With a fire in her step, the redheaded girl trotted down the dusty dirt track to her rural home. The warm breeze sent a flutter through her floral cotton dress. Her heart clenched with anticipation at telling her family, but her smile faltered as she noticed a gap in the ramshackle doorway.
"Dad?" Anna called out, noticing his tractor peeking out the shed.
Gingerly, she edged the door open. The curtains had been drawn; air stiff and muggy like the first day of summer. A foreboding presence raised the hairs on her spine. She held her breath and swept into her bedroom. At once, she's confronted by an imposing man, shotgun perched on his hip. Caught like a deer in the headlights, Anna tried to swallow away the tidal wave of fear threatening to drown her. She only managed to clutch onto the door when she realised her end had come, and all too soon. Too soon to experience the glitz of Hollywood, or the fulfilment of her film dreams.
Still, she tried to bargain her way out of her impending doom.
"I'm telling you," Anna implored, empty hands upturned before her, "I ain't got the money-"
The man scoffed, tipping his cowboy hat upwards, so she could see the hatred in his eyes.
"I know you don't," he scowled, voice deep and ominous, like death himself was speaking, "I'm only here to offer you one last bargain-"
Anna bit down on her lip, terrified of making deals with the devil. She edged away from the man, without realising there was no way in hell she could outrun his bullets.
"Tell me where your husband is, and I might offer you a chance to live," he uttered.
This time, she crumbled backwards, her destruction all but assured. It took her a few tries before she managed to stutter out a terse, "I swear on my life sir, I haven't the slightest clue-"
He raised his shotgun, gaze locked on the girl, "Just as I thought."
Anna gasped as the shotgun blast knocked her into the next room. Grimacing, she clutched at her waist, eyes widening at the crimson spreading through the fabric. Expecting to feel pain, she only gritted her teeth as a lingering numbness spread through her body. Daylight burned into her eyes, before being blotted out by his enormous frame as he lined the barrel over her head.
Coughing blood, the girl only managed to choke out, "Son-of-a-bitch" before he blasted her in the face.
"Cut!" Kristoff's voice boomed through the set.
Anna sat upright, wiping the fake blood from her lips, which tasted like strawberry syrup. Not like strawberries, which the Carlsons' grew in bramble bushes stretching as far as the eye could see. Syrup. Fake, chemical tasting syrup. Fake like everything around her. Despite fully understanding the fiction of her surroundings, she still flinched when the actor put down the prop shotgun. Anna shifted away from him, eyes widened at the menacing aura he possessed. Alarmed at the blood on her hands, at the veil which refused to lift from her eyes, and the violent throbbing in her chest. She sucked in a gasp as her lungs threatened to cave in.
"It's ok, it's ok," he said, holding out a hand. Kristoff pointed a thumbs up, "we did it in one take, that's a wrap."
Her hands began to shake, but she allowed him to help her onto a couch. Her throat closed in terror at the ugly red scrawl on the floor where she'd supposedly been killed, and it wasn't until Kristoff walked over and held her close, that she began to calm down.
"You really put everything into your scenes, don't you?"
Anna stared back at his unfamiliar brown eyes, a moment before the veil lifted from her eyes, and she caught sight of the cameras and lights around her. The crew had already started to pack.
"If you knew where I came from," Anna answered, returning to her natural accent, "you'd understand why it's all-or-nothing."
Without another word, Anna rose and headed off to find the stylists, or anyone who could help clean the blood off her face. Unfortunately, they were all busy with errands from the leading actresses. She's left with a rag in hand, and began wiping the scarlet smear on her face and neck in the dressing mirror. A shimmering fragment of fear threatened its resurgence, as the crime drama's plot still hung over her head like a storm cloud.
"It's over," Anna whispered to herself, trying and failing to stop the shaking in her hands, "no more shooting. This show's done."
It took every ounce of energy within Anna to suppress her character, and she still flinched when Kristoff dropped a cheque on her still-bloodied lap, followed by another script.
"Everyone gets a bonus for finishing this shoot ahead of time."
"What's this?" Anna asked, picking up the script.
"The next show I'm filming," Kristoff answered, "It's right up your alley. Very intense female lead. One of the most famous in Hollywood. You don't even have to try out for this one. I mean, assuming you want this."
Anna nodded out of instinct, clutching the script like it was her ticket to freedom.
"This is a big production company," Kristoff reminded, "please try to stick to the script next time."
Kristoff left, leaving the girl staring at her own bloodied face and scarcely recognising the image staring back at her.
In the back of her mind, Anna pondered how many other people's lives she'd have to act out, before she could finally live her own.
A/N: Film scene is based on the confrontation between Carla Jean and Anton Chigurh, No Country for Old Men