fiction - brigits_flame - acting

[hwango]

ACT 1, SCENE 1
[An apartment, sparsely furnished. JOHN enters. He appears weary and despondant. He collapses into a chair and sits for a moment, his face in his hands. He lifts the receiver from a phone, dials, then waits a moment.]

JOHN
Hey, it's me. The audition went really well - I got the lead. I know, right? It's this crazy experimental thing. I play an out of work actor who thinks he got a part in a play, but the whole thing is just in his head, and ultimately he becomes totally disconnected from reality. Yeah. No, I am happy, it's just...I got the part because my performance was just so amazingly convincing, and that kind of has me worried. Like, I can't tell if I'm just really in character right now, or if I've gone crazy and imagined the whole thing. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Okay. Thanks. Bye.

[John hangs up the phone. He looks thoughtful for a moment, then reaches down and picks up the phone cord, revealing that it is not plugged into the wall.]

JOHN
Damn, that's not a good sign.

[No, it isn't.]

JOHN
Oh, crap, that's not a good sign either.

[Indeed. John gets up out of the chair and nervously paces the room.]

JOHN
No, I'm too tired.

[Work with me here, John.]

JOHN
Go to hell.

[If that's how you want it, John. Don't say I didn't give you a chance.]

JOHN
What's that supposed to mean?

[Surrendering to madness and despair, John opens the drawer of his desk and takes out a pistol.]

JOHN
The hell John does. John doesn't give up that easily.

[John doesn't really have a lot of say in the matter.]

JOHN
We'll see about that. The playwright, realizing he has lost control over his only character, himself succumbs to despair. What was he thinking, penning this bizarre, self-referential mess?

[Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?]

JOHN
He's really written himself into a corner now. What possible satisfying ending can such a play have? What will he do now?

[John crosses his arms in challenge, a smug expression on his face.]

The camera pans back to reveal a harried-looking playwright in the next apartment staring blankly at his typewriter. Suddenly, both John and the playwright turn to face each other, though a wall prevents them from seeing one another. Creepy, discordant music fades in.

JOHN
Well played.

The screen fades to black.