found drama

I’m seeing through the eyes of Six Feet Under‘s Brenda. Hiding. We have (she has?) run through a series of rooms. Each room is deeper underground than the last. Sub-basements. Dim lights. The sounds in our wake are doomed and dismal. Shrieks of horror. Choked grunts and gun shots and other clamor. We find a closet or some other crawl space behind a wall and hide there. It’s Nate. Nate and Jay and Silent Bob. We hide. The lights fall on us through narrow slits. The angle conjures up images of Jeffrey Beaumont in Blue Velvet. The three burst into the room. It’s clear that they’re looking for us. They’re frustrated though. They cannot find us. Nate brings out a knife. Stabs the wall to the hilt. The blade misses her face by inches. She’s got her breath held. Doesn’t utter a peep. The knife stabs into the wall again and again. Missing by mere inches each time. Then the three go to town on the room. They’re trashing the place. When their backs are turned, we slip quietly out and when we’ve maneuvered through the third or fourth room, take off. Up stairs, through rooms, slamming doors. I don’t know if they’re behind us. We keep running. Sub-basements become the basement becomes the cellar becomes us bursting forth into early dawn light, cellar doors opening only for us to catch them and slam them shut again. Run. Farmland? Run. They’re too close behind not to run.

About Rob Friesel