REWIND OR BREATHE

JUNE'S MOVIE flashed across the screen.

There she was, dancing for the whole world to see as Chamber of Reflection echoed through the empty theater.

June watched herself spin between the rows of seats, arms stretched wide, hair falling loose behind her. She was putting on a show for the entire world.

Her world.

And there wasn't a single person in it.

No sick grandparents waiting for her at home. No children calling her name from another room. No one asking where something was, what was for dinner, whether she'd remembered this or forgotten that.

Nobody needed her.

What a fucked-up thing to call paradise.

Apparently paradise had sticky floors, stale popcorn, and absolutely no one saying her name.

June almost felt guilty enough to ruin it. Almost. Instead, she sank deeper into the seat and kicked her feet onto the chair in front of her.

"Need something now," she whispered.

The empty theater had the decency not to answer.

Time had always disappeared when she was taking care of other people. Days became medications, meals, appointments, laundry, questions, problems, and another unplanned run to the store. Somehow everyone else kept growing older while June remained suspended somewhere between what she'd already done and what she still needed to do.

But inside the cinema, time didn't seem to move at all.

There was no way out.

And for a terrible moment, June thought that sounded wonderful.

On the screen, the other June threw her head back and danced harder.

She looked happy.

Free.

Completely, perfectly alone.

Until the seats began to fill with versions of herself she wished she could be.

The screen fluttered. Scratching echoes filled the theater as the first version of June appeared in row one.

A pen in one hand. Paper in the other.

The writer.

"REWIND!" June shouted.

The pen disappeared first.

The paper followed.

The ideas went last.

June watched how easily creativity could be erased.

For a second, June reached for her.

Too late.

The seat folded itself shut with a soft click.

"Typical," June muttered. "Even the imaginary version of me can't finish a damn thing."

"Shit. Fuck. Why do all my good ideas disappear the second I put them to paper?"

Revise. Restart. Fucking exit completely.

She ran toward the exit, doing one last spin to the music as gracefully as she could manage before slamming her outstretched hand against the long silver push bar.

The door didn't move.

Her forehead did.

Before collapsing, June said what she said every time she attempted the escape.

"Why not my story?"

A megaphone appeared beside her ear, sputtering something warm onto her cheek. June wiped it away.

Wax.

Mixed with blood.

And whatever the hell that smell was.

"June, come back on set."

Fully aware again, June sat up in the seat where the writer had disappeared.

"It's time to act the part again, my dear friend."

"I've always wanted to be in a movie. What do I need to do to prove I deserve the part?"

"It's simple. Step onstage and give it your all."

June looked at the screen.

There she was again, stretching her arms to the beat.

Over and over.

Alone again.

"She's beautiful."

June grabbed the tissues from the seat beside her.

"BRAVO! BRAVO!"

She clapped, hesitated, then clapped again.

"Break a leg, June!"

Screen June stopped.

Her head snapped toward June.

"Whoa. Whoa."

She laughed and pretended to stumble off the edge of the screen.

Then she stopped laughing.

Screen June reached down, grabbed her own leg and broke it.

She tumbled out of the screen and landed in front of June's seat.

"Leg's broke!" Screen June twisted the mangled thing behind her. "How are you gonna run from your dreams now, bitch?"

June darted toward the EXIT sign, adrenaline convincing her that this time she had enough force to kick the damn door down and spare herself another concussion.

She kicked.

It opened.

Finally.

No parking lot.

No exit.

Her living room.

Her family sat on the couch watching the same damn movie they'd already watched a hundred times.

"Go ahead." Screen June smiled behind her, her leg still mangled. "They're always waiting for you. Waiting for you to make every decision for them."

June looked behind her at the dark cinema and then toward the dimly lit living room.

"June, come here and bring me my night meds."

No please.

No thank you.

She stood in the doorway.

Her eyes moved to the kitchen counter.

Her journal sat beside the medications she hadn't organized yet.

REWIND? OR BREATHE?

Everyone else gets June?

Or June gets June?

She stepped forward.

The director spoke.

"June, come back on set."

"It's time to act the part again, my dear friend."

"You know what you need to act like to get the part."

The megaphone sputtered.

"Caretaker."

"Mother."

"Writer."

"Employee."

"Dreamer."

"Victim."

"Performer."

Faster now.

"Caretaker-mother-writer-employee-dreamer-victim-performer."

"PLACES, JUNE!"

She didn't take her place.

"Places, June!"

June stared at the screen.

"No."

Static.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no."

The projector flickered.

"You have a part to play."

June looked toward the kitchen.

Then the screen.

Then the hundreds of empty seats waiting for another version of her to appear.

"Then I'll write it myself."

Everything went quiet.

No music.

No director.

No projector.

Just silence.

"June, where are my night meds?"

"Right here, Pop."

June handed him his medication and returned to the kitchen. She picked up her journal from beside the bottles and opened it to a blank page.

For once, she wrote only one sentence.

The act of the caretaker is done for the night. Sleep tight.

She closed the journal.

Something flickered behind her.

June turned.

The screen was alive again.

There was no dancing June.

No Writer June.

No perfect June.

Only three words:

TO BE CONTINUED.

They disappeared.

Two more replaced them.

NOW SHOWING

June waited for the title.

Nothing appeared.

She waited for instructions.

Nothing.

Then four final words flashed across the empty screen.

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW.