It's 3:00 in the morning. I haven't slept well in weeks. Machine gun memories. I have never had them before.
The movie is playing backward in my head again. What act, what scene?
One after the other after the other after the other.
Rat tat tat tat tat. rat tat tat tat tat. rat tat tat tat tat.
"Hold your fire!" I cannot make it stop.
I'm 36, I'm 30, I'm 26, I'm 22, I'm 18, I'm 16, I'm 12, I'm 9, I'm 6, I'm 3.
Backwards in time.
I'm in the house with the turret, the one in the city, my father's baby grand sits at the bottom of the winding staircase for three years because no mover will bring it up past those stained-glass windows, relics of another age.
I'm in the perfect brick ranch, where nothing is perfect except the brick facade, a year in Virginia like a life sentence.
I'm in the house with the pool that no one wants to clean and it isn't the only thing that's dirty.
I'm in the house by the Lake, my room all arches and charm, my closet full of gobblins.
I'm on the farm, I don't swing from the hayloft--if you fall through the trap door you'll die.
What is this movie and why am I in it?
Who are these people--I don't remember them.
I don't remember playing this part.
This wasn't how the story went.
My gut is on fire.
My lungs burn.
I can't get close to my daughter this week--I see me standing there, not her, and I'm not ready. I will be ready? For now I am glued to my own rapid fire memories. Forgive me. Baby, forgive me.
I wan't to go back and reshoot these scenes, the ones that are haunting me now, my rage building now.
What were they thinking?
Patches and patterns.
Pieces. Falling to pieces.
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
Villian, villian, hit your mark,
The spotlight's coming your way.
