the final girl.

sarah prescott kinney. actress. b list. - fairy tales have rules. you're a princess or you're not. you're pure at heart or you're not. if you're pure at heart, ( or lucky ) you might catch a break.

[charlesirons]

This is where he'd normally laugh. There was an easiness in him, good-natured, kind-hearted, comfort-laced life where an immunity to misfortune grows. He feels the emptiness where that part of him should be right now, where it always has been. The same sensation one gets when one loses a limb; he's heard their bodies remember what's missing, itch what no longer is attached to them, sense pain where it's been severed.

The muscle in Charles' neck shifts, a sign of something being swallowed back: a thought or word, something of the like. Even he can't pinpoint it, only knows that the response is not what he was looking for.

"Do you?" he finally positions back, returning the favor. His voice, unlike hers, isn't weak. It's not meant to cut, but it demands a conversation.

The question settles, cooling in the night, before he takes a half-step forward, an attempt to regain her attention. "You can be brutally honest with me, I promise," he goes on, "and if you believe it's nonsense, I'll accept it, but do you believe that would have happened had we been on a proper set?"

[sarahkinney]

charles has been unfailingly nice to her. he has tried to one up some line that he set for himself since he handed her a brand new cell phone with no strings attached. she still doesn't understand it, a clouded layer on top of the questions he's continuing to pile up before her. the cars to drive, the lunches on break from dunkirk, everything that points towards

"a proper set?" the question has a direct answer, she can still hear the sound of the saw on the table, how close she'd pulled charles to her in the moments after. it also has its connotations, the unsettling way footsteps creak through the hall. she can blackout many things from her life, she can ignore this if it means some modicum of safety.

"what are you trying to say?" her eyes cut back to him, the flash of a thread about to snap with the pressure she's suddenly facing. if she were a better person she might take a deep breath. but, she's never been the better person, she's only been in disguise as one when he smiles at her from set chairs.

"just say it." the words are harsher than she means, she can't take them back, "you don't think this is proper set, why?"

[charlesirons]

There are certain aspects that are built into someone's core memories. They hold a foundational element that which everything is built off of, and leaves other thoughts or scenarios simply unfathomable. A house without people holding it together is one of them, and Sarah's response leaves him questioning in silence. Yes, they have the crew. Their crew. Is Julian controlling enough to demand what occurs to everything on location, even outside of filming? This is Sebastian's property in the end. And yet there's no sign of anyone who helps, makes meals, cleans linens, does groundwork, nothing. It's not normal.

He's held his breath without knowing until it's released in a long, quiet stream, shoulders shifting in the movement while he readjusts to hide it out of instinct. "Perhaps it's me," he confides for a moment. Perhaps it is. Perhaps not. The feeling doesn't shake away with a shrug. "I don't believe there are enough people with us to keep up appearances, though." It's a soft suggestion to something deeper, something troubling, something that Charles can't put to words completely. He's reminded of his mother again, a worried thought to trivial, superficial troubles. But that's not the true concern. Those are only symbols to the bigger problem.

"There was quite the mess left behind from earlier." Shattered mirror. Destroyed table. "What if it's still there in the morning for us?"

[sarahkinney]

what if it was? she couldn't think through the logic of his question. the house is silent, but she's used to hearing the creaks and groans of something which has been left to decay. she'd rather push it all from her memory, even as charles continues to try and pull back the curtains towards some other dark corner.

"set decor." the phrase seizes something in her chest, her brain already trying to bury the idea that something bad could have happened. it didn't, they were still here. it could all be resolved by asking julian, seeing if people had been dismissed. but does she want to know?

"why do you keep asking me?" she gazed across the balcony and into the woods, avoiding his leveling gaze. her tone already wavers, but she doesn't crumble yet. "why don't you feel safe?"

[charlesirons]

"You never do." There's a veil of a tease there, a catch of a smile to go along. It's too sheer to hide what it hangs over, something equally genuine and unusual to a member of a family like his to see. The lineage is built on transactional principles, an unspoken truth and rather hard to remove oneself from. Sarah will uncertainly wake up one day to a surprise thank-you, regardless of want. It's in the nature of things. Charles' only difference is that he cares.

The sky purples, reddish hue turning bluer with every minute. They haven't been here for very long, but he already knows the night isn't promised to be silent. Nocturnal noises are frequent, some others are harder to justify, coloring outside of what's expected from the forest that surrounds them.

