Chapter 3
Panic
Christian was in an absolute panic.
He had gotten back to his home and threw the script onto the table. It scattered, but he didn't care. He sat and sulked over the extremely short conversation he and that so-called publisher had had that afternoon. After an hour of excessive sulking, he then got up to straighten the pile.
He was placing them it right order when he skimmed one page, and realized that that was not his writing; it wasn't even his style.
Scanning the story quickly, he realized it was about a man and woman in love, an artist and a rich Irishwoman, and something about a journal. He didn't take the time to read it all, even though he was rather intrigued because he hadn't the slightest clue who had written it.
But he gathered the papers and tucked them under his arm and marched back to the hoity-toity neighborhood, marched right up the steps of the townhouse and banged the knocker in eight rapid movements, then waited in stony silence.
The same butler answered the door, his nose turned up in the air this time. "Yes?" He asked.
"I need to see Mr. Williams." Christian informed the man.
"He is not taking any visitors right now." He began to close the door.
"Oh, but I'm not a visitor. I actually demand that I see him. Now. I want my script back."
The butler looked down at the papers in Christian's hand. "I believe you have your script, sir. Good day."
Christian placed his hand on the door, keeping it open. "This isn't mine. Some girl I ran into in the hallway switched-..."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Williams is unavailable. So, as I said sir, Mr. Williams will not be seeing anyone. You may check back later." The butler closed the door smartly in Christian's face.
Christian stared in stunned incredulity at the big blue door for a moment, before picking up the knocker again and knocking continuously, as hard as he could. He saw a maid peep out from behind a curtain in the front window, then quickly draw back as he made eye contact with her.
Giving up for the moment, but not completely, Christian stomped away and went back home.
He'd be back.
Hee paced the floors of his apartment, sitting in the window, sitting out on the roof, but he couldn't seem to stop thinking about his script. About what a huge mistake it had been to take it to a publisher. Especially the publisher he had taken it to.
Humiliated and weak spirited, Christian sighed. Maybe it wasn't time to go back into the world. Maybe he should stay clammed up, only going out when he needed food, the way he had been living. He was grateful for Toulouse, who was keeping rent for Christian by selling the script of Spectacular, Spectacular, among other things.
When night began to work it's way into the sky that looked bloodshot because of the dull yellow of the setting sun and streaming brilliant red clouds, he crawled inside and lit a couple of candles, then took a bite out of an apple that was sitting in an old wooden bowl on the table.
He looked over at the script that wasn't his. Shrugging his shoulders, he went to it, pulling the first page off. He read the beginning, and he could literally sense the sadness of the writer, this writer who had seemed to pour them selves into the writing.
It told of a man who was lonely, an artist. Who had moved around quite a bit, but was finally settling down in France. He had never been in love, had never even wished for it, until one day, during market, a mysterious redhead came into view, and he realized she was what he had been waiting for.
Christian didn't finish it. It hit too close to home. He threw the apple core into the trash and then drenched his face and hair in cold water, then dried off his face and hair and chest, then stripped off of the rest of his clothing before climbing into bed. The tiny clock he had been able to get said it was eleven o'clock.
And as Christian drifted off to sleep, he had no idea that the girl he had run into in that corridor was reading his story, was finding out all about his life, the life he had lived, and was crying for him.
Panic
Christian was in an absolute panic.
He had gotten back to his home and threw the script onto the table. It scattered, but he didn't care. He sat and sulked over the extremely short conversation he and that so-called publisher had had that afternoon. After an hour of excessive sulking, he then got up to straighten the pile.
He was placing them it right order when he skimmed one page, and realized that that was not his writing; it wasn't even his style.
Scanning the story quickly, he realized it was about a man and woman in love, an artist and a rich Irishwoman, and something about a journal. He didn't take the time to read it all, even though he was rather intrigued because he hadn't the slightest clue who had written it.
But he gathered the papers and tucked them under his arm and marched back to the hoity-toity neighborhood, marched right up the steps of the townhouse and banged the knocker in eight rapid movements, then waited in stony silence.
The same butler answered the door, his nose turned up in the air this time. "Yes?" He asked.
"I need to see Mr. Williams." Christian informed the man.
"He is not taking any visitors right now." He began to close the door.
"Oh, but I'm not a visitor. I actually demand that I see him. Now. I want my script back."
The butler looked down at the papers in Christian's hand. "I believe you have your script, sir. Good day."
Christian placed his hand on the door, keeping it open. "This isn't mine. Some girl I ran into in the hallway switched-..."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Williams is unavailable. So, as I said sir, Mr. Williams will not be seeing anyone. You may check back later." The butler closed the door smartly in Christian's face.
Christian stared in stunned incredulity at the big blue door for a moment, before picking up the knocker again and knocking continuously, as hard as he could. He saw a maid peep out from behind a curtain in the front window, then quickly draw back as he made eye contact with her.
Giving up for the moment, but not completely, Christian stomped away and went back home.
He'd be back.
Hee paced the floors of his apartment, sitting in the window, sitting out on the roof, but he couldn't seem to stop thinking about his script. About what a huge mistake it had been to take it to a publisher. Especially the publisher he had taken it to.
Humiliated and weak spirited, Christian sighed. Maybe it wasn't time to go back into the world. Maybe he should stay clammed up, only going out when he needed food, the way he had been living. He was grateful for Toulouse, who was keeping rent for Christian by selling the script of Spectacular, Spectacular, among other things.
When night began to work it's way into the sky that looked bloodshot because of the dull yellow of the setting sun and streaming brilliant red clouds, he crawled inside and lit a couple of candles, then took a bite out of an apple that was sitting in an old wooden bowl on the table.
He looked over at the script that wasn't his. Shrugging his shoulders, he went to it, pulling the first page off. He read the beginning, and he could literally sense the sadness of the writer, this writer who had seemed to pour them selves into the writing.
It told of a man who was lonely, an artist. Who had moved around quite a bit, but was finally settling down in France. He had never been in love, had never even wished for it, until one day, during market, a mysterious redhead came into view, and he realized she was what he had been waiting for.
Christian didn't finish it. It hit too close to home. He threw the apple core into the trash and then drenched his face and hair in cold water, then dried off his face and hair and chest, then stripped off of the rest of his clothing before climbing into bed. The tiny clock he had been able to get said it was eleven o'clock.
And as Christian drifted off to sleep, he had no idea that the girl he had run into in that corridor was reading his story, was finding out all about his life, the life he had lived, and was crying for him.