A short story about a writer's paranoia and the blurred lines between fiction and reality.

A writer indulges in substance use to spark creativity, but becomes increasingly paranoid as he experiences strange encounters and feels threatened. The story explores themes of self-perception, obsession, and the power of storytelling.

The Seventh Wall

### the seventh wall

> a short story by patrick michaelsen

whenever you do a line of coke, it makes sense to smoke a little weed to take the edge off

of course, weed makes you paranoid, so you should take a glass of whiskey to dull the senses

a bit of coffee to pick you up and relax you. don't want to blow through all the coke in one sitting. spread it out. ride the waves of energy. conceal the lows with other substances

a perfected process

---


i spent all day doing coke and coffee and none of it actually working 


so much for productivity. i wasn't productive, but on the bright side, i felt i was on the constant verge of it the entire time 

---

a knock at the door 


---


"hello???" he bellows without leaving his desk

"hi" a faint voice on the other side

he approaches the door and opens it

on the other side of the security screen stands a small young man holding a clipboard next to his chest 

in his open bathrobe and yellow-tinted sunglasses, the man gives his visitor an empty stare

"hello sir--"

"what do you want?"

"well, sir--"

"do you need me to sign anything? what's your pitch?"

"well we're just going around the neighborhood--"

"are you a solicitor? get lost. i'm busy"

he walks back from his door, towards his post. his writing station 

the young man, a lost cause pitched against a lost cause, keeps on with the smarmery 

what is it that you do?

i'm a writer

what do you write?

he approaches rapidly

what do you do?

... what do i?... do?

yeah, outside of work.

passions, hobbies?

school

what do you study?

accounting

well, everyone's passionate about something 

the poet walks away as the salesman continues his pitch

"can't you see i'm busy?" he barks 

halfway back to his post, he abouts face. he faces the man still silhouetted in his security screen door

"hey! you're trespassing!"

"sir i just--"

"i want you off my property!" he raises a finger and steps forward  

they stand about 30' away from each other but it's close enough 

this was just a bit too unhinged for the young man 

this was not worth $12.50/hr

// the line above is narrated, not spoken

---

---

the salesman turns away from the security door and heads across the porch


---

---

"$12.50 an hour? is that what they make these days?" says the writer to himself, out loud 

---

---


he watches through the blinds as the man walks down the driveway

he enters a nondescript van

(beat)

"cia?" he asks himself

he clambers back to his computer

on his machine, he types:

> the cia knock at his door

he stops. he types again

> "this is it. this is the moment" he thinks

he pauses again. he gets up. we hear the toilet flush. he returns to his post.

---

he gets up again

"this establishes the uncertain and startling nature of this characters life and mentality. he is on constant alert. his mind must fire on all cylinders. he must embrