Jul. 2nd, 2004


Jul. 2nd, 2004 11:09 am
peterjackson: (Pensive)
...feels like I'm pulling myself up out of a swamp, everything's dark and heavy and my thoughts feel sticky. It takes me a while to get my eyes open, and the first thing I see is nothing. Nothing at all. Something's over my head, I can breathe but not easily, it's cloth of some sort, feels like a jacket maybe, but I can't reach up to push it away cause my hands are stuck behind my back. I wiggle my arms, but I can't pull my wrists apart. I think they're tied. It's probably a good thing I'm sitting down because I feel dizzy. Something hurts, I think it's my head, I try to focus on where the throbbing is coming from. Yep, back of my head hurts like a bitch. I wish I could breathe better, that might help, maybe remember why I'm here, where ever here is?

Wait a minute. I smell bubble gum. That sickly sweet pink bubble gum that drives me crazy when people chew it incessantly, and pop it, mouths gaping open like fish, breaking my concentration, fuck, I hate the vile stuff. But I've got a huge boxful of it. Promotional shit, a joke sent to me by Melissa Booth when I got a little too pompous one day about keeping the integrity of the films and not selling out to every bubble gum company in existence. She knows I hate this crap. She also knows her business, and that Topps promotion went over really well, and so of course she had a victory boxful sent to me. I stuffed it in the hall closet hell, over a year ago? And it still reeks that sickly sweet smell. Of which I've currently got a snootful.

So, I'm in my hall closet, and I can't move or see. And my head's throbbing. I'm starting to remember bits and pieces, maybe it's the smell of the gum reviving me. It was a perfectly normal day, had a breakfast meeting to go over some project finances, drove cross town afterwards to pick up a vintage airplane model I'd been eyeing and finally made some space for, got back home, the wing went flying across the hardwood floor, why did the wing do that, it's supposed to be attached to the plane, but the plane, the propellor snapped off when he smacked it from my hand, who did that? I try to stretch my leg out, bloody hell, legs are strapped together too. What if no one finds me? I'm left to die of gum fumes, alone in my own house? Great end for the famous Peter Jackson, this is going to look great in the tabloids. It hurts to think, but I'm getting a face in mind now - Lawrence? Why the hell would Lawrence do that? Something's hard and clenched in my fist, I can sort of roll it about in my hand, and it feels like a bit of wood, smooth, curved wood, nicely shaped, it's soothing and I run my thumb over it.

I'm thinking more clearly now, and I can hear stuff outside the closet door. Voices, muffled, furniture shoving about, what the fuck's going on in my house? I squirm about trying to free my hands, but I just make the knots tighter. Exasperated, I slump sideways, resting the side of my head on the closet wall. It doesn't hurt as much if I don't struggle, and the wall's cool on my head, just going to rest here a minute or too, it's easier this way...

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