• Lucidity
• Language of the Garden

Language of the Garden

TWs: soft horror, implied violence, love confession, rejection

There’s a moment… right before the sun disappears, when everything turns gold. You know that light? Where even the pavement looks soft, and the shadows feel kind? That’s what it’s like when I’m around you…
I’ve tried not to say anything. I told myself it was enough to be near you. Enough to share long drives and quiet mornings and inside jokes no one else gets.
But the truth is—every part of me has been building toward this moment.
I don’t love you the way people talk about in movies.
I love you in the way... that trees grow around fences like... it doesn't matter where you are, you'll always be a part of me.
You don’t have to feel the same. This isn’t about what I want from you.
It’s about what I need to give voice to. ‘cause if I don’t say this now… I’ll carry it forever, and you’ll never know it was here.
I love you. And if all I get is this moment—just what I’ve said— it’s enough.I just wanted you to know. That it’s you. It’s always been you.…Oh! Oh—of course. No, that’s what I meant too. Like… family, obviously.
God, can you imagine? Me, showing up out of nowhere with some big romantic speech? I’d die
No, it’s okay. You don’t owe me more than the truth.
I’d rather hear that than some soft lie you think I’d want.Honestly, I should thank you. It takes a lot of emotional maturity to completely misread a moment with such confidence.Really. You don’t have to feel guilty. I’ve had… practice. With letting things go.Some things just… don’t take root, and others …
Some stuff just grows better after you bury it.Come on! You haven’t seen the garden in full bloom yet, have you?…I think love leaves traces. Even when it ends… something remains.
In the soil, in the air. In the shape of silence they leave behind.
I’ve always liked that idea. You know?
That nothing we feel is ever wasted…
You’re different, though. You’re gentle. You don’t try to fix me. You just… sit in the dark with me until the light feels safe again.
Isn’t it strange? How some people… make you feel like you’re too much, and others like you’ve been waiting your whole life to be seen that clearly?I used to love people who didn’t know what to do with love. The kind who take…and take… until there’s nothing left but apologies and silence.Not anymore.I kept a part of each of them, though. Not in the way you think. Nothing macabre.Just roots.Petals.Just… anything that would feed the soil.
It’s amazing what flowers need, you know? A little light, a little water.…These, always bloom first. The primroses open like they’ve been holding their breath all winter. In Victorian flower language they mean “young love” or “regret.” Funny how it’s both sometimes, don’t you think?
…
Of course not. I planted it for remembrance. Heartbreak just came later.These? Foxglove. They’re used in heart medicine, and poisons…too. It all depends on the dose.Words fail more often than flowers do, you know? These say what I can’t.White cambion. It means, “I am not worthy of you,” but also, “I survive.” They grow where the soil has been disturbed.[…]Oh, I’ve lost plenty of people before, sure. But like my flowers, they don’t stay gone long. Each year they grow back. Most of them. Whatever doesn’t just… feeds the soil the next grows from. Ah, over here.
June. Roses. That’s yours, right?
…
You’d think so, but they aren’t simple.
Red for passion… white for innocence… pink for desire. Yellow for a friend.
These were already here when I moved in. Overgrown, wild. I thought I’d tear them out, start fresh. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
…
I don’t know. Something about them felt honest. Each color means what you would expect it to.
You remind me of them sometimes. Beautiful, a little guarded. Easy to admire. Not so easy to hold…
…
It’s not a compliment. It’s a truth.They only bloom this well when they’re tended right, and they never forget where they were cut…
Come on. There’s something else I want to show you.[…]These. Tansy.
…
They do, don’t they? A beautiful, vibrant yellow.
But… in floriography – It’s a declaration of war.
It’s always been one of my favorites.
Bold, unapologetic, but still beautiful.
Not everything in the garden was planted with peace in mind.[…]Twilight’s fallen fast tonight.
The garden always feels a little more quiet at dusk. You can almost hear the roots settling. Like the earth is tucking them in for sleep.Everything I’ve ever loved is here… and, everything that’s ever hurt me.
Funny how they grow in the same soil.
The roots don’t care what we called it.
Love, grief, obsession… Regret.
It’s all the same once it’s in the dirt.Oh, here. These are for you, too.
Forget-me-nots.
They’re so small… easy to miss.Not like the roses…
Not like… you.[…]Don’t worry. I’ll plant you somewhere sunny.

