Participants:
| Scene Title | Every Day is Exactly the Same |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Gabriella discovers her truth. |
| Date | March 11, 2021 |
Six fifteen am, morning alarm.
Gabriella rolls to the right in her bed, takes her phone off the nightstand, and turns off the alarm. She slides bare legs over the side of the bed, feet touch the cold floor. Dim morning light filters blue and cold through the horizontal blinds shadowing her bedroom.
I believe I can see the future
'Cause I repeat the same routine
Coffee percolating in a pot, one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of whole grain toast with cream cheese. Turn on the television; listen to the news out of one ear—car accident on the Narrows—scroll through social media with one hand—President Zimmerman talking shit out of the side of her mouth—eat breakfast with the other.
I think I used to have a purpose
Then again, that might have been a dream
Hit the subway uptown. There’s a woman playing a mandolin at the bottom of the stairs, pigeons gather at her feet. Throw a crumpled dollar bill into her mandolin case. The pigeons abide. Hop on the orange line at exactly 7:30.
I think I used to have a voice
Now I never make a sound
The subway smells of piss and sweat. Murmured conversations, heads down, eyes on small screens. Headphones drown out the world, except the vibration from the floor, from the greasy aluminum pole she has to hold because there’s no seats. Exit at Midtown, it’s 8:30.
And I just do what I'm told
I really don't want them to come around, oh no
Hustle from the Midtown station. Starbucks; double espresso latte, “Gabriel” written on the side; single piece of chocolate biscotti for lunch. Hustle four blocks to the Times’ office. Sera’s at the front desk, she smiles, but she doesn’t mean it. There’s a man waiting in the lobby, he doesn’t say anything. He has a gun.
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Every day is exactly the same
There is no love here and there is no pain
Every day is exactly the same
Six fifteen am, morning alarm.
Gabriella rolls to the right in her bed, takes her phone off the nightstand, and turns off the alarm. She slides bare legs over the side of the bed, feet touch the cold floor. Dim morning light filters blue and cold through the horizontal blinds shadowing her bedroom.
I can feel their eyes are watching
Coffee percolating in a pot, one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of whole grain toast with cream cheese. Turn on the television; listen to the news out of one ear—car accident on the Narrows—scroll through social media with one hand—President Zimmerman talking shit out of the side of her mouth—eat breakfast with the other.
In case I lose myself again
Hit the subway uptown. There’s a woman playing a mandolin at the bottom of the stairs, pigeons gather at her feet. Throw a crumpled dollar bill into her mandolin case. The pigeons abide. Hop on the orange line at exactly 7:30.
Sometimes I think I'm happy here
The subway smells of piss and sweat. Murmured conversations, heads down, eyes on small screens. Headphones drown out the world, except the vibration from the floor, from the greasy aluminum pole she has to hold because there’s no seats. Exit at Midtown, it’s 8:30.
Sometimes, yet I still pretend
Hustle from the Midtown station. Starbucks; double espresso latte, “Gabriel” written on the side; single piece of chocolate biscotti for lunch. Hustle four blocks to the Times’ office. Sera’s at the front desk, she smiles, but she doesn’t mean it.
I can't remember how this got started
There’s a man waiting in the lobby, he doesn’t say anything. He has a gun.
But I can tell you exactly how it will end
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Every day is exactly the same
There is no love here and there is no pain
Every day is exactly the same
Six fifteen am, morning alarm.
Gabriella rolls to the right in her bed, takes her phone off the nightstand, and turns off the alarm. She slides bare legs over the side of the bed, feet touch the cold floor. Dim morning light filters blue and cold through the horizontal blinds shadowing her bedroom.
I'm writing on a little piece of paper
I'm hoping someday I might find
Coffee percolating in a pot, one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of whole grain toast with cream cheese. Turn on the television; listen to the news out of one ear—car accident on the Narrows—scroll through social media with one hand—President Zimmerman talking shit out of the side of her mouth—eat breakfast with the other.
Well I'll hide it behind something
They won’t look behind
Hit the subway uptown. There’s a woman playing a mandolin at the bottom of the stairs, pigeons gather at her feet. Throw a crumpled dollar bill into her mandolin case. The pigeons abide. Hop on the orange line at exactly 7:30.
I am still inside
A little bit comes bleeding through
The subway smells of piss and sweat. Murmured conversations, heads down, eyes on small screens. Headphones drown out the world, except the vibration from the floor, from the greasy aluminum pole she has to hold because there’s no seats. Exit at Midtown, it’s 8:30.
