La-Tonia Denise Willis
Chaos Theory Media Productions
Creative Multimedia Artist Group

filmmaker@darkmatter-indiefilm.com
latonw@msn.com
www.darkmatter-indiefilm.com

(FALL)
EXT. RESIDENTIAL NEIGHBORHOOD – DAY
Fallen leaves. PAN the many apartment complexes. ZOOM IN on

Bed in disarray. Mountaintop of DIRTY CLOTHES on floor.
PAN the walls full of MOVIE POSTERS and AWARDS and an array
of BOOKS. Semi-cluttered space. COMPUTER MONITOR shows
internet search and web pages on agoraphobia.

(on phone)
They say the translation from the Greek means
"fear of the marketplace". All I know is it's
been five years since I stepped out of the light
into the shadows. This is my life now. My
existence. My apartment. Each day I try. I really
do try. I think about the day before. How I plan
on making it to the door slowly . . . very slowly
. . . that it's easy and painless and . . . has
to be done. I go through it in my mind. I take
small little baby steps and I push myself to keep
going to keep heading in that direction. But
every time, I stop . . . Back to the beginning
. . . Back to the, (laughs) "fear of the
marketplace" . . .

(on phone)
Sometimes I look in the mirror . . . this little
African reindeer mirror that my ex bought at half
price and lied about because he wanted me to
think he spent more than he could afford. Why do
men do that? Pretend like something’s one way
when you know it’s the other? Anyway, I look in
the mirror but my reflection is gone or maybe it
was never there in the first place. It makes me
wonder just how long I’ve been pretending . . .

pacing back and forth erratically in a dark nightgown.
THE REFRIGERATOR DOOR OPENS
A JUG OF WATER taken out, cap removed. Pause. Cap placed

(on phone)
I’m not really thirsty. I need to open the door.
But it’s what’s behind the door that frightens
me, that scares the hell out of me more like it.
I think about my nightmares . . . about the man
in my nightmares who likes it when I’m afraid. I
keep seeing his face. The man in black. He’s like
two people rolled up into one. He has a pleasant
face on the outside and a nice smile like
somebody’s eccentric uncle who would buy you ice
cream on a hot summer day. But he reminds me of
those militant Black men in the 70’s who could
talk shit on one hand and love you a long time on
the other. And every time I open the door, I keep
hearing his voice, his sweet terrible voice . . .

WE MOVE toward the APARTMENT DOOR. The door handle is
turned, slightly opening the door ajar. SOUNDS. A FORCE
pushes itself inside and the DOOR FLYS OPEN but no one is
there.

(on phone)
Something was out there! I know something was out
there! . . . Why does it keep bothering me all
the time? Maybe it’s all in my mind. Yeah. Maybe.

but moves closer.
Another KNOCK . . .
Determined not to answer Rhonda retreats from the door to