Survivors

I walked out of the studio, intent on getting a quick lunch before we started to film the next scene.

I walk through the busy streets of London, heading to a small café on the corner.

I walk inside and grab a coffee and a croissant with some fruit.

As I sit there, enjoying my small lunch, I hear my phone start ringing in my purse. I fish it out and wrap up my lunch, storing it in my purse for later as I head outside and answer my phone.

Me: Hello.

Ray: Where the hell are you?! I need you at the studio now! I have some movie changing news.

Me: Can you just tell me over the phone?

I say it miserably, because usually his “movie changing” news is that something for a scene is a slight different color than what it should be.
I hear Ray take a deep breath on the other end of the phone and then he tells me the most heart wrenching news ever.

Ray: Ethan…..he died in a car crash about 20 minutes ago. I was on his contacts as a ‘favorite’ so the police called me. He died in a car crash on Everall Street.

I dropped my phone onto a patch of grass in the planter outside the café.

I heard Ray shouting through the pone for me to pick up, but I feel like that’s another lifetime away. My head suddenly feels like it is pressuring in on itself and my ears feel like their underwater. My eyesight is becoming more blurry by the second, than I collapse onto the pavement. My eyes fill with tears as I just lay there, crying hysterically.

After what seems like days of crying and laying on the cold, hard pavement, I drag myself to my feet, snatch my phone of the ground and stumble to my car.

I pull up to the studio and slam my car door, running inside.

I run up to Ray who is sitting in the director’s chair, staring at the set up for the next scene.

“Ray,” I murmur, about to burst into tears, “what are you going to do?” He sighs as he looks up at me. “Probably get a replacement,” he says flatly. “Ok,” I say, closer to tears than before. How can you replace Ethan? He is the most amazing person ever.

I look at Ray one more time before I lose it and just start crying a river of tears as I run out the studio door.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I just keep telling myself this, but even I don’t believe myself sometimes.

Notes