Poison...
You can find a complete chronological listing of letters, including links and short synopses here.
*click*
Peter here. Leave me a message if the sets are on fire. If the cameras aren't working. If the entire crew has come down with food poisoning. Do not leave me a message if you can't find your Hobbit feet. Or if the lunch special has run out. Or if--
*beep*
Peter. I know it's late. That's why I'm leaving this on your cell. Listen. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean for things to get out of hand. If you get this tomorrow and it doesn't make any damn sense, delete it and don't worry about it. On the other hand, if it does make sense, know that I am sorry.
*click*
12:00 PM.
Miranda and Dave got back about forty minutes ago. No sign of Sean. Miranda left a note on his car. Both of them look exhausted. I tell them to go to sleep, take the spare room. I've run Dave's jeans through the wash, so he should find them on the bed. Since he's wearing a pair of my jeans now, I hope he takes them off before he lets Miranda start talking dirty to him again.
Miranda. Mmm. Who would have guessed? I always knew there was something I liked about her.
1:30 AM.
Both Miranda and Dave snore. I snore too (not anywhere near as profoundly as Sean does), but one must be asleep to snore. I am not asleep. I went out back and watered the little shrubs Sean planted. If he doesn't come back, I'll have to move out. I couldn't stand being here, bumping into memories of him in every room.
2:25 AM.
I think I should call the police. I really do. What if Sean's hurt? What if something is terribly wrong? What if he needs help?
3:00 AM.
Peter will kill me if I call the police. If it got out and fired up the rumor mills, he would kill me.
3:17 AM.
I can't just sit on my fucking ass and wait. There has to be something I can do, someplace I can look that Miranda and Dave didn't. Waiting. Christ, the waiting is the worst.
3:45 AM.
The waiting isn't the worst. Wondering if he is dead or hurt, that's worse. Wondering if he hates me, if he's out there trying to pound his frustration and pain into someone else's body, that's worse. Imagining that he might let someone else do that to him, to make him forget, to allow him to swap one pain for another. That's so much worse.
If he doesn't come in by 6:00 AM, Peter and the movie be damned, I'm calling the police.
5:30 AM.
Harry's lucky I ran into him before I saw Sean and the photos Harry sent him, or I might have killed him. At the least, he'd be in the hospital. No one fucks with the people I love. No. One.
Oh, Christ, what am I going to do with Sean?
After I got him into our room, I picked glass out of his hand, washed and bound the gashes. I'm worried he might need stitches. Some of the cuts are deep and bleeding like bastards. If they start soaking through the bandages, I'll have to get him to the hospital.
Sean was barely responsive. He just let me bind his hand, undress him, get him in bed. Once he was asleep, I went out into the hallway and retrieved his journal. That damned gardening journal he carried around with him for weeks without writing in it. Now, it's stuffed with letters and Harry's fucking pictures. Even I have to admit that they're brilliant. Professional quality work. Sean didn't stand a chance. Not many people would.
I left my letters to Sean. Removed Harry's. I thought about burning them, but I hid them instead. Just in case.
The things Sean wrote in the journal are terrible. Angry, bitter, ripe with poison. I just hope I'll be able to draw the rest of it from him. I have to try. No matter what it takes, no matter what it costs me, I have to try. I'm not about to lose him. Not to Harry. Not to his own demons.
Not to anything.
Flashforward (because they demanded to have their say tonight ahead of schedule). The next morning. Across town.
*click*
[Melanie]: Maids to Order. This is Melanie. How can I help you?
[Harry]: Melanie. Harry Sinclair here. I'm signed up for your service.
[Melanie]: *brightly* Right. Mr. Sinclair. How are things in Middle Earth?
[Harry]: Just wonderful, thanks.
[Melanie]: I'm sure you didn't call just to chat, sir. What can I do for you?
[Harry]: Well, Kristine was by this morning. I was out, but when I came back.... There was a letter I'd left in the living room. I'd forgotten to drop it at the post, and now I can't seem to find it. Would you be able to ask her about it?
