The finished script sits on the dresser near my bed.
My camera rests on top of the script.
I run fingers through my hair and pace the length of my room. Those two items on my dresser are what my brother has become. The thought feels like golf balls in my throat. I sit to calm down, but can’t focus for very long. Maybe something outside is watching me. I get up to look out the window and see no one. I close the blinds anyway. I stand above the dresser and look down at the camera guarding the script. I have trouble remembering if the camera’s position was my doing or not.
In the muted light of my basement room, I reach down to steal the script from the video camera.
I slide one finger carefully under the paper and recognize the weight of our movie. It feels good and official. I hesitate, let the story travel through the pages into my fingers, up my arm and into my brain, where it dominates the ghosts and tits that live there. With my other hand, I pull the stack of papers out from under the camera and set the machine back on the dresser. I return to the bed to flip through our script. There are little notes and corrections, highlighted with non-sequitur pictures of bats and gravestones. Most of the comments say nice or could use more and I wrack my brain trying to remember what more we needed. I flip through more pages.
I hear a sound from my dresser—a moving sound. I keep the video camera in my peripheral.
Every time I reread the script, I always stop before the end, but now I’m compelled to keep going. My heart races as I inch toward the final showdown between Detective Raimi and Ted. I turn the pages, mouthing the words. Paragraphs and dialogue mix together, becoming one big blob on white. I can’t stop. I brush some wetness off my cheek.
Again, I hear movement.
I stand, still holding the movie script in my hand. The papers tremble. I face the dresser, and the terror that lies on it. I feel foolish for believing that I could ever feel safe again.
The camera has turned around to face me. I see the silver ring around the lens turning, manually fixing the focus on me. Watching me. It makes a mechanical whirring noise and the red recording light flares up. It wants to document this moment. I stare deep into the black lens and see my brother
“Fuck you,” I say and rip the script to tiny pieces, letting the little white memories of my brother flutter to the floor. Tiny, paper ghosts.
Before I slam the door shut behind me, I hear the recording buzz stop and then silence.
End of tape.