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Lucidity

Note: This script is unfinished, and not currently posted to the YouTube channel... Stay tuned!TWs: horror, psychological thriller, body dysmorphia, mental health

Day One - Entrance

Rain falls across the dark and dismal parking lot, pattering in fat, wet drops against the concrete. A car nearby flashes its lights as the driver cuts the engine.
We stroll casually toward the theater doors, hand in hand in comfortable silence. A fog has settled across the pavement in a way that curls against our legs ominously, and the click of my girlfriend's heels distracts me temporarily from the effervescent blink of the marquee ahead.Cinema,the word stands out in bright red and white lettering with a stretch of arrows pointing toward the entrance. The metal pull is heavy and cold in my hand as the door swings wide. The buzzing of the neon signage momentarily loud before the attendant clears his throat."Ladies. What'll it be tonight?"
His voice is crisp in a way that unsettles me, pleasant but grating, like choreographed charisma.
Around us, conversations become a soft drone not unlike the sound emanating from the sign overhead. Part of me feels drawn to listen to the others around us instead, my consciousness split between the box office clerk's question and the nearby conversations. Yet I can't discern anything beyond the deep humming surrounding everything.It's then that I realize I'm in a dream.I'm dreaming.The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, cold dread pools low in my belly like stagnant water. My lips move, and I know that I'm speaking, but somehow I can't hear the words even in my own head.
When my girlfriend squeezes my hand, the tinkle of her nervous laughter bubbles between us. And as I turn, I see that she too is speaking... Or at least, her lips are moving... but...
A flicker of anxiety crosses her face, and in an effort to stay calm, I feel myself reach for the ticket. I focus on the paper of it between my fingers, her hand squeezing mine, as we walk toward the screen room.It's then that it feels as though.. part of me has left my body. And I am an observer, watching from just a few feet behind as we walk toward the darkened doors.My double moves in slow motion, turning to inspect the hall. Everything else appears normal - wall to wall merlot toned carpeting and mahogany wainscoting leading us to our destination, movie posters placed at regular intervals along the corridor, advertisements scattered throughout, and dim overhead lights stacked in runway order.Yet I feel frozen in place.
Like a glitch in an old computer, my perception has begun to bounce between my double, and myself.Around us, moviegoers mill about lethargically, but all turn to look towards my double as they pass.
Toward me.
Their forms soften around the edges, faces indescribable, like clay models. Thin smiles a little too wide... a little too forced in their brightness.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and panic rises in my throat. But my partner tugs my hand, pulling me back into my body - my perception back into my own eyes. She tilts her head with concern, her lips moving as she draws me forward.The screen room is empty, save for us.
Part of my mind screams sanctuary, yet the air is cold and damp. I find I can barely feel the warmth in our entwined fingers unless I focus on it.
We make our way to the perfect spot - center seats in the middlemost row.
And to my surprise, the movie seems to begin immediately, startling in the quiet dark.My perception is again outside of my body, as though I am the camera panning along an overhead view of a sanatorium. Like a bird slowing in mid-flight... I recognize the muted red brick facade and Georgian architecture. A place local to the area that closed down years ago.A wide scoping view of the grounds trawls out before me. A steadily unfolding map - room after room of patients in varying states of distress. The view cuts abruptly, and I see myself standing before a mirror, my gaze locked firmly with... my own.Yet the face doesn't feel like mine. Doesn't quite look like mine...My hair... Brown?
No, blonde.
Copper?
But... was it always this long?
It pools across my shoulders, trailing past my chest.And my eyes!
Have they always been this hazel?
And - glasses.
I wore glasses... I need them.No...My hands tingle, and my lower back twinges with pain.The reflective, white tile is frigid beneath my bare feet. Yet when I look down, I'm wearing pastel yellow socks with tiny rubber appendages. My lips are moving, but I still find that I can't speak. The blinding white fluorescent bulbs overhead emit a low hum that makes my collarbone itch in illogical agony, the sensation like bees in my skull. My clothing is made of thin, beige colored cotton that hangs from my body slightly askew - as though it's a few sizes too big.Borrowed.Borrowed clothing.
I feel the word more than think it.Given.My thoughts are like transmissions from a faulty radio. Out of sync with the rest of my body, but still present.Dreaming.My heartbeat thunders in my ears again.Hadn't I just been... holding someone's hand?