[Melanie]: Certainly, Mr. Sinclair. Can you hold? It will just take me a sec to phone her.
[Harry]: Of course.
[the on-hold music is the muzak version of Madonna's "Material Girl."]
[Melanie]: Mr. Sinclair?
[Harry]: Yes.
[Melanie]: There was a letter in the room, sir. Addressed to Mr. Urban. Kristine said it was all posted, and she thought you must have dropped it because it was partly under the sofa.
[Harry]: Do you know where she left it?
[Melanie]: She delivered it for you, sir.
[Harry]: What?
[Melanie]: We do work for a lot of people in the film, and she was swinging by Miss Otto's this morning, and Mr. Urban lives so close by. She dropped the letter with him.
[Harry]: ...SHE WHAT???
[Melanie]: She didn't mean any harm, sir. She just thought she'd do you a good turn--
*slam*
[Melanie]: Asshole.
*click*
*click*
Harry's place. Leave a message.
*beep*
Harry? It's me. Pick up the phone. I know you're there, Harry. Pick up the fucking phone. *pause* We need to talk, Harry. I think we've needed to talk for a long time now. Call me.
*click*
To: Harry Sinclair < isildur@gondor.co.nz >
From: Karl Urban < rohanwon@meduseld.co.nz >
Subject: Your Letter
Harry,
We need to talk about your letter. This.... Christ, Harry, I don't know what to say. I don't know what to fucking say.
You know that I can't let this just go away, right? I can't just turn my back or make excuses to everyone who got drawn into this, to everyone that got hurt.
You need to call me or, better yet, stop by.
Karl
To: Bernard Hill < theoden@meduseld.co.nz >
From: Karl Urban < rohanwon@meduseld.co.nz >
Subject: Your Letter
Bernard,
When are you going to be back in town? Things are falling apart. Harry.... Oh fuck, Bernard, Harry....
Please write or call or something.
Karl
*click*
Peter here. Leave me a message if the sets are on fire. If the cameras aren't working. If the entire crew has come down with food poisoning. Do not leave me a message if you can't find your Hobbit feet. Or if the lunch special has run out. Or if--
*beep*
Peter. I know it's late. That's why I'm leaving this on your cell. Listen. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean for things to get out of hand. If you get this tomorrow and it doesn't make any damn sense, delete it and don't worry about it. On the other hand, if it does make sense, know that I am sorry.
*click*
12:00 PM.
Miranda and Dave got back about forty minutes ago. No sign of Sean. Miranda left a note on his car. Both of them look exhausted. I tell them to go to sleep, take the spare room. I've run Dave's jeans through the wash, so he should find them on the bed. Since he's wearing a pair of my jeans now, I hope he takes them off before he lets Miranda start talking dirty to him again.
Miranda. Mmm. Who would have guessed? I always knew there was something I liked about her.
1:30 AM.
Both Miranda and Dave snore. I snore too (not anywhere near as profoundly as Sean does), but one must be asleep to snore. I am not asleep. I went out back and watered the little shrubs Sean planted. If he doesn't come back, I'll have to move out. I couldn't stand being here, bumping into memories of him in every room.
2:25 AM.
I think I should call the police. I really do. What if Sean's hurt? What if something is terribly wrong? What if he needs help?
3:00 AM.
Peter will kill me if I call the police. If it got out and fired up the rumor mills, he would kill me.
3:17 AM.
I can't just sit on my fucking ass and wait. There has to be something I can do, someplace I can look that Miranda and Dave didn't. Waiting. Christ, the waiting is the worst.
3:45 AM.
The waiting isn't the worst. Wondering if he is dead or hurt, that's worse. Wondering if he hates me, if he's out there trying to pound his frustration and pain into someone else's body, that's worse. Imagining that he might let someone else do that to him, to make him forget, to allow him to swap one pain for another. That's so much worse.
