As if on cue, the assistant director, Alejandro, calls us to our places.
Andy quickly talks through the choreography we rehearsed before.
He tells me where to go, and I go. It’s all autopilot now as I dissociate from the pain.
“Three… Two… One… Action!”
Lunge, strike, dodge, strike. I just move, just try to get through this.
“Cut!”
Lana’s voice comes first. “Give me passion, Mylo!Vivre!”
Andy jogs over to translate. “You okay?”
I force myself to roll my injured shoulder. “Yeah. Just gonna take me a sec to get back into it. I’ll get there.” I still haven’t really looked at Christine.
Andy nods and withdraws.
Lana calls out, “Give me Melinoë! Give meraw! Now, let’s try that again…”
The rest of the call and response is a blur until that singular word.
Action.
My body moves. I let myself favor my good shoulder, let myself dirty up the choreography. I force myself to glance up at Christine’s face.
And she has theaudacityto look concerned. Poor noble, tortured Electra. Poor Christine, America’s sweetheart.
Melinoë’s headspace gives me a path back into my body, into all this rage and pain. I growl and give a messy, furious lunge.
Christine shows genuine surprise as she stumbles back, caught off-guard by the unscripted movement.
I launch a real kick at her face, forcing her to block it.
The number one rule of filmmaking?
Don’t youdarestop until you hear ‘Cut.’
So I keep going. I throw a punch at her shoulder, forcing her to dodge a low sweeping kick. My emotions unravel, and I’m not sure I could stop even if I wanted to.
I move faster, sharper. Christine’s on the defensive.
I slip a kick under her block and hit her in the stomach—hard. Pain rings through my foot from her breastplate, which is actual metal, but I don’t fucking care.
I don’t fucking care about anything anymore.
I don’t fucking care if I get fired from this movie, because I was an idiot if I ever thought I could work alongside an alpha like Christine.
I almost died today.
An animal scream claws its way from my chest as I go after Christine, attacking hard and fast. Blows connect with her shoulders, her thighs, her ribs.
Now she’s mad. It might be the first real emotion she’s shown, and I only go in harder.
But I’m clumsy with pain and fury, and it’s her turn to land a blow, hitting my raised forearm hard enough to send me stumbling. I go in again, and her next hit sends me rolling across the dirt. My breath chokes in my lungs as I roll over my injured shoulder, and adrenaline drives me back to my feet.
Beyond Christine, I’m vaguely aware of Bella stepping forward and Lana’s arm out to stop her, the director’s hand raised, gesturing for the cameras to keep rolling.