I wish this could've been any other way
But I just don't know, I don't know
Hustle from the Midtown station. Starbucks; double espresso latte, “Gabriel” written on the side; single piece of chocolate biscotti for lunch. Hustle four blocks to the Times’ office. Sera’s at the front desk, she smiles, but she doesn’t mean it.
What else I can do
There’s a man waiting in the lobby, he doesn’t say anything. He has a gun.
Every day is exactly the same
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Gabriella dies.
There is no love here and there is no pain
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Gabriella dies.
There is no love here and there is no pain
Gabriella dies.
Every day is exactly the same
Gabriella’s Apartment
March 11th
6:14 am
Gabriella awakens with a startle a split second before her alarm starts going off. She can still hear the sound of a gunshot ringing in her ears. Sweat clings to her brow, glistens on her skin, mats her hair to her forehead. Dim morning light filters blue and cold through the horizontal blinds shadowing her bedroom.
It was just a dream.
Her shaking hand manages to tap the stop button on the alarm, shutting up Katy Perry as she launches into the chorus for “Baby You’re a Firework.” Usually an inspirational anthem to get her ass out of bed, Gabby isn’t in the mood.
She flops back on her sweat-damp pillow and stares at the ceiling for a moment. “Just a dream. Get your shit together, Gabby,” she murmurs to herself. She swings her feet over the side of the bed, the floor cold against her feet — something she’s never thought about except to wish she had socks on or wonder why she never puts her slippers by the side of the bed.
But this time she frowns, her head tipping as she looks at the blue light slanting in through her window. It’s easy enough to shake it off, though, and she disappears into the bathroom, taking a quick shower before dressing and heading into the kitchen.
There she stares at the counter where the coffee pot and toaster sit. Instead she grabs her phone, keys, and purse and heads out.
Outside of her apartment and two blocks up the street, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn, Gabby finds herself unconsciously scrolling through social media on her phone, finding a short video clip of President Zimmerman dismissing fears about an increase in foreign internet surveillance by America. Her heart flutters, skips a beat, and just as she’s about to swipe up and close the app she notices a trending piece of news on the right pane:
Car Accident on Narrows Locks Down Traffic
The jarring cry of the crosswalk jolts Gabby back to reality, and she feels blood rushing in her ears and the hastening beat of her heart in her chest as pedestrians shoulder past her to cross the street.
Nearby, trying to hand out pamphlets to the fast-paced pedestrians, a street evangelist yells their gospel; it’s just so much white noise to Gabriella, usually, but the words “higher power” reminds her of her conversation with Asami. Gabby doubted her but part of her wanted to believe, and then nothing happened.
It’s easy to pass it off as the ramblings of a crazy person; harder to shrug off the abilities Asami showed, the way her eyes shifted. And her words, just before she touched Gabriella: I help you see.
“Jesus Christ,” she murmurs to herself, then hurries into the street before the light changes in favor of the cross traffic.
Swiping as she walks, she opens her email, finding the email from “Oni.”
I think I get it now. I’ll see what I can do about the story.
~GM
It feels like it only takes a moment to cross two blocks, in spite of the dense morning pedestrian traffic. Gabriella is on auto-pilot as she walks, checking her work email, flicking her starbucks app up and off the screen before she even realizes she placed a remote order. It’s only when she feels the jostling in her knees of jogging down a flight of stairs that she realizes she’s entering the subway. It’s like this every morning, but right now feels more pointed than ever.
The noise down here is terrible, the cacophony of voices, the screech of the subway cars across the rails, the man dry heaving up against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Gabby slides her earbuds in and drowns out the noise with a steady beat of loud music, eyes fixed on her phone, on her morning ritual. With one small adjustment, but there’s no response from Asami yet.
Swiping her phone to get past the turnstiles, Gabby hurries with a rushing crowd to squeeze in as the third-to-last person on the subway car before it disembarks. The smell of sweat and urine clings to her nose, but the noise of everything is drowned out. Everything except the vibration in the floor. Gabby feels the slick texture of the greasy aluminum pole she has to hold because… there’s no seats.
Again? No, those were dreams.
Gabriella rubs her temples. Every similarity between the dreams catches her attention, from the faces of those packed in like sardines on the subway car to the book titles in the hands of those lucky enough to have found a seat. She doesn’t mind standing, usually — it’s better than having to sit at eye level with everyone’s waists (or worse), but any slight deviation from the dreams is a welcome one.
She watches the map on the wall above the windows. She’ll stay on the train, get off on the exit past her usual stop, grab the train heading back home. She never takes sick days — they owe her that much, right? As only a native New Yorker could do, she manages to hold on to the pole with one hand while typing out an email with her thumb to her editor.
On my way in but have a splitting migraine so going back home. I’ll reschedule my appointments but have photog go to the 2 pm anyway; he knows what I need for the shot. Sorry! Won’t affect any deadlines, promise.
