The film maker is alone. Alone at last, at least. He stares into a single lightbulb. The light burns his eyes but he doesn't blink. Everytime you blink you miss a little part of life.
Silence. The film maker doesn't answer. He is alone. The white washed walls stare upon him in utter contempt. A superfluous point of life. He imagines them bathed in the orange glow of fire, the grey shadow of ash. The darkness of shadow. Anything that isn't there.
The voice says again. The film maker flinches slightly, ashamed at himself. He is alone. He is hearing things. The light flickers, the film maker does not blink.
Are you there? The voice asks again. Too much, all too much. On the brink of tears that would never come, the film maker turned his head towards the source of the voice. Nothing, just as he thought. The voice, the musician watches this. Watches his sole, soul companion stare past him and into the wall. He too shrinks against the wall. The room expands, more empty space.
The film maker lets the light burn away his tears. The film maker wishes everything would burn away. His skin prickles as he begins to sweat prematurely. Lonely, alone. He wants his companion back.
The musician has regained control of his senses and lost everything else. The film maker can contain it no longer, the tears leave hot trails down his sweaty face.
Stop it... He mumbles, the light becoming strangely painful. Stop it, stop, stop, stop, stop now. Alone, leave me alone. Stop it. He rocks back and forth and slips his hands over his ears. He is alone after all. There is no one there but himself. The rest is a figment created by his cruel, cruel mind. Mutiny.
The film maker grips his hair, rips it out, nails digging into skin. The blood runs along with the tears on endless tracks.
Mark it's me. Me, Mark, me.
WHY WON'T YOU STOP?! Mark, that was it. He was Mark. Identity found, alone no longer. He had himself. Himself and the voices. He turned to face the creation, his creation. His own personal Frankenstein.
The musician could feel the blood drain from him as his forever mate stared at him with those cold eyes. He reached out to touch him, a reassurance of his existence. For both of them.
The film maker watches the world turn grainy, old from generation after generation, copying the same old thing. He wants this illusion. He wants it so it hurts. As the musician touches his shoulder the film maker leaps to the musician. Real, real, reel life. How long has it been?
Astounded, the film maker, Mark stumbles backwards. He liked the light bulb. It was there as a piece of comfort, it didn't move or hurt anyone. It stayed there, providing light as it should. The musician is left alone again. These two boys so alone together.
The musician said again. He didn't like this alone. It wasn't suited to his character, more to Mark's.
No. No, no. Beyond comprehension. Beyond his wildest dreams, the film maker was alone and that was his lot. Barren wasteland of a man in a white room with a bare lightbulb that never died. Leave me alone. Barren wasteland of a man with a mind who played it's sadistic games. Go away.
The single syllable word was as good as it got. As far the reaches of his mind could go. The musician had watched his friend slide backwards, slip and fall. He never imagined him gone.
Me. Mark. Alone. His head cleared, his independant thought giving up. Fact is fact, Fiction, fiction. Never mix the two. Again the musician went to touch him. The film maker didn't move. Let the calloused, blisted fingers touch his bare arm. It was nothing anyway, a creation. He smiled cruelly and stepped foward to the musician. Body heat, hearts pulsing in time. Perhaps this was the way it was meant to be.
The lightbulb flickered and burnt out.