The theatre is enormous—the kind of space that swallows sound and thought the moment you step inside. I sink into one of the hundreds—maybe thousands—of deep red seats, worn soft at the edges by years of shifting bodies and restless hands. Around me, rows of heads float in the gloom like silhouettes in confession. The ceiling is impossibly high, lost in shadows. The only light bleeds from the screen ahead—cold and flickering.
The air smells faintly of stale popcorn and velvet dust. Not unpleasant. Just... old. Lived-in. There's a certain dryness to it, like the room hasn't been properly aired since 1983. Mixed in is the sharper tang of someone's citrusy perfume, just faint enough to tease the edge of my nose every few seconds—like memory.
On screen, the film has already begun. It's French—I know that much. Subtitles race across the bottom, often too fast to catch fully. A woman in a yellow dress stands in the middle of an empty street, sobbing and laughing at the same time while a man in a papier-mâché lion mask screams at her in Morse code. I think it's Morse. Or maybe just avant-garde nonsense.
Someone behind me shifts—restless. I feel it—that shared confusion, like the whole room is squinting through the haze of arthouse ambition, trying to find a thread of meaning. One guy near the front has started to nod off. His head dips forward with the grace of a flower wilting in slow motion.
Onscreen, the woman is now in a bathtub, fully clothed, reciting the ingredients of a croissant recipe like it's a funeral prayer. The film cuts without warning to a montage of broken clocks and typewriters being hurled off a cliff.
I lean back in my seat, the cushion sighing beneath me. It's beautiful in a maddening kind of way. My brain wants to fight it—wants logic and story structure—but something else settles in me instead. A kind of surrender. I let the images wash over me. The French dialogue, the chaotic edits, the dream logic of it all. It's not meant to be understood. It's meant to be felt. Like a fever dream you try to explain the morning after.
The lights from the screen keep flashing—blues and reds, then a sudden harsh white—and I close my eyes for a second. I hear whispers, maybe from the film, maybe from the audience. Someone unwraps a candy with the delicacy of a bomb defuser.
Krish yawns, the side of her mouth twitching in an unsettling way. Her eyes flick toward the screen, dull with disinterest.
I try breathing naturally, but for some reason, my breath feels restricted.
Suddenly, everyone turns their heads toward us. Their eyes—those recurring motifs—are empty, replaced by dark voids.
"They don't like you looking," Krish says lazily.
"And I don't like the way they're looking," I shoot back.
"Unnerved by their soulless eyes?"
"No."
"That's good."
"A question—although useless—I'm curious about the nature of this place..."
"Go ahead," Krish waves her hand.
"What exactly are these places?"
"…"
Silence settles between us. For some reason, the air thickens with a sudden flux of perfume.
"I don't really know myself, except... they're a manifestation of my interpretation of what the world should be."
"So... your version of the world is this?" I gesture toward the grand theatre and the audience still glaring at us, their expressions sharpened with fury.
"Surprising?" she asks, twirling her hand. The audience slowly turns their heads back toward the screen.
"No, not really," I reply.
My vision starts to blur. Onscreen, the film characters seem to respond to Krish's dry remark.
"Hahaha, isn't she a darling?" the woman in the yellow dress giggles.
"Such a cutie patootie. I just can't wait to hold her bony cheeks and rub them together," another woman laughs.
"What...?"
"Ever watched When Darry Met Jolly? Pretty good watch. These characters sometimes help me with the silence. That's why I come here," Krish says.
I raise an eyebrow. "So whenever you feel a certain way, the landscape changes?"
"Yeah."
"Such an unfortunate situation for our baby Krish," one of the female characters coos.
"Interesting. You seem like you're here to help her, aren't you?" Her voice carries a subtle edge of curiosity.
"Well… yes, I am," I reply firmly.
I notice the characters on screen have normal eyes—bright, bubbly personalities. Their clothes are vibrant, their lips coated in bright red lipstick. A direct callback to an 80's film.
"Do well to take care of her… You don't seem like a bad man yourself."
My gut twists at the compliment. "T-thank you."
"Quite the flirty character you are... Miss…?"
"Miss Derby. A friend to Darry and Jolly."
"Darry and Jolly—the main characters," Krish mutters with fleeting interest. "She's a side character."
"Hey! That's rude. Forgetting you're a side character too!" Miss Derby puffs her cheeks, her blonde hair swaying side to side.
"Tch." Krish clicks her tongue.
"I see no problem being a side character," I say. "Especially one as striking as you."
"Aww, shucks. Thank you, darling~," Derby sings.
ESTABLISHING SHOT
A beautiful villa sits on a large expanse of water, glistening with shimmering light. The villa stands still, isolated on a small island.
Cough!
"Um... you okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine... but—"
Cough.
She coughs violently, collapsing to the floor. One hand braces her fall, the other clenches her chest. Teeth scatter from her mouth.
I've seen my share of weirdness, but this… this is something else.
"I'm fine," she says through ragged breath.
"Alright…?"
I settle into one of the Hancock chairs, swaying slightly. "By the way—"
"What is it?"