"I'm sure you must be used to eerier filming locations," he moves on, "but do you believe it's only us here?" It's an odd thought to voice aloud, but there are certain instances that strike him, enlightened by the accident (or perhaps inflamed by it), no one outside their little group came to see, more importantly no one else came to help. This could all be in his mind, a casualty of shaky circumstances.

"I'm aware of how this sounds," he prefaced, "but there's no staff I've seen. Have you noticed?"

[sarahkinney]

she hadn't thought of locations as able to hold anything. the houses with their ancient histories, the lakes with stories and stories. in the end they were only buildings, bricks, places. it was the people that she was wary of, or as charles noted, the lack there of.

"staff?" the word conjures up the black-suited butlers of old, elders standing in the corner waiting to be summoned. she hadn't expected service when she agreed to come to the mansion, then again, how could she have. "we've got the crew." those willing to fly across the country for their work. it was still as familiar as her career could be.

"julian doesn't keep many people on set." maybe that was the discrepancy— he just was used to a busy space. this was particularly quiet, even given what she'd remembered of the late nights working on identity. she remembered her own near-misses, the sound of the claudia falling down a set of stairs with the same exhaustion. "and the work doesn't stop."

[charlesirons]

He'd laugh if the locale was different. A pleasant trip in Monaco at sunset, the hum of cars tearing beneath the only distraction. Instead, they're in the back-country of Virginia, where the air has a burning scent to it, the colors are monotone, and the feelings echo back what one can see. His body can only do so much besides a smile that's growing lopsided and a breath that escapes, a kind but hollow shell of a laugh. Tomorrow perhaps he could muster more convincing behind it, but the intention is the same no matter the day.

"I hate to disagree," he tells her, "but I absolutely do." He means it. Every fiber of his being means it. It shines in his eyes. He's a lone wolf in his bloodline to know what gratitude means; though, it doesn't make him an expert in the field. There's a pause that follows as he tries to find the words.

"If you hadn't noticed it… Well, the scene would have been horribly… realistic, I suppose," he ends with, a tone lighter than what triggers in the mind. He now has a finer knowledge to his mother's darker feelings, a mental twitch of what if. He hopes his will clear better than hers, and even more so that it will never reach her to add on. He keeps his mouth closed on the subject to Sarah.

"So, yes. I do, very much, owe you," he picks back up again, turning his back to the view to face her better, a twist to levity that's in dire need around here. "Unless you're here to change my mind."

[sarahkinney]

she did notice, but she didn't say so. she didn't want to make real the scenario where they were in danger, how could she. she didn't know how to get herself out of those situations, the way it always seemed to follow her— finding her way back to unwitting victim no matter how many times she’d played the final girl. she didn’t want to drag charles into that spiral, the thoughts continuing to echo danger that was no longer supposed to touch any of them.

instead of trying to verbalize as much, she offers a helpless shrug, the weight sliding off her shoulders. “i can’t change your mind.” she’s put up a weak fight in the past, but she knows it’s impossible. charles was set in his ways, predetermined to see her in the best light possible. “but i don’t want anything.”

[charlesirons]

He would have never thought he'd miss home like this. Perhaps near-death experiences do that to people. This was meant to be a great opportunity, to become a better actor, push the boundaries, not to the point of losing a limb. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, but Charles' veins remained on edge after filming wrapped for the day, a sharp hum he wasn't used to. He was relieved his body kept still when he heard Sarah behind him.

"You're the first since the scene," he told her, a smile over his shoulder as if they were in on a joke where you'd have to be there to get it. He guessed that's what it would one day be: a crazy tale to share at press junkets and cast interviews. It would eventually be over and all of this would be an interesting anecdote. It would have to be.

"I owe you, you know."

[sarahkinney]

charles’ smile was easy, the same model that seemed to find its way whether someone is asking about the weather or what he wanted from catering. ever polite, ever collected, ever continuing. she almost didn’t believe that he could be the one they’d chosen to enact equal measures terror and terrorizing on the screen— a far cry from any other role she’d seen of him.

she feels a shock, a low-grade concern for something she’s done or hasn’t. her alligence has been to julian, the passing shrug when their instructions were given, as though they're merely players on the same team. she can only think of today, unable to scrape back to any prior, unwilling to categorize this experience just yet.

her expression flutters, the barest smile that gives only an anxious start. she feels, not for the first time, that charles often invents equality for them. the benevolent recipient of all his excess good will. it’s hard to imagine either of them have any leverage in this place.

“you don’t owe me anything.”

