I'd found her film from the pile of containers is the back. I'd threaded it into the projector. I swallowed hard, staring at the screen hearing her voice, the sunrise I remembered so well only moments away.
And then Mr. Scratch was there, nailed by the projector's beam, caught in his own trap. He shouted at me, first in confusion, then rage. And then the sun came up, and things started to burn.
American Nightmare Manuscript: New Reality: Fragment 3