~GM
Gabby winces slightly at the word shot and pushes send. It’s unlikely it’ll get there until her phone makes it back to the surface, but sometimes one gets lucky in the subway. Rarely.
Feeling good about her plan, she concentrates on any differences she can find, like a real-life (or death, she can’t help but think) Highlights Magazine page.
Something in the pit of Gabby’s stomach twists when the subway passes by her usual stop. But that tension relaxes as it pulls into the next station at Central Park. As she disembarks, Gabby checks her phone, no replies to her email yet. Topside, the city seems as alive as it was when she went underground, a morning rush of commuters walking, driving, and cycling roll past her like a tidal wave.
Crossing the street, Gabby takes the southbound station entrance, hustling past a rat curled around a crust of pizza. She gets into the train headed back south without issue, finds a seat even. The jittering in her leg continues the rest of the ride, up until she gets an email from her editor:
Ok, get rested. If anything comes up I’ll touch base.
- Steven
Finally, it feels like Gabby can let out a breath. But a few minutes later, three-quarters of the way to her stop, she gets a text:
Mom
u ok?
And before she can respond, another,
Nancy W
holy shit are you alright?
And another,
Wendy H
bitch tell me u weren’t at work!!
and another
Nalani H
gabs where are you?
Then, like a punctuation mark at the end of a run-on sentence, an emergency alert on her phone:
OPTICA Threat Alert System
ACTIVE SHOOTER
NEW YORK TIMES BUILDING
LOBBY
Panic Alarm at 7:32 am on Thursday, Mar 11th
She should have warned them. She should have stopped it. The thoughts rush in as fast as the subway tunnels rush by on the other side of the windows. She scrolls through all of the messages, unable to respond to anyone — her hands are shaking too much to type back, and the guilt…
She becomes vaguely aware of a dull, repetitive noise on her periphery, before the odd looks of some of the other travelers on the train draws the sound into sharper focus. It’s her.
“Oh God oh God oh God…” Gabriella mutters to herself, her eyes wild with fear, her stomach sour with guilt.
How many times has she ridden the subway trying not to make eye contact with some stranger muttering to the demons only they can hear? How many times did she clutch her laptop bag a little closer to herself, pretending not to see?
Her fingers curl into fists and she takes a deep breath, then opens her camera roll, finding the video she shot of Asami last night. Despite her trembling hands she manages to upload it — everywhere — with the use of an app that uploads to every major social media platform at once, even creating a quick account on those she’s not on . And she’s on most of them — some using her real name and credentials, some using an incognito name.
It doesn’t matter now.
If what Asami said is true, it doesn’t matter. They’ll be coming for her, and Gabriella may as well get the truth out there.
There are people with superhuman abilities. The government doesn’t want you to know, she types in the caption, and hits send.
Send Failed.
Gabby’s hands are shaking. She tries again, and once more is met with the same response.
Send Failed.
She can feel her heartbeat pounding in her chest. Swiping through her apps, she tries to do them one at a time. Fail. Fail. Fail. It takes a moment for Gabrielle to notice how bad she’s trembling and the flow of text messages coming to her phone has all but ceased. A few moments later there is a spike of fear that goes through her and she opens her photo app.
It’s gone.
The video is gone.
Gabriella breathes in and out through her nose, nostrils flaring and eyes wide as she stares at her phone, oblivious to the stares of the other passengers.
Trembling fingers choose one of the messages — Wendy — and she manages to type (thank God for autocorrect):
let me know if you get this asap pls
There is no sass or jokes, no emojis or gifs for her most irreverent of friends.
The failed sends can be attributed to being below ground, Gabby tells herself, but the missing video? She knows she didn’t delete it, not even accidentally. Trying to upload it shouldn’t make it cease to exist. It’s almost impossible to accidentally delete anything these days, with all the are you sure dialog boxes that pop up even if you are sure.
“Fuck.” She stands, ready to disembark at the next stop, reaching for the pole to keep her balance with one hand, while the other swipes a long strand of hair out of her sweaty face.
Wendy doesn’t respond.
After a few minutes of nothing pass, when Gabby goes to check her messages, she doesn’t see any message history from today for Wendy. Her heart clenches, stomach turns, and it feels like she’s losing her mind. Swiping to the news feed in her mobile browser, Gabby scans the headlines trying to find news about the attack at her work.
Her eyes snap wide open.
Her hands tremble.
The phone falls to the floor.
PHOTOJOURNALIST WENDY HUNTER KILLED IN SHOOTING AT THE NEW YORK TIMES OFFICE
All she can muster is a strangled scream of confused horror.