If he doesn't come in by 6:00 AM, Peter and the movie be damned, I'm calling the police.
5:30 AM.
Harry's lucky I ran into him before I saw Sean and the photos Harry sent him, or I might have killed him. At the least, he'd be in the hospital. No one fucks with the people I love. No. One.
Oh, Christ, what am I going to do with Sean?
After I got him into our room, I picked glass out of his hand, washed and bound the gashes. I'm worried he might need stitches. Some of the cuts are deep and bleeding like bastards. If they start soaking through the bandages, I'll have to get him to the hospital.
Sean was barely responsive. He just let me bind his hand, undress him, get him in bed. Once he was asleep, I went out into the hallway and retrieved his journal. That damned gardening journal he carried around with him for weeks without writing in it. Now, it's stuffed with letters and Harry's fucking pictures. Even I have to admit that they're brilliant. Professional quality work. Sean didn't stand a chance. Not many people would.
I left my letters to Sean. Removed Harry's. I thought about burning them, but I hid them instead. Just in case.
The things Sean wrote in the journal are terrible. Angry, bitter, ripe with poison. I just hope I'll be able to draw the rest of it from him. I have to try. No matter what it takes, no matter what it costs me, I have to try. I'm not about to lose him. Not to Harry. Not to his own demons.
Not to anything.
Flashforward (because they demanded to have their say tonight ahead of schedule). The next morning. Across town.
*click*
[Melanie]: Maids to Order. This is Melanie. How can I help you?
[Harry]: Melanie. Harry Sinclair here. I'm signed up for your service.
[Melanie]: *brightly* Right. Mr. Sinclair. How are things in Middle Earth?
[Harry]: Just wonderful, thanks.
[Melanie]: I'm sure you didn't call just to chat, sir. What can I do for you?
[Harry]: Well, Kristine was by this morning. I was out, but when I came back.... There was a letter I'd left in the living room. I'd forgotten to drop it at the post, and now I can't seem to find it. Would you be able to ask her about it?
[Melanie]: Certainly, Mr. Sinclair. Can you hold? It will just take me a sec to phone her.
[Harry]: Of course.
[the on-hold music is the muzak version of Madonna's "Material Girl."]
[Melanie]: Mr. Sinclair?
[Harry]: Yes.
[Melanie]: There was a letter in the room, sir. Addressed to Mr. Urban. Kristine said it was all posted, and she thought you must have dropped it because it was partly under the sofa.
[Harry]: Do you know where she left it?
[Melanie]: She delivered it for you, sir.
[Harry]: What?
[Melanie]: We do work for a lot of people in the film, and she was swinging by Miss Otto's this morning, and Mr. Urban lives so close by. She dropped the letter with him.
[Harry]: ...SHE WHAT???
[Melanie]: She didn't mean any harm, sir. She just thought she'd do you a good turn--
*slam*
[Melanie]: Asshole.
*click*
*click*
Harry's place. Leave a message.
*beep*
Harry? It's me. Pick up the phone. I know you're there, Harry. Pick up the fucking phone. *pause* We need to talk, Harry. I think we've needed to talk for a long time now. Call me.
*click*
To: Harry Sinclair < isildur@gondor.co.nz >
From: Karl Urban < rohanwon@meduseld.co.nz >
Subject: Your Letter
Harry,
We need to talk about your letter. This.... Christ, Harry, I don't know what to say. I don't know what to fucking say.
You know that I can't let this just go away, right? I can't just turn my back or make excuses to everyone who got drawn into this, to everyone that got hurt.
You need to call me or, better yet, stop by.
Karl
To: Bernard Hill < theoden@meduseld.co.nz >
From: Karl Urban < rohanwon@meduseld.co.nz >
Subject: Your Letter
Bernard,
When are you going to be back in town? Things are falling apart. Harry.... Oh fuck, Bernard, Harry....
Please write or call or something.
Karl