Day Two - Persistence

Time seemed to slow, stretching infinitely out ahead of me in a series of days I found hard to comprehend. The incremental distortion of the situation a constant tug at the back of my mind.Since I'd manifested through the camera... the... mirror...Hadn't I?
Had that been a dream? Was this reality?My collarbone itched, and the fluorescents were a madness all their own.The first day was still a blur in my mind, but the second was easy enough to recall. Beige scrubs, pastel yellow socks, food laid out on a simple Styrofoam tray that appeared at each mealtime - Or... what I had to assume was mealtime. I'd seen no clock, analog nor digital. My phone, which was usually all but glued to my hand had disappeared completely. I'd begun to pace just to pass the time. Counting my steps just to assign meaning to the act of motion.The halls of the sanatorium were winding corridors that managed to lead in a circle no matter which direction I went, nor how I changed course.
A series of lefts, led by a series of rights... A pattern of alternating left and right... Nothing seemed to matter. I would still end up standing in front of my door again, my name emblazoned in bold silver lettering beneath the plexiglass windowpane... as though it were an office. What was more unsettling, though, was that I... couldn't remember my name, no matter how hard I tried. The word beneath the window was never the same when I saw it, but I always knew it was mine.Hazel.
Elena.
Lydia.
Penelope.Margot.
Evelyn. ...Each time, a different name... but always mine.Worst was the fact that I had yet to see a single other person... but... there were always small things that indicated a presence - the sound of footfalls I could never quite catch up to, the mealtime trays, the cleanliness of everything, the changing names on the door...When I'd seen the grounds through... the lens... when I'd first arrived, it had been a vast expanse of acreage, stretching out almost infinitely. Though perhaps that had been my own awareness seeping through the cracks... Yet by then it had almost felt... cramped. As though the walls were closing in on me, metaphorically.A well-worn book tucked behind the nurse's station appeared to be a log of some kind, but I found that no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't read it. The letters changed before my eyes - vibrating and warping the harder I looked at them. Frustration had pushed me to the point of tears by the time I stopped trying. I had since tucked it under my bed, occasionally pulling it out to attempt... just once more to decipher it. The pamphlets scattered across the same countertop were equally useless, though they bore surrealistic photographs of wickedly grinning people that I found hard to even glance at.It was as I was standing just outside my door, examining the new name - Isla - that the sound of laughter from down the hall startled me so completely that I barely managed to suck back a scream.I'd run in the direction of it, skittering to a stop just outside a door marked Commons.
Through my pacing, I had yet to try to open any of the other portals along the way. I'd been... afraid of... what I might find behind them. But then seemed as good a time as any.To no surprise... the room was empty. Devoid of life, despite the unmistakable sound of mirth. The only indicator beyond it that I wasn't truly alone was the games scattered across the tabletops throughout. Board games, card games, chess, checkers - all in various states of disarray, as though the players had just been there. Otherwise, the room was barren. White and sterile as far as the eye could see. White walls... white wood trim, and white tile stretched in uninterrupted lines. The tables and chairs were simple metal folding affairs. The tabletops made of pastel green polyurethane, the chairs muted shades of blue, orange, and yellow with a hint of fabric cushioning. They gave a childish affect to the otherwise sterile room that I assumed could be - in some cases - spoken of as fun. Posters lined up along one wall held silly positivity phrases like, "Hang in there," with a picture of a fluffy kitten clinging to a tree branch. A smear of institutional cheer over an otherwise sterile void.I tried to speak, to call out, just in case... but something stopped me. I could feel my lips moving, feel my vocal cords vibrating - but still there was no sound.On instinct, I chose a table and sat -
Cards.
Rummy.
The metal of the chair was cold against the back of my legs, the thin cushion warm by comparison, as though someone had just been sitting there.
Yet when I tried to pick up the cards before me, they would change suit or disappear from my hands completely.
The silence of the room buzzed louder the longer I sat, my ears almost ringing with it.
I gave up after a few minutes of frustration, realizing the futility of the situation.
It's all a dream.... it's all a dream. I thought the words, but couldn't bring myself to say them aloud.When I returned to my door, it had changed again. From Isla to Sierra.

