Post by wblstudios on Apr 13, 2006 15:28:31 GMT -5
Director's note: please read "Keeping the Blade" first.
Christ, tourniquet, my suicide.
---
The same hotel room as in part one is the first setting for this second machination of a tortured soul. And the room is in even worse shape... the blood-stained handprint on the window seems to have found a few friends on the wallpaper itself, the television on the ground has had it's 'face' caved in by the hardcover Gideon bible that still rests inside the cavity, the once rumpled besheets now torn and shredded. The camera pans forward, into the glass, into and through the blood-stained window, and out showing the view of the night through the eyes of someone about to jump off the ledge. Then off... as the camera view turns and barrels down, plunging through the night sky as the street comes closer and closer... until it hits the ground and the view straightens itself, slowly panning away from the hotel and over to a peaceful, calm park in the middle of a wind-torn night.
The street lights flicker and flare slightly, going out for just a second... long enough for a figure to appear, laying on a park bench, facing away... the signature of one of the greatest of all time almost visible on the leather jacket.
Ellis: I bet you're happy. You're the type of person who'd enjoy this. You pushed me over the ledge. And when I hit the ground... it felt the same as it did when I was standing up there. The same uncertain footing. The only difference... is that I'd fallen so far...
The small, pale figure slowly turns to the camera, still laying down on the faux-metal park bench... apparently, it'd been a pretty bad night for Ellis. Her face is covered in dried blood. Her usual white tank top, soaked with bloodstains, a few drops even on her jeans. Something glints in her right hand, and although it's a bit hard to see in the dim light of the flickering lamppost, it's pretty obvious from it's apparent use what it is...
Ellis: They shouldn't sell boxcutters to people like me. But as long as they're making money... so this is how it feels to hit the bottom, is it? Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I'm not really able to accept what I am. Just afraid of myself. Just a couple of years ago, I would never thought I could have wanted to kill anybody. After all the abuse I was put through growing up, the shackles on my wrists, the eyes constantly on me for the few minutes I was able to leave the house, I didn't think I had it in me to put anyone through what I'd been through.
Ellis: The memories are starting to come back. I guess now would be the best time, if any, to come clean about what I am. Of course... no matter how clean I try to come... I can never wash away my bloody past. My real name isn't Ellis Island. It's Ellis Davis. Ellis Jefferson Davis. About the time I was able to talk, my father, Michael Ian Davis, decided it'd be better if I didn't. It wasn't too severe back then. Just a couple of slaps here and there. But day after day, it became more severe. An open hand slap turned into a closed fist, a nudge with a toe became a violent kick. But it wasn't until I was 11 that things went right to hell.
Her faist raspy cough punctuates the cold night air. Even her cold, unfeeling grey gave waivers slightly... this must be pretty hard for her.
Ellis: My teachers, while not noticing the bruises I came to school with every single day, noticed how easy schoolwork was for me. It was the only escape I had, I hadn't discovered drugs or bloodletting yet. Almost as a joke, my principal decided to give me a GED... a high school equivelancy test. I passed. It was every kid's dream, to finish with school not just one or two, but seven years ahead of time. I must have gotten home too early, because my mother was sprawled out on the couch... mother #4, but who's counting at this point... strung out on whatever they had back then... and my father Michael Ian with a crate of what the cops would later decide was pure uncut blow, and a couple of Puerto Ricans whose bodies would be found a week later face down in the Jersey Shore.
Ellis: Since then, when my father'd realized what I'd stepped in on, he thought it'd be best for me to spend the rest of my life locked in a closet with manacles... fucking manacles... clamped to my wrists. For the next three years, my increasingly drunkard father and whatever random whore he forced me to call mother kept me locked in an alcove underneath the stairs, and only let me out to make a couple of 'drops', so that if I were ever able to get away, he thought he'd be able to implicate me. That's where a good half of these scars and this pathetic frame came from...
Forcing herself up, Ellis slowly sat up, her pained gaze still unwaivering, unblinking, and the razor blade in her hand more visible now, as is the bloody palm that kept playing with it almost unconsciously.
Ellis: I'm wondering where your hands are right now, Jack of Blades. Are you getting off on this? You told us all your story, and now I guess I have to tell mine... as it's slowly coming back, and being told to me through the eyes of an 11 year old child prodigy whose light was snuffed out by a redneck dopehead motherfucker you'd probably love to meet. Love to ask what it was like to beat a frail, tortured young girl for three straight fucking years!
The coughing begins to become more violent now, making it so much harder to talk, as trickles of some thick red liquid begin to drool out of her mouth and down her cheek, staining her jacket.
Ellis: So let's make a deal, Jack. Forget about Ace, do with him what you want. Forget about Biggs... he's apparently forgotten about me and this match. Or maybe he just took my advice and left this scarred up little freak alone. Forget about Tommy Havock, about Josephine, about the Team of Treachery, and the eyes of the world that are trained on us. You and me, Blades. You just tell me what you want from me... are we friends? Enemies? What am I supposed to do with you? The constant teasing, the insults, I know I shouldn't let them hurt. But the way you acted at the "Love Society", the things you said to me... it makes me wonder. I'm sure when you're ready to talk to me, you'll find me... you always seem to be able to.
Ellis: Oh... and if you don't say Davis... I won't say Nolan.
The light in the old, rusted lamppost flickers once again, and goes out for a second... of course, a second is all that's needed as the scene is barely illuminated again, and all that can be seen is an empty park bench... and for a second, a piece of old newspaper floating in the wind, stained with the bloody handprint...
---
My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation.