[sarahkinney]

@charlesirons; the steele plantation

the halls of this mansion had trapped in darkness, closing the walls around her in a way that was staring to claw at her. the second floor balcony was one of the only places that she'd been able to find routinely unlocked. why that might be couldn't cross her mind, she was doing her best to just keep the lines she had straight whenever filming happened to occur.

everyone was distracted, she couldn't be. she refused to be. the balcony would provide enough relief for a few more hours. this time, it seemed as though it had been found by someone else— a familiar face for the stone and gloom.

"have you seen anyone else today?"

[sebastianxsteele]

@sarahkinney

He's curious. Food has grown to be an inconvenience in its lack thereof. He has no desire to replenish it by means others rely on from Los Angeles. Trips to stores are not an option on this land. What lies on this ground makes sure of it. What's been given to them are two choices: hunt or succumb to death. He never specified what to hunt. Why limit creativity?

"Careful," he speaks because his footing won't. Those leather soles make no sound, even in the woods where the trees are bare and the ground is littered in their foliage. One of the boots kicks a pile of them up, nearly before they fall, the ground springs up and clamps around the dead leaves, a metallic ring left in the air from the bear trap that was sprung next to her foot.

"You're tempting cannibalism too easily, contract Kinney.--Make them try venison first, will you?"

[sarahkinney]

the trap fires quickly, sending her stumbling back before she can control her movement. avoiding danger is always the first thought, a bird that's been taught flight and flight again. the feeling stays as she looks at sebastian with wide eyes, a deer in the crosshairs, but one that hasn't yet been shot. one with time still to flee. but so often there isn't a metaphor for the situations she finds herself in. there is merely her, facing danger.

the nod is barely there, as though her brain hasn't come up with the words yet that will scrape together a thank you. she's not certain there's anything there to be thankful for. her options have dwindled through the days— though she'd thought she'd managed to stay off of his radar. "they won't like it."

[sarahkinney]

JULIAN.

He has never questioned his own vision, his thoughts, his focus. The world is seen through a lens before putting it on 35mm film, directed by his hand. It’s not labelled as control; it’s labelled as being right. The blowing horn of a train barrelling down was not in the script, but it still happened. The sound of his skull being crushed sits on the other side of the railroad tracks, a flashing thought seen between the cars. Sometimes he still sees it, knowing that post would never be able to get it right without hearing it first. Like Annie teaching James, there would be no other way but show-and-tell.

Julian’s lips remain tightly sewn together. He’s not better. There was nothing wrong for there to be a better. But he’s not talking to James. He’s talking to Annie. She’s being molded right in front of him. “Why him?” he questions. “He is not the only writer. Why choose him?”

“you’ve never had art speak to you?” it’s half annie, half genuine. of course it didn’t have to to be this writer, it didn’t have to be any particular movie or tv show. but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t. “you couldn’t explain why? but you just knew that you were meant to be?” as though the words upon the page had leapt up and wrapped themselves around annie, filling in all the space in you where there had been nothing but void. 

“not why him above others—it couldn’t be anyone else.” the sentence sits well as comfort for a moment, as though she’s soothed the part of her character that was still desperate for connection. if it sinks any further, it might become something more troubling. she refuses the thought. “like calls to like, right?”

[sarahkinney]

marc.

The champagne has been ordered. It sits in its ice bucket to the side, the glasses still fizzing from the recent pour. Sarah Kinney is tinted in gold from the short sip he takes, noticing he’s drinking alone, unreciprocated from the congratulatory toast he’s made to her.

“We’ll pencil in a time for us to compare notes on the naysayers who can make you think that way, but the here-and-now is yours. You’ve earned it, and on behalf of The Academy, we want to extend a personal shoutout to one of our MVPs.” His smile guarantees his sincerity, but a homerun is incomplete unless you’ve crossed all four bases. “We all want to give credit where credit is due, but Barry Bonds didn’t tell the B.W.A.A. that his award should go to all of the San Francisco Giants, and he had some to spare.”

there are still some parts of her that buzz with disbelief when she has these conversations. that of all the contracts she could be one of the best, that she could be turning down awards and making executives second guess their words. perhaps it will never wear off, but it is certainly less sharp than it had been prior to this project. not every girl stays nominated in the lead actress category, but she hasn’t done nice things to get there. the buzz turns hotter, something in her veins that will not find its way to cool. 

“it’s just me.” she was only at this table because of her agent, eager to see the switch from scream queen to respected actress. never taking into account that while the points had been much lower, at least there had been sanity. now she has herself to contend with. “i’m the only one opposed.” she hadn’t exactly told anyone, but word found a way out of marc’s mouth regardless she figured. if it were true and there was an offer on the table anyways. “why do i have to be the nominee.” 