"I think I get what's wrong with you."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. And you lied."
"Lie? I did not."
"You did. You're doing it right now."
"I didn't lie. I just gave you a fragmented truth... and withheld some important parts of my story."
"So… a lie."
"…"
PALPABLE.
"Are you okay with me starting?" I ask, drawing a pair of glasses from my blazer.
"Go on."
I study her. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her gown. Her skin grows pale. Her ginger hair blooms with quiet beauty. Her lips pout softly.
"Very well."
TAKE ONE.
"You're yearning, running and yielding to the dark side. What exactly is your case? Well, I have an explanation."
Krish looked at me, her pupils dilated, "well...? What is it?"
I took a moment to breath, a sudden wind blew my hair back.
"I'll start little from subtle clues, as you can tell that this set of landscape are of your doing." I lay down on my back. "The McDuncan apartment is a real place, your home if I may assume."
"How are you so sure?"
"I'll get to that" I raised my index finger, "but if curiousity kills the cat, I'll say from the empty alcohol bottles, syringe and depressing atmosphere of your apartment."
I continued, "I thought for a second, they were your doing to cope with something, depression? Maybe. That's until I met those couples with absent eyes, for some reason, they look like you."
Krish looked to the ground, her eyes covered in shadow. "They were my... Parents."
"Your version of your parents." I corrected sternly.
"That's.... That's..." Krish trailed off from her sentence, her ginger hair fluttering.
"That's true." I completed her breaking sentence, "I knew quickly that those bottles and syringes was from either of your parents. Perhaps they weren't the exact model of an ideal parents so you created a twisted version of them."
"I DIDN'T JUS---"
"Didn't what? Are you saying I'm lying, or are you doing that to yourself?"
Krish raised her hand, her eyes wide, but not out of surprise, but from anger.
"Watch your mouth." She stabbed me with her trembling tone.
I felt a dripping feel from my nostrils. I dipped my finger on the drip... Blood.
My vision got clouded with red fluid, I looked down to my blurring hands, but deep crimson drops filled my hand.
But for some reason, I wasn't exactly scared I was bleeding. I continued my exposition.
"So I take it that you started making bad friends and company, possibly to pass by the occuring abuse at home? The Virgin Mary statue shows your lose of innocence."
"Stop."
"Running from your reality at home, from the constant abuse."
"I said stop."
"But your version of an ideal life is far more disturbing."
"I SAID STOP IT!"
SQUASH!
All I could see was black, I
The theatre is enormous—the kind of space that swallows sound and thought the moment you step inside. I sink into one of the hundreds—maybe thousands—of deep red seats, worn soft at the edges by years of shifting bodies and restless hands. Around me, rows of heads float in the gloom like silhouettes in confession. The ceiling is impossibly high, lost in shadows. The only light bleeds from the screen ahead—cold and flickering.
The air smells faintly of stale popcorn and velvet dust. Not unpleasant. Just... old. Lived-in. There's a certain dryness to it, like the room hasn't been properly aired since 1983. Mixed in is the sharper tang of someone's citrusy perfume, just faint enough to tease the edge of my nose every few seconds—like memory.
On screen, the film has already begun. It's French—I know that much. Subtitles race across the bottom, often too fast to catch fully. A woman in a yellow dress stands in the middle of an empty street, sobbing and laughing at the same time while a man in a papier-mâché lion mask screams at her in Morse code. I think it's Morse. Or maybe just avant-garde nonsense.
Someone behind me shifts—restless. I feel it—that shared confusion, like the whole room is squinting through the haze of arthouse ambition, trying to find a thread of meaning. One guy near the front has started to nod off. His head dips forward with the grace of a flower wilting in slow motion.
Onscreen, the woman is now in a bathtub, fully clothed, reciting the ingredients of a croissant recipe like it's a funeral prayer. The film cuts without warning to a montage of broken clocks and typewriters being hurled off a cliff.
I lean back in my seat, the cushion sighing beneath me. It's beautiful in a maddening kind of way. My brain wants to fight it—wants logic and story structure—but something else settles in me instead. A kind of surrender. I let the images wash over me. The French dialogue, the chaotic edits, the dream logic of it all. It's not meant to be understood. It's meant to be felt. Like a fever dream you try to explain the morning after.
The lights from the screen keep flashing—blues and reds, then a sudden harsh white—and I close my eyes for a second. I hear whispers, maybe from the film, maybe from the audience. Someone unwraps a candy with the delicacy of a bomb defuser.
Krish yawns, the side of her mouth twitching in an unsettling way. Her eyes flick toward the screen, dull with disinterest.
I try breathing naturally, but for some reason, my breath feels restricted.
Suddenly, everyone turns their heads toward us. Their eyes—those recurring motifs—are empty, replaced by dark voids.
"They don't like you looking," Krish says lazily.
"And I don't like the way they're looking," I shoot back.
"Unnerved by their soulless eyes?"
"No."
"That's good."
"A question—although useless—I'm curious about the nature of this place..."
"Go ahead," Krish waves her hand.
"What exactly are these places?"
"…"
Silence settles between us. For some reason, the air thickens with a sudden flux of perfume.
"I don't really know myself, except... they're a manifestation of my interpretation of what the world should be."
"So... your version of the world is this?" I gesture toward the grand theatre and the audience still glaring at us, their expressions sharpened with fury.
"Surprising?" she asks, twirling her hand. The audience slowly turns their heads back toward the screen.
"No, not really," I reply.
My vision starts to blur. Onscreen, the film characters seem to respond to Krish's dry remark.
"Hahaha, isn't she a darling?" the woman in the yellow dress giggles.
"Such a cutie patootie. I just can't wait to hold her bony cheeks and rub them together," another woman laughs.
"What...?"
"Ever watched When Darry Met Jolly? Pretty good watch. These characters sometimes help me with the silence. That's why I come here," Krish says.
I raise an eyebrow. "So whenever you feel a certain way, the landscape changes?"
"Yeah."
"Such an unfortunate situation for our baby Krish," one of the female characters coos.
"Interesting. You seem like you're here to help her, aren't you?" Her voice carries a subtle edge of curiosity.
"Well… yes, I am," I reply firmly.
I notice the characters on screen have normal eyes—bright, bubbly personalities. Their clothes are vibrant, their lips coated in bright red lipstick. A direct callback to an 80's film.
"Do well to take care of her… You don't seem like a bad man yourself."
My gut twists at the compliment. "T-thank you."
"Quite the flirty character you are... Miss…?"
"Miss Derby. A friend to Darry and Jolly."
"Darry and Jolly—the main characters," Krish mutters with fleeting interest. "She's a side character."
"Hey! That's rude. Forgetting you're a side character too!" Miss Derby puffs her cheeks, her blonde hair swaying side to side.
"Tch." Krish clicks her tongue.
"I see no problem being a side character," I say. "Especially one as striking as you."
"Aww, shucks. Thank you, darling~," Derby sings.
ESTABLISHING SHOT
A beautiful villa sits on a large expanse of water, glistening with shimmering light. The villa stands still, isolated on a small island.
Cough!
"Um... you okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine... but—"
Cough.
She coughs violently, collapsing to the floor. One hand braces her fall, the other clenches her chest. Teeth scatter from her mouth.
I've seen my share of weirdness, but this… this is something else.
"I'm fine," she says through ragged breath.
"Alright…?"
I settle into one of the Hancock chairs, swaying slightly. "By the way—"
"What is it?"
"I think I get what's wrong with you."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. And you lied."
"Lie? I did not."
"You did. You're doing it right now."
"I didn't lie. I just gave you a fragmented truth... and withheld some important parts of my story."
"So… a lie."
"…"
PALPABLE.
"Are you okay with me starting?" I ask, drawing a pair of glasses from my blazer.
"Go on."
I study her. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her gown. Her skin grows pale. Her ginger hair blooms with quiet beauty. Her lips pout softly.
"Very well."
TAKE ONE.
"You're yearning, running and yielding to the dark side. What exactly is your case? Well, I have an explanation."
Krish looked at me, her pupils dilated, "well...? What is it?"
I took a moment to breath, a sudden wind blew my hair back.
"I'll start little from subtle clues, as you can tell that this set of landscape are of your doing." I lay down on my back. "The McDuncan apartment is a real place, your home if I may assume."
"How are you so sure?"
"I'll get to that" I raised my index finger, "but if curiousity kills the cat, I'll say from the empty alcohol bottles, syringe and depressing atmosphere of your apartment."
I continued, "I thought for a second, they were your doing to cope with something, depression? Maybe. That's until I met those couples with absent eyes, for some reason, they look like you."
Krish looked to the ground, her eyes covered in shadow. "They were my... Parents."
"Your version of your parents." I corrected sternly.
"That's.... That's..." Krish trailed off from her sentence, her ginger hair fluttering.
"That's true." I completed her breaking sentence, "I knew quickly that those bottles and syringes was from either of your parents. Perhaps they weren't the exact model of an ideal parents so you created a twisted version of them."
"I DIDN'T JUS---"
"Didn't what? Are you saying I'm lying, or are you doing that to yourself?"
Krish raised her hand, her eyes wide, but not out of surprise, but from anger.
"Watch your mouth." She stabbed me with her trembling tone.
I felt a dripping feel from my nostrils. I dipped my finger on the drip... Blood.
My vision got clouded with red fluid, I looked down to my blurring hands, but deep crimson drops filled my hand.
But for some reason, I wasn't exactly scared I was bleeding. I continued my exposition.
"So I take it that you started making bad friends and company, possibly to pass by the occuring abuse at home? The Virgin Mary statue shows your lose of innocence."
"Stop."
"Running from your reality at home, from the constant abuse."
"I said stop."
"But your version of an ideal life is far more disturbing."
"I SAID STOP IT!"
SQUASH!
All I could see was black, I couldn't feel my body, my mind was the only thing I could grasp, until suddenly, I heard...
feel my body, my mind was the only thing I could grasp, until suddenly, I heard...
TAKE TWO!