Victim of a Gaze

So, I have to make a short film for one of my Summer School papers. This is somewhat new territory for me; it has been a while since I have filmed something with the express purpose of showing others. And even the last time I did so, I did not even do the filming but only the editing! So, I expect this to be an interesting challenge.

The first problem is what to make a short film on. I originally wanted to do something text-based. By this I mean I wanted to adapt a piece of theatrical text for film. However, because the finished products are going to be put on YouTube, this option is ruled out due to copyright; if they were just to be screened in class then we could get away with it under the University's copyright license. Then the thought struck me: I can adapt a story I wrote for an intermediate writing course I undertook at the University of Virginia. It is the perfect mix of sexiness and horror (at least I think so). This, then, is what I shall do.

I will make regular postings about how everything is going. In the mean-time, you can read the story I am adapting below...

He gasps for air. Its freshness has become necessary; he has been feeding for too long without a breath. The oxygen brings with it the ability to think; his mind comes back to the place his body occupies. He raises his face to stare at the moon he has always felt an affinity for. It has been his companion for as long as he can remember, usually it is his only companion. He likes to think of a male moon, as the Anglo-Saxons once believed. Mani, they called him. He feels masculinity suits the moon better than the vague femininity the goddess-crazed loons succeeded in forcing upon him. Masculinity increases the similarity he has with the moon, even though there is enough without the aid of semantics. You could be forgiven for thinking the glow of his skin came solely from Mani.

Mani’s cold light glints off a trickle of his food that has escaped the corner of his mouth. You thought that the trickle looked like molasses in that pallid light, rather then the precious gift if really was. Indeed, to him, it tastes as sweet, as replenishing as molasses, but the trickle was cooling slowly in the night breeze. Of course, you would not have known that his food was warm. Unless you went to touch it. Then, you would have been surprised that his skin was so cold, so soft. You would have thought it felt like fur that had just been taken out of the freezer.

He snaps his head around as he hears the noise from the bushes. His rapid movement caused you to jump, and it seemed a little too fast, but you felt you could ignore this. Even with less light, he still would have been able to see what had made the noise. It is just a deer. He cocks his head to watch. He can hear the animal snuffling in the undergrowth, trying to sense the scent of danger. If he hadn’t been so absorbed in watching the deer, he might have been startled when it jerks its head up to look him in the eye.

A grim smile spreads slowly across his face. He so rarely finds anything worth smiling about that when he does, it looks somehow unsettling. His smile looks like he models it off his likeness in Madame Tussauds after the artist fell in love with the mouth they created, and tried to snatch the beauty away, leaving the deformed warm wax cooling, bearing for ever the evidence of an artist’s love of his work. He knows he can easily catch the deer if he wants to; the deer is totally oblivious to the potential danger it is in. Of course, he prefers much different game. The deer somehow knows this; it is not frightened. He slowly stands to approach the deer. He makes gentle cooings, as a tender mother would to her suckling babe. The noises reassure the animal as he reaches out his hand. He freezes when the deer pulls back its head and snorts, indecision flooding its eyes. He waits. Waiting is something he is very good at.

The deer sniffs his proffered hand. In its eyes, he can see curiosity battling its instincts. Curiosity wins. Curiosity always wins; all game is the same. Now that indecision has affected the escape the deer physically does not, it begins nuzzling his hand. He strokes its muzzle, feeling the hair stick up and then fall back into place as his hand passes through it. He enjoys being this close to a living creature; his hunger usually erects a void between them and him. He crouches down, so as to watch the deer’s lips move as it goes back to gently nibbling the grass. He hears the groan from behind him at the same time as the deer. The sound spooks the deer, sending it fleeing into the woods. The deer takes with it some of his quietude, leaving him feeling a shade emptier.