[sarahkinney]

@marceloxrico​

there is a certain hollowed out feeling to live in the aftermath of disaster. as though her mind is trying to empty her out of all feeling, prevent anything worse from happening. but there are ways to fight this. she’s learned now that the only thing worse than watching a person die in front of her is to surrender to being a ghost herself. she clicks the pen in her hand, resists driving it into the table just to leave the mark. 

“i don’t want an award.” pen clicks again, agitation built up. no awards, not for the beguiled, not for everything they’ve gone through. she wants the film to disappear into the murky fog, never to be talked of again. and she doesn’t need another award nomination for what she should be in jail for. instead she thinks of all the people who were trapped, “it’s an ensemble film anyways.”

[sarahkinney]

SAM.

You didn’t expect the girl with no name to stay with you. You didn’t really expect anything about the girl with no name. The conversation had ended, and with it her existence should have also evaporated into obscurity just like her origins. But here she is still, asking questions while you’re working. It’s not annoying. These are simply the facts.

“I don’t need another one,” you answer her about her available hands. Where she’s managed to find ones to barter with doesn’t matter; you have two of your own and two from the unconscious man. You are hand rich with your surplus of fingers and thumbs. She sounds like she wants his feet in exchange. It’s a transaction you have not heard of before, but perhaps it would do you both some good.

“You can take them.” You look at her. She is a girl by herself. You see no saw. “I have tools you can borrow.”

confusion creeps through her thoughts, entangling itself in each thought, running through her mind in the place of coherent thoughts or questions she could be asking. it’s as though she’s missed a step in the conversation, some fundamental piece that would make it all coherent. she doesn’t know who’s at fault, it’s just as likely that she blinked through the polite small talk. 

with both answers given to her question, she has no choice but to reset. take everything from the talk. there is nothing impolite in double checking instead of overstepping. there is nothing wrong with her at all. “sorry— do you need help or not?” she’s never considered tools as a crucial part of getting a drunk person into a car. something itches, thought there is nothing wrong with her, that doesn’t mean that there is anything right with the situation. the creeping feeling finds its way down her spine. “i can leave.”

[sarahkinney]

JULIAN.

A stony exterior exists, expression of perpetual irritation chiseled into his face, but a statue is only a statue if the outside matches the inside. Happiness defined as a person holds weight, even when it doesn’t translate in the straight line that’s formed from the lips or the rigid eyes etched in thought. Isn’t there a difference when a particular person meets his gaze that no one else is capable of conjuring? But that doesn’t belong in this scenario.

“That’s what they are doing? Working together?” he questions. Work. That single word means so much in his lexicon. That was This is not any work he knows. “They are working together when she burns him? When she drowns him?” Wake up. The inside of his cheek is bit, holding it there for a beat until shaking his head. “That makes her happy?”

“if he’s not— if he’s not seeing things correctly. if he was confused...” the burning, the drowning, wrapping her hands around another’s throat and squeezing just to feel the pulse just to know they’re there with her. it’s not territory she knows. she has been cast as victim not perpetrator in life and in film. there is no word for survivor that matches annie’s description. but she is trying. she thinks in crooked and uncertain pathways, trying to find violence that is synonymous with love. trying not to let her father kick her childhood bedroom door in. “then she’d want him to know. that there was another way.”

her way. if only he would just see. the thoughts pattern and populate in her head, a quite revulsion as though her own mind can’t quite accept. and it doesn’t have to, they are just talking about characters, this is just a movie. “it will make her happy.” the door stays firmly locked, memories kept on the other side. “it will make them both better.”

[sarahkinney]

JULIAN.

Closure is an anchor. With the right kind, the kind that is complete with answers and stitched with finality, it will be grounding. With the wrong kind, the kind that is heavy and incomplete, it will make you struggle while your feet are in cement. The lines are becoming blurry, especially to eyes that are used to razor-sharp precision. His lips part, an instinctual action ripped from a grimace, but the words are snatched off his own tongue; the culprit is only himself. There are missing blanks that need to be filled. The only one who can do the write-ins is gone, and there is only room for a proxy. His tongue presses hard against the back of his clenched teeth while he watches her, scraping together his own focus to destroy whatever smudges are preventing a clear picture.

