Alive

Chapter 6

Elle

(Saturday, May 4)

He's reading it.

He's reading it.

He's reading it.

I can't breathe. How should I stand? What should I do? This wasn't in my plan. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. But there's nothing I can do at this point. I'm rethinking everything right now. Every word choice, movement, plot point. Of course it has to be this scene, too. The one I just wrote. It's rough, horrible probably. Even though it's supposed to be the scene that changes his mind, it's nowhere close to that yet. How could it be? I squeezed it out in under an hour. This is the strangest night of my life.

"This is good," Oliver says, looking up. "What was so frustrating?"

Good. He said it's good. He... I walk across the room, into the kitchen. I can't look at him. I'll pass out if I'm around him much longer. He could have just said 'alright'. I expected some kind of mockery, at least. But he said 'good'. He hasn't even seen my polished scenes yet. Good. It's good. It's... I lie down on the floor. The ceiling has dust on it, I think. But I just stare up at the white paint, able to ignore it for once.

"Elle?" Oliver is at the doorway. I see my socks stretching over his feet, his ankles poking out below my white sweats. "Are you okay?"

"Read it," I say. If I ask, he might say no. And if that happens, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe die. Definitely die.

"Which part?" I hear him shuffling through the pages, and my heart can't slow down. It's my script, in his hands. My script in his hands. How is this happening?

"All of it," I say. "Read Emeris."

"There's two parts," he says. "What about Emilia?"

"Just skip her lines," I say, flapping my hand around. Now that it's going to happen, I need it to happen now.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath.

"Wait!" I jump up, changing my mind at the last second. It can't happen like this. I'm on the floor, the lights are on, everything's wrong. I run past him, motioning for him to follow me into the living room. He watches me scoot the couch back, lining it up with the desk before I pat down the cushions. Then I rush into the kitchen, filling up a glass of water and then flying back to set it on the end table.

"Ready?" he asks. I shake my head, running to the bathroom to empty my bladder. Not like it's full, but there can't be any distractions. I wash my hands three times, dry them, replace my gloves, sprint back into the room, and shut off the lights. Except for the lamp next to my desk, of course. I leave that on and point beside it.

"Stand there," I say. Then I jump onto the couch, grab the glass of water, and stop moving. I can't move, because everything's perfect. He's giving me a weird look, but he's still where I told him to be, right? The light plays with his shirt, illuminating his skin in all the ways I'd imagined. Maybe better. He clears his throat, frowning over the lines before nodding.

"I'm cold, Emilia," he says, running his fingertips up his arm. Then he grasps it tightly, shivering. "Don't look. Close your eyes. Can you feel it?"

"What is it?" I mouth the words, but it's silent. Oliver eyes me, then skips to the next line.

"Water," he says, stooping over to brush his hand along the carpet. "Do you wish to run, Emilia? You may run."

"I can't run," I mouth again, my eyes wide.

"You should run," he says, standing and taking a step toward me. "You shouldn't come here. You know what I am."