Participants:
| Scene Title | Worth Taking Away |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Kayla returns to her trailer in Thomas Jefferson. And then she leaves again, for the last time. |
| Date | May 20, 2009 |
Thomas Jefferson Trailer Farm: Kayla's Trailer
Five feet wide. Fifteen feet long, two and a half of them behind a flimsy door. The trailer is anything but noteworthy; it's as plain as they come. A dull gray couch curls around the front section, just to the right of the entrance; walking in puts a person at the kitchen sink, two-burner stove just to its left, a tiny little refrigerator beside that. Overhead cabinets hold dishes. Past the fridge is a narrow single bed, thin blankets rumpled. The wall across from all of these things features overhead cabinets for storage space, two shallow closets, and lengths of mostly-bare shelving. One shelf sports a varied collection of feathers; another a haphazard set of creased and torn paperbacks. There's nothing personal; nothing identifiably sentimental. The trailer says nothing about its sole occupant, except perhaps that she has nothing left to say.
This was never supposed to be home. A place to live, to endure; if asked, she would have said it didn't mean anything except a roof and four walls. Not important.
Kayla's lips twist as she surveys the trailer that has been neglected for nearly two months, dark, silent — fair game for the many scavengers residing in Thomas Jefferson. The bed has been tossed, the couch cushions overturned, everything once on the shelves strewn without ceremony on the floor — ragged old books now even more tattered by a lack of care, feathers bent and crumpled underfoot, other trinkets from her magpie's collection similarly discarded as worthless. The pots and pans are gone, the cupboards bare; so is absolutely everything else that could be of any use.
The intrusions, the thefts, bother her a great deal more than she ever expected they might.
Her escort waits outside, watching Kayla through the open door, silent, thoughts and opinions hidden behind a lack of expression.
He doesn't belong here, in this place populated by the poor and destitute; not in his neat black three-piece suit and striped blue tie, short dark hair combed precisely into place, earpiece discreetly connected to a radio hidden inside the suit jacket. She looks just as incongruous — not only with the place, but with her own former appearance, the dingy, cheap, and well-worn garb of a refugee; Kayla's hair is bound back, her attire a wine-colored blouse and tan slacks that fit her perfectly and have that look of being very new.
Kayla looks over her shoulder at the man waiting with infinite patience, ignoring the few beyond who have started to gather and stare at the interlopers. "There's only one thing worth taking away," she states; even though she says it to him, the words are really for Kayla herself. She moves down the length of the trailer interior, passing briefly out of his sight; from amongst the battered books strewn here and there, Kayla identifies the one that's important. It's even still here — though there's no telling how many grubby hands have flipped through its pages in the past two months.
It doesn't matter. She's never going to see those people again. Or so Kayla optimistically expects.
Diary held close against her chest, Kayla returns to the entrance, steps out of the trailer. She takes the time to close the door behind her, then turns to her escort.
"Let's go." And never, ever come back again.