He is her world. He is her happiness. There’s a tightness to the eyes as if they’re inspecting the words themselves. “He is her curse,” he adds instead of rewrites. “He has her happiness? It is up to him to give it to her. She cannot take it back from him. She’d do anything for him? Or? To be happy? Which one?”

“can’t it be both?” she doesn’t know if happiness can be a person, if just having one singular person is enough to get through everything. she has no proof to back this up, there’s only the thought that james controls her future. “can’t happiness be a person?” maybe she’s picked the wrong word, that it’s something closer to security, safety, the knowledge of some comfort that she can’t figure out without her stomach twisting into some anxious knot. untangling it is a different monster all together.

“it’s not always a curse if you know who it is. she’s answered too quickly, answer pulled from impulse. she doesn’t know if it’s from her, or the part of her that’s trying to think through annie. the difference between the two is supposed to be crystal clear, but she’s not sure, and she doesn’t have time to check. “or what it is.” which ever answer he deems correct fit now, and she will adjust as directed. “then you can work on it, together.”

[sarahkinney]

SAM.

Has anyone told you that you’re lucky to be alive? No one knows this fact better than your own family, at least the ones that are old enough to remember what you were like when you were at ground zero in your configuration stage. What’s more surprising is that those same members are still alive to tell the tale of when you took Tennessee honey too literally. Jack Daniels has a special place on the shelves, now, and it’s nowhere near garden shears that have drywall dust on them. You have learned two drinks is the maximum, but you still do not know the meaning behind a hangover. Not personally. This girl seems to have a better understanding.

“Yes,” you reply. “He’ll be hanging over.” Do you find it funny? No. But you grin with wide teeth. You have successfully made a joke. The joke is over and you go back to neutrality like someone has had to reboot you from system failure. It happens to the best of us.

Normal conversation has ended. Little do you know that it never started. You turn away from the girl with no name with the friend you didn’t know you had. The back of your Land Rover is now open, and you start to lift the friend into it. His head is scraping into the floor. That’s fine. Better than the condition of your back that you didn’t know was bleeding from a scrap piece of metal. Construction yards do have the effect on a lot of people. Too bad they don’t shrink people to fit into your vehicle.

“i uh—” she’s never been finely tuned on the art of reading people. the only person she’d ever had to try to understand was her father, which resulted in the assumption that everyone was out to get her. that wasn’t the case, she was assured time and time again by agents and therapists, and the odd psychiatrist now. people were on the whole, not so bad. sure he’s turned away rom the conversation ,but she takes a breath in. it’s because he’s struggling with his friend, not anything that she’s actively done. 

“do you need a hand?” the unconscious guy’s head hits something with a hollow sound, and she winced at the mirrored feeling. he was going to be more than hungover after this, but that was a night of drinking. it wouldn’t be the first person she’s helped drop on a sofa to wake up disoriented and in need of aspirin. she’s too focused on the scrape to notice much else about the situation, sick memories paired with clouded judgement as she tried to move her gaze from the body to just anywhere else. “i can grab his feet.”

[sarahkinney]

SAM.

@sarahkinney​

In another life, you would make a good bounty hunter. But because you never cared for sci-fi, parallel universes mean nothing to you. Tonight, you come the closest to being that other version of you that you will never think of. It’s like you to make it your own. Besides, you don’t know how to be anyone else but the you you know. That other version may have been chasing a fugitive, but the you that’s you is collecting a debt in human form. You’re in a parking lot that no one trusts. There is one light that works in the whole overgrown plat of broken concrete, and you happen not to take advantage of it like all the flying insects in Los Angeles. I guess no one needs to see the unconscious man whose heels are being dragged across like he’s a ragdoll. That comes with how you’re holding him with only one arm around his waist, walking to your Land Rover, business as usual. You’d tie him to the roof if no one told you how police officers get when they see that. You start to wonder if you’re going to have to saw his ankles off to fit in the back. There’s only one way to find out.

But there’s a potential problem. You may not have cared for the light, but looks like someone is taking it off of your hands. You don’t stop, but you watch her. You have two choices allocated to you. You will either pretend things are fine, or you will add her to the Land Rover. Her ankles will not need to be sawed off, but you would have to drop the man to get your gun from your pocket. You don’t have the time. Small talk is over in approximately fifty seconds with a stranger.