I don't remember sleeping, nor do I remember dreaming within this dream of the other place.Yet I was lucid and awake the next day to the sound of the meal tray being placed on my bedside table.No knock, no footsteps. Just the faint scrape of Styrofoam against laminate.Breakfast - if one were to assume the time - was the same as the day before. White bread, a small carton of milk, something that appeared to be applesauce in a small paper cup. I stared at it for a long time, eating mechanically. Hand to food, food to mouth, chew. Swallow. But I couldn't feel anything beyond it. There was neither taste nor scent to it.Afterward, an impulse overtook me.Walking.
I needed to walk. To roam the halls again. To check the other doors. To check my own door.
The name had changed again.
Elizabeth.
A sense of urgency prickled beneath my skin. Keep moving - it seemed to say. My palms began to sweat, my heartbeat kicking into overdrive as I padded off down the hall, counting my steps.One, two, three, four, five, six... Measured breaths, measured movements. Eyes straight ahead.
No sound other than my footsteps and the drum of my heart in my ears.Isla...Sierra...
Elizabeth...
Emily...

The Styrofoam tray scraping against laminate became my daily alarm.Yet how many days had passed? I'd lost count, with no real way to keep track, short of pricking my finger and writing in my own blood. I'd tried to crosshatch marks into the wall with my nails, but the gouges always seemed to repair themselves, no matter how much force I used.The halls were empty, as always. But I kept moving. Something seemed to urge me on. This sense that were I to stop... something might happen to me. My bare feet padded soundlessly against the tile now, and I noticed for the first time how the air seemed thicker the further I went from my room. Not warm, nor cold, but dense. As though I were walking through something.Halfway down the circle of the corridor, I saw my door ahead of me. Yet it felt too soon this time. 400 steps. I'd counted them every day - How many days? - I knew it took four hundred steps to make the circle from my door and back again. It was always 400 steps.Yvette.The name stood out in bold, golden letters on my door. My, door.Behind me, a phone rang once.Then again.A third time.A sharp, echoing tone that made my ears hurt.The impulse to turn and run toward it was strong. To try to answer. Yet I got the feeling that if I did...Fear skittered up my spine.What number was I on again? What step?One hundred and twenty-three.Yes. One hundred and twenty-three... One hundred and twenty-four... one hundred and twenty-five...Measured steps, eyes straight ahead.The phone ceased ringing as I stepped into my room.

Degredation

Squeaking Styrofoam, the buzz of the overhead lights, a waft of cold air.My hands shook when I woke that day, and I was covered in sweat. My beige scrubs damp and sticking to my skin. Paper-thin as they were, I could almost wring the moisture from them if I tried hard enough. The thought made my teeth itch.The scent of antiseptic and sterility fell away when I stepped into the hall then, changing to something damp and metallic. The scent of rusted iron after rain. The walls themselves even seemed a bit darker - no longer pristine white but a deep beige.Olivia - the name greeted me in what appeared to be handwritten script beneath the window of my door. I frowned down at it in thought as the portal clicked closed.The lights in the hall buzzed louder as I began to count my steps.One,two,three...My shadow began to stretch ahead of me, the glow of the fluorescents bleeding away into murky dimness. Fear skirted my spine, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.Paint along the top of the walls began blistering and flaking in patches that revealed raw plaster beneath.The floor tiles grew uneven, the seams between them widening into hairline cracks that seemed to breathe with me as I stepped over them. I heard as much as felt the low groan of the building settling, dust falling from the ceiling in small, lazy spirals.Yet my counting continued, eyes straight ahead.Twenty-nine,thirty,thirty-one...By the time I reached the next junction, the corridor looked abandoned entirely. Ceiling panels hung at odd angles, doors gaped open to reveal rooms choked with debris, paint peeling in great curling strips, furniture overturned and broken. A faint breeze moved through it all, yet I saw no windows, nor holes that would lead outside.One hundred and eighty-three-I turned another corner, and there was my door again.The hall suddenly pristine. Clean. Antiseptic in its perfection.Ursula - the name in capital lettering done in black paint, uniform and squared.
Inside, the bed was made. Fresh clothing folded and laid out across the coverlet.The fluorescents above my head burned bright and steady, humming merrily.The scent of antiseptic hung in the air again, burning my nostrils.My hands shook as I turned to gaze out the window of my door, feeling drawn to stare out into the hall...The corridor was dark, the lights dimmed into almost nothingness, making it hard to see unless I pressed my face against the plexiglass. My breath fogged it momentarily, and a shadow passed as the handle rattled. I jumped back, nearly stumbling over my own feet in my terror.I watched with growing horror as the lock turned slowly, engaging with a loud click that echoed in the small room.