The Ten O’Clock Hour

This is an image post. Inspiration for this sketch came from this image.

She takes one last drag on her cigarette and waits for the light over the camera to go on. Her hands are shaking, but she wills them steady. What’s there left to be afraid of?

we are done, ladies and gentlemen.

The studio is silent and black beyond the circle of the lights. It’s taken her eight hours just to get everything in place and ready, eight hours of backbreaking labor, and for what? To send a message out to the emptiness that’s all that’s left of the world?

you know what’s happened. i’m not here to tell you the news. no one’s here to tell you the news. there’s no news left to tell.

It feels wrong, sitting here like this. She’s still waiting for the door to crash open and Morgan to order her out of the studio, off of the lot, out of the business, even though she’s seen him, or what’s left of him, crumpled over the top of his desk. The gun had burned a hole in the carpet, that beautiful luxury of carpet, and she cried when she saw it.

if you’re watching this, if there’s anyone else out there to see this, i just wanted to say goodbye. i just wanted to say that. goodbye. thank you, and goodbye.