“How you doing?” you ask her. Joey from Friends is likable. He gets many laughs. No one ever suspects Joey from Friends. You’re missing the smile. It comes suddenly and without warning, spring-loaded. You expect a laugh like on television. Chances are you will get a scream.

she knew that she shouldn’t walk so much anymore, that there were cars and she could schedule pick ups. that was what they reminded her happened with a change in status. she was doing well now, there was no need to pretend that she was still in wisconsin, struggling to get through a day. she shouldn’t walk, because there’s paparazzi and fans, and every so often people trying to just start random conversation with young girls. the two men across the parking lot prove the point, stopping her in her tracks as she thinks about the quickest way to exit the situation. 

she’d almost pretend she didn’t hear it, but then he smiles. “better than your friend.” she’s seen it all before, having to be carried home from the bar, shoved in the backseat of the first car willing to drive. it’s not even unique to los angeles. “he’s going to have a hell of a hangover.”

[sarahkinney]

JULIAN.

“Bullshit,” his voice cuts throughout his office, a slice that’s deep enough to draw blood if the walls were made of flesh. But the only flesh is tied to the two skeletons in the room, one standing with a scalpel for a tongue, posed at the one whose sitting, words defending what has no defense. “It makes him human? To what? To accept? To not pay attention? No. It makes him a fucking fly.” Wrapped up in spidersilk, awakening in a chair unable to move, watching the spider play with electricity. His nose flares instinctively, breath taken and tossed out as soon as it’s captured. “What thought did he have? None! He trusted her? How?” His hand flashes up to twist at the wrist, annoyance in such a simple motion. “It is trust? Or? Incompetency?”

Eyes bore into her, a demand for something that cannot be given back to him, something that she has no possession of, only by proxy. The moment lasts until his tongue clicks off the roof of his mouth, back of his teeth pressed against by the tip of it, grating unspoken thoughts against the row. This is Misery. This is the film. She is Sarah. She is his Annie. There is no other name but his own within these four walls. His jaw clenches and unclenches, vision flashing back to her. “No,” he speaks, even-toned. “I asked you. To Annie? What does that make him? Not to you.”

her eyes follow his hands as they gesture, tracking back slowly to his face while she tries to think through his interpretation. is it possible that he’s not been trapped, but willingly walked into the situation. “it’s not incompetency.” can you get stuck somewhere and even after everything that happens to you, it still remains your fault. that you did the bad wrong thing by staying even as the door was locked. was that the message. she shifts in the chair, trying to understand this perspective, her mind trying valiantly to reject it. “it’s not his fault.” but her vice is quieter, as if trying to turn over the questions he prompted. you were not always the problem, you were not always at fault for the things people did because they said you made them. right. right?

and annie was not trapped, it was her home, she had the keys. she had everything. there was no need for her to fear him, and yet she was still scared. he had a hold on her life without even knowing it, the ability to change her with just words on a page. he wasn’t human then, he wasn’t even close. “it makes him her world.” some twisted reverse, he physically trapped, she mentally. “she’d do anything for him. he has her happiness.” 

[sarahkinney]

julian.

He’s watching her with a hair trigger for judgement. The expression he’s wearing is hard to decipher exactly; it looks like the typical one that Julian Santiago is known for. There’s the scowl that lingers on his lips, naturally formed, battleax-sharp eyes that strike every word Sarah is saying and not saying, every thought that’s brewing in her head being reached for. It had to be James. There is no one else in the world who would become the target. She lands on it, too, but only to a degree.

His hands flatten on his desk, attention being fully received, staring down at her as not some god but as prosecutor with only one to sentence. “You think he felt threatened? When she came to him? To save him?” he questions, a narrowing squint touching his last words, nerves sparking in short-lived fires. “You think he questions her? Before there is nothing left to question?” He’s too late then. He has earned his trap. He walked right into it. “He writes mysteries. But? He can’t solve what is in front of him? He’s blind. To Annie? What does that make him?”

“he trusted her.” not implicitly, and not fully. but in the way that you have to trust the sole person providing for you. she had answers, she seemed helpful, kind even. there was no reason not to trust someone like annie, who might have ever guessed what was lurking underneath the smile that she provided while she explained how safe they were now. she doesn’t know where the line into willful ignorance is, what are people willing to ignore just because it makes their lives easier. what can they pretend is only there because people make mistakes, and sometimes they are imperfect. annie would have been easier to ignore than most. who could argue that she did want to help james. she just didn’t know what it meant. 

“makes him human.” that’s the word for it. there are no excuses built in, there’s nothing that she can defend. it doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t do, only that he chose to accept the world as it was presented to him. the crash was an accident, the bruises fell all the same. and once the truth came to light, it was too late. the trap was already sprung, the only thing that could get you out was death. “i’d trust her.”