A soul-crushing, sterile room. Fluorescent lights flicker and HUM with an oppressive, constant buzz, casting a sickly greenish-yellow pallor. Water stains bloom on the ceiling tiles. A dozen cheap, stackable plastic chairs are arranged in a circle on a scuffed linoleum floor.
KEN (20s), anxious and observant, shifts on his chair, the plastic sticking to his jeans. He tries to stretch his legs, bumps a knee.
Next to him, GIDEON (30s), all restless energy, taps a silent, frantic drum solo on the chipped laminate surface of a folding table. He doesn't notice the contact.
Opposite, BRIAR (20s) picks at a loose thread on her denim jacket. Her eyes, large and hazel, dart around, observing everything without making contact. A quiet hum of anxiety radiates from her.
MR. TAYLOR (50s), earnest in an ill-fitting cardigan, claps his hands together. The sound is too soft.
His smile is wide, a little desperate. Ken chews the inside of his cheek. Gideon leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. He catches Ken’s eye, winks. Ken looks down, a flush creeping up his neck.
He gestures vaguely to a dusty patch of linoleum in the middle of the circle.
A cold knot tightens in Ken’s stomach. His gaze drifts to a faint cobweb stretching from his chair leg to the table, shimmering in the harsh light.
A girl, PIPPA (20s), goes first. She stands stiffly, then slowly, tentatively, curls into a tight ball on the floor. A clear, simple depiction of vulnerability.
Mr. Taylor beams.
Pippa returns to her seat. A soft scrape of a chair echoes in the quiet. It’s Briar.
She walks to the centre, her movements hesitant. She stands straight, shoulders slightly hunched, her gaze fixed on a distant point above their heads.
Slowly, she raises her hands, palms open, offering something unseen upwards.
CLOSE ON BRIAR’S HANDS
Her fingers tremble, just perceptibly.
Then, with a shudder that runs through her whole body, she slowly, carefully, closes her hands into fists. She draws them tight against her chest, knuckles white. It’s not aggressive. It’s protective. A desperate, internal fight to hold on.
Ken watches, a prickle of recognition on his skin. He gets it. The burden of having secrets.
Briar lowers her hands, then her head, and retreats to her chair. The silence that follows is thoughtful, unsettled. Mr. Taylor’s smile has faltered.
Gideon is next. He springs up, his chair CLATTERING loudly. He strides to the centre, a predatory grin on his face.
Gideon waves a dismissive hand. He puffs out his chest and begins to pace, his eyes narrowed, staring hard at each person, a challenge.
He punches the air with sharp, controlled aggression. His movements grow larger, faster, more dominant. He pounds his fist against his open palm.
SOUND: The rhythmic, unsettling THUD of flesh on flesh.
The air in the room thickens. The collective breathing grows shallow. This isn’t vulnerability. It’s a performance of power.
He stops abruptly, chest heaving, raking his eyes over the group. The silence is heavy, laced with discomfort.
Gideon just shrugs, the smirk returning as he walks back to his chair, knocking it against the leg of ROWAN (20s), a slender person with intricate tattoos up their arms. Rowan exhales slowly, their shoulders slumping.
Ken’s hands tremble. He clenches them into fists under the table.
Her voice is sharper than Ken has ever heard it. Her knuckles are white on the arms of her chair.
CLOSE ON GIDEON’S EYES
They are cold, the performative bravado gone. This is real now. Ugly.
His gaze lands on Briar, contemptuous. She trembles visibly.
Suddenly, Briar stands, shoving her chair back so hard it CRASHES to the floor. The sound cracks through the tension.
Her face is mottled red and white, her eyes glistening with tears that now stream down her face.
Her voice breaks. Her hands fly up in a desperate, flailing motion, swatting at invisible attackers. A raw, uncontrolled SOB tears from her throat. Her whole body shakes.
This is not a performance. This is a collapse.
A sharp, stinging scent, like static or burning sugar, fills the air.
She sinks to her knees beside the overturned chair, sobbing, her face buried in her arms. The linoleum presses faint indentations into the strained fabric of her jeans.
The room erupts.
Pippa gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. Rowan is instantly on their feet, kneeling beside Briar, murmuring to her.
He rushes forward, hands flapping uselessly. He tries to touch Briar’s shoulder; she flinches away, her sobs intensifying.
A MAELSTROM of shouting, accusations, and Briar's raw, guttural sobs. The air grows heavy, humid with anger and distress.
Mr. Taylor stands in the middle of it all, arms outspread, utterly lost.
His voice is swallowed by the rising tide of chaos.
Ken can’t breathe. His knuckles are white where he grips the table. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes himself to his feet.
No one notices.
He takes an unsteady step backward. Then another. He eases himself out of the circle, away from the screaming, the crying, the oppressive heat.
He bumps a coat rack near the door. A couple of raincoats slither to the floor with a soft THUD, swallowed by the din.
He reaches for the heavy oak door, his fingers fumbling for the cold, brass handle. He can feel the vibrations of the shouting through the wood. His heart hammers against his ribs.
He doesn’t look back.
Ken steps out, pulling the door shut behind him. A soft, final CLICK.
The quiet is a shock.
The shouting is MUFFLED now, a distant, angry murmur, punctuated by the faint echo of Briar’s broken sobs. The corridor smells of stale disinfectant and old floor wax.
He leans against the cool cinder-block wall, dragging the cold, clean air into his lungs.
Through a frosted window at the end of the hall, the sky is a bruised purple. The day is fading.
He looks down at his hands. They are trembling. He doesn’t know why. The room didn’t provide authentic expression. It just ripped off a scab. He stands in the fading light, completely hollowed out.
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