One

The shriek of his laughter rang in her ears as her blood dripped onto the tarmac. Pain washed over her, and hot tears prickled behind her eyes, but she would not cry in front of him. Whatever she did, she could not show weakness.

‘I’m sorry — I’m sorry,’ he gasped, clutching his sides. ‘It’s just — your face —‘

She forced a polite smile as she scrabbled to pick up the towering pile of scripts that flew across the parking lot when she tripped, taking with them half the skin of one of her kneecaps. Her knee roared and blood trickled down to her suede ankle boots as she frantically tried to smooth out pages and brush the worst of the gravel off. She’d almost gotten them back into a neat pile when she spotted one that had skidded farther than the rest — right underneath a car —

His car. 

The black vintage 356 every guy in this town thought gave them edge even though it was a sixteenth birthday gift from mommy and daddy. Time slowed as the engine roared to life and brake lights flashed red —

’No, no — stop!’

Too late. He backed out at speed. Arcade Fire blared from his speakers, and the front wheel swivelled right on the pages. He twisted the steering wheel with one hand, floored the gas, and roared into the night.

No, no, no —

It couldn’t be. Her heart pounded in her chest as she scrabbled across the tarmac. Please, don’t let it be —

The first draft of the new M Night Shyamalan project that Mel Gibson was rumoured to be circling. One of only three copies in existence. The pretentious Porsche had destroyed it. 

Icy horror washed over her as she picked up the beleaguered pages, torn, squished and covered in tyre tracks and oil. They would fire her. Hell, given how precious this follow-up to The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable was, she wouldn’t be surprised if they arrested her. 

Trying to wipe at the oil with the hem of her dress, she only succeeded in adding blood from her knee into the mix. Tears flowed as she stuffed the scripts into the backseat of her crappy car, vaguely noting that the oil and blood would likely stain the back seat. She sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, staring mindlessly at the windscreen as dry sobs echoed through her, and realised it was his fault. 

If he hadn’t distracted her by laughing, she’d have picked up all the scripts, and he wouldn’t have driven over this one. Didn’t he see it skid under his car? Did he do it on purpose?

Rage churned through her as she finally turned the ignition. It was gone 1 a.m., yet the parking lot wasn’t deserted. Seven or eight cars remained, including Studio Head Walter Holt’s. 

Nerves prickled down her spine. She was supposed to read every script in the pile on her own time, which implied they expected to have some of her own time. Of course, if Walter Holt came out right now, he would see the Porsche gone and her car still there. 

She pulled back into her space and grabbed the script at the top of the pile, an adaptation of a Dennis Lehane novel. Her knee throbbed, and words danced before her exhausted eyes as she tried to concentrate. A little boy in Boston in the sixties got into a stranger’s car.

She opened her phone to make a call.

The next time she saw laughter-boy, he was taking her coffee order on Sunset. Their gaze met. His eyes widened as he recognised her and realised his mistake. She figured he learnt his lesson, but Hollywood wasn’t a town that gave second chances.

Too bad, so sad.

 

1. Who do you think "she" is?!

2. Do you think the guy did it on purpose?

3. Which character are you most looking forward to seeing again?