The joy he felt whilst feeding is now gone. It is replaced by a kind of desolation. Not some grand, all encompassing desolation that screams “there is nothing here!” Rather, he feels a quiet, creeping resignation. A resignation that whispers, in a voice he has to actively listen for in order to hear it say “I am alone.” Of course, this voice, the whispering one, is far worse than the voice which screams. Believing in the screaming voice, a voice which comes from being so empty, this is believing in something, even if the something is desolation.

The whisper is so quiet, so subtle, that believing in it does not impart any sense of belonging. He asks himself why he does not just ignore the whisper. He can ignore it, if he wants to. While the quiet, insidious voice does not provide a sense of belonging to something that is bigger than himself, it is the only thing he has. Even he is not so confident that he can live his life on the fringes of the world, totally alone. When he listens to the whisper, he can hear that it is not one voice at all. The whisper is a crystal vase, shattered, the fragments hitting a cold tile floor. Each fragment gives off a slightly different note, but the notes add up to the sound that identifies “shatter.” Or, it is like…it is like…a fractal pattern. Yes, like a fractal pattern. The more he examines it, the more he magnifies the image, the more detail he can see. The more detail he can see, the more he wants to magnify the image. He has always liked fractal patterns. Yet, they aren’t really real. The fractal’s colours are arbitrarily assigned. The equation itself is dull, unvisionary. Only in imagining the result does the colour emerge. Joseph’s coat hides the solitude.

He listens to the whisper, expands it, adds layers that it only hints at. Anything is better than being alone with the naked whisper.

The supine form groans. He reached out to run his hand across its supple skin. Its eyelids flicker open, reveling eyes that dart rapidly, eyes that want to look away, but cannot. He feels talking might reassure it, just as his noises calmed the deer, yet he doesn’t feel compelled to break the silence, and the body can speak so much more eloquently than can words. The form’s eyes fall on his face and the fear flees, chased away by joy. So, the game is awake. He doesn’t like it when they wake. He doesn’t like to kill just to eat, but there are so many complications when they wake.

He watches as the game's hand moves up its chest, sliding over taught muscle to the throat. Watching, he instinctively draws his breath as the remembered ecstasy returns. The fingers touch the margin of the molasses stain. He always tries to be neat when he feeds, but you can’t drink the milk of a coconut without breaching the fruit. He sees fear skulk back into the game’s eyes as the finger frets with the wound. He can tell the game’s thoughts have become slow, as if they have to force their way through a narcotic haze. His game’s emotions touch him; another crystal shard hits a tile. He knows he has to do something to help the sufferer, before its fear becomes too much. Otherwise, it may betray them both.

As he stoops towards the mouth, they lock eyes again. The game starts to turn its head away, but his gaze stops the movement. Their lips meet and he gently prods its mouth open. He can tell that his game wants this; he can overcome apprehension with insistence. Finally, it stops resisting his probing. He explores the depths that are more delicious because he has worked to gain access. The mouth’s status as forbidden makes the conquest so much more sweet. They explore each other so intensely they appear to be eating each other. Its tongue is drawn to his sharp teeth. It tests their sharpness with yielding flesh. It knows that those teeth caused the hole in its neck; it knows but, in knowing, yielding is more pleasurable. To give into something that can strip him of his very self. Its mind is almost there.

One of his hungers had been sated tonight, now it seems another is about to be. As the mouths are communicating in a language more pure than the one to which they are accustomed, the game begins to remove its clothing. It wants to offer itself to him, now that he has removed the barrier.

You saw the game had removed everything; they were both lying on his coat. You noticed the nipples. They had reacted to the night air; they had collapsed in upon themselves, leaving behind only their hard cores. The night had transfigured the skin surrounding them into a plain of goose bumps.

You imagined what it would be like to be him. To smell the sweat of fear turned stale by the sweat of lust. You imagine seeing every goose bump vainly trying to erect the little hair it surrounded. The muscle would shiver under your touch. Your tongue would want to sample every bump, lick the sweat, you inspired, from between them. You would want to, but you just watch.