. a pause is inserted into the pause. . . .)
she walks away. with the basic information that leads to identity-theft. or tracing. and here's a chance to breathe. but i didn't take it. i refused to take it. the rush of blood from my head back out to the rest of my body was a euphoria i haven't felt in a long time. i can't even remember if this is real.
protector of the people. giving them heart-attacks so they don't have to deal with the remainder of their time here.

(insert real-time thought process: this is never a good time to snap-back. but really, she was in our way. but thats not of importance. she has a gun. i'm terrified of guns. i could run. there's the woods. but she knows my name. she knows me. she might shoot me. should could shoot me in the back. mental. control. just take a breathe, you're good. just don't let her get inside of you. don't let her fucking shoot you.)
she comes back with the light leading the way. it looks at me then moves to the driver.
1:"... this car matches the car that was used in a robbery tonight. an old buick... blue... some dents over here... on the driver's side."

(insert: push off the heart-attack. i haven't slept in days and i'm tired. i didn't rob a bank. don't shoot me and fucking let us go. you exist to p-r-o-t-e-c-t me. don't shoot me. what the fuck is going on? did i rob a bank last night? no. so don't fucking shoot me.)
an uneasiness creeps through the car amongst the clearings of throats, half-hearted chuckles, and uncomfortable squirmings, because, to be honest, no one is this car robbed a bank. the lights sprays out over my face.

fuck. i squinted. open your eyes. keep them wide. but not too wide. i try to see her face, but there's no real reason to even bother. what the fuck? we didn't rob a bank. i doubt there was a robbery at all. we'r-- (cut!).
i almost forgot she was standing there. but the white of the light disappeared and she spoke:
"have a safe night," she's spits out with tinges of uncertainty and disappointment as she walks back to her car.
discourtesy as subtle as can be. she didn't want us to have a good night. just a safe one. but my safe has a different meaning than hers. she'll never begin to understand the meaning of safe to me.

(insert choir to self: you will never understand what safe is. and you will never understand the filth. -they make it a maze to keep it that way.- so. just. let. go.)