The Mirrorverse

Ka

“Don’t jump!” screamed Ka at the man about to jump off a bridge.

“Why not, what do I have to live for?” the younger man demanded. His question required an answer, but Ka couldn’t find one for the life of him.

“CUT!” yelled the director in a blood curdling scream. Neither Ka nor the other actors could see why he had to be so loud. Privately, Ka thought it was like wee man syndrome, only he wasn’t wee. Clearly there was something else that was lacking.

“Ka, would learning your lines be that much of a problem?” the director glared at him, while he tried not to glare back. Not punching directors was an important part of his role as movie star, even if they were by all opinions jumped up little dick-less cretins.

Decided that not replying was the way forward, Ka just stood there gritting his teeth, admiring the green screen as a better alternative than receiving the accusatory stares from his boss’s beady little eyes.

“Is there something you’re not telling me? You’ve been acting strange since you took that day off.” While his words were vaguely compassionate, his demeanour suggested that only concern was the break in filming, not Ka’s private life.

“I told you, my girl hit her head pretty bad. She’s fine, and so am I.” Ka could feel his muscles prickling with the desire to swing at him.

“Well act like it then,” the director stormed, very nearly receiving a fist in his face. Everyone seems to think I’m such a calm, tranquil person. If they had any idea how often I think of walloping someone, I don’t think they’d ever come near me, thought Ka, suppressing a smirk.

“Right, let’s call it a day, starting bright and early in the morning,” he called out so half of Hollywood could hear him, let alone everyone on and off set.

About time, he thought, trudging away from the vile piece of dung. He would never have done that movie had he known how revolting the director was. He’d had the female lead in tears on multiple occasions, and she didn’t even deserve some of it.

Ka checked his watch, 7pm. Definitely time to head home to my lady, he thought as he got changed and wiped the make-up off that was covering his black eye, another cause for the unhinged director’s wrath. He had seemed to believe Ka had done it on purpose. The gash in his forehead was going to have to be edited out post filming, the extra expenditure being of course his fault, done deliberately to piss the director off.

He slid one of his favourite records into the CD player and cruised home with the windows down and air con on, enjoying the warm air battling with the cold for supremacy of the car. He chuckled at how Maya, the pop princess called his music “gunge”. He had tried to educate her into the world of grunge and rock music generally but to no avail. As much as he loved her, he could never deal with her taste in music, or lack thereof.

Ka was still grinning when he entered the lounge and crept up on her sleeping on the couch, the title menu for her favourite movie repeating.

“Hey lady,” he said gently, nudging her shoulder, but she didn’t respond. “Maya!” he was getting concerned now. “Come on baby, wake up.”

She wasn’t moving. Panic rising, he ran around to the front of the sofa and shook her by her arms, her head lolling lifelessly above her equally lifeless body.

For the second time that week, he called an ambulance, telling them he couldn’t wake his girlfriend. This time there was no blood, no reason, just a Maya that wouldn’t wake up.