---
~Ellis
Lyrics to "Tourniquet" courtesy of Evanescence.
Christ, tourniquet, my suicide.
---
The same hotel room as in part one is the first setting for this second machination of a tortured soul. And the room is in even worse shape... the blood-stained handprint on the window seems to have found a few friends on the wallpaper itself, the television on the ground has had it's 'face' caved in by the hardcover Gideon bible that still rests inside the cavity, the once rumpled besheets now torn and shredded. The camera pans forward, into the glass, into and through the blood-stained window, and out showing the view of the night through the eyes of someone about to jump off the ledge. Then off... as the camera view turns and barrels down, plunging through the night sky as the street comes closer and closer... until it hits the ground and the view straightens itself, slowly panning away from the hotel and over to a peaceful, calm park in the middle of a wind-torn night.
The street lights flicker and flare slightly, going out for just a second... long enough for a figure to appear, laying on a park bench, facing away... the signature of one of the greatest of all time almost visible on the leather jacket.
Ellis: I bet you're happy. You're the type of person who'd enjoy this. You pushed me over the ledge. And when I hit the ground... it felt the same as it did when I was standing up there. The same uncertain footing. The only difference... is that I'd fallen so far...
The small, pale figure slowly turns to the camera, still laying down on the faux-metal park bench... apparently, it'd been a pretty bad night for Ellis. Her face is covered in dried blood. Her usual white tank top, soaked with bloodstains, a few drops even on her jeans. Something glints in her right hand, and although it's a bit hard to see in the dim light of the flickering lamppost, it's pretty obvious from it's apparent use what it is...
Ellis: They shouldn't sell boxcutters to people like me. But as long as they're making money... so this is how it feels to hit the bottom, is it? Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I'm not really able to accept what I am. Just afraid of myself. Just a couple of years ago, I would never thought I could have wanted to kill anybody. After all the abuse I was put through growing up, the shackles on my wrists, the eyes constantly on me for the few minutes I was able to leave the house, I didn't think I had it in me to put anyone through what I'd been through.
Ellis: The memories are starting to come back. I guess now would be the best time, if any, to come clean about what I am. Of course... no matter how clean I try to come... I can never wash away my bloody past. My real name isn't Ellis Island. It's Ellis Davis. Ellis Jefferson Davis. About the time I was able to talk, my father, Michael Ian Davis, decided it'd be better if I didn't. It wasn't too severe back then. Just a couple of slaps here and there. But day after day, it became more severe. An open hand slap turned into a closed fist, a nudge with a toe became a violent kick. But it wasn't until I was 11 that things went right to hell.
Her faist raspy cough punctuates the cold night air. Even her cold, unfeeling grey gave waivers slightly... this must be pretty hard for her.
Ellis: My teachers, while not noticing the bruises I came to school with every single day, noticed how easy schoolwork was for me. It was the only escape I had, I hadn't discovered drugs or bloodletting yet. Almost as a joke, my principal decided to give me a GED... a high school equivelancy test. I passed. It was every kid's dream, to finish with school not just one or two, but seven years ahead of time. I must have gotten home too early, because my mother was sprawled out on the couch... mother #4, but who's counting at this point... strung out on whatever they had back then... and my father Michael Ian with a crate of what the cops would later decide was pure uncut blow, and a couple of Puerto Ricans whose bodies would be found a week later face down in the Jersey Shore.
Ellis: Since then, when my father'd realized what I'd stepped in on, he thought it'd be best for me to spend the rest of my life locked in a closet with manacles... fucking manacles... clamped to my wrists. For the next three years, my increasingly drunkard father and whatever random whore he forced me to call mother kept me locked in an alcove underneath the stairs, and only let me out to make a couple of 'drops', so that if I were ever able to get away, he thought he'd be able to implicate me. That's where a good half of these scars and this pathetic frame came from...
Forcing herself up, Ellis slowly sat up, her pained gaze still unwaivering, unblinking, and the razor blade in her hand more visible now, as is the bloody palm that kept playing with it almost unconsciously.
Ellis: I'm wondering where your hands are right now, Jack of Blades. Are you getting off on this? You told us all your story, and now I guess I have to tell mine... as it's slowly coming back, and being told to me through the eyes of an 11 year old child prodigy whose light was snuffed out by a redneck dopehead motherfucker you'd probably love to meet. Love to ask what it was like to beat a frail, tortured young girl for three straight fucking years!
The coughing begins to become more violent now, making it so much harder to talk, as trickles of some thick red liquid begin to drool out of her mouth and down her cheek, staining her jacket.
Ellis: So let's make a deal, Jack. Forget about Ace, do with him what you want. Forget about Biggs... he's apparently forgotten about me and this match. Or maybe he just took my advice and left this scarred up little freak alone. Forget about Tommy Havock, about Josephine, about the Team of Treachery, and the eyes of the world that are trained on us. You and me, Blades. You just tell me what you want from me... are we friends? Enemies? What am I supposed to do with you? The constant teasing, the insults, I know I shouldn't let them hurt. But the way you acted at the "Love Society", the things you said to me... it makes me wonder. I'm sure when you're ready to talk to me, you'll find me... you always seem to be able to.
Ellis: Oh... and if you don't say Davis... I won't say Nolan.
The light in the old, rusted lamppost flickers once again, and goes out for a second... of course, a second is all that's needed as the scene is barely illuminated again, and all that can be seen is an empty park bench... and for a second, a piece of old newspaper floating in the wind, stained with the bloody handprint...
---
My God, my tourniquet
Return to me salvation.
---
~Ellis
Lyrics to "Tourniquet" courtesy of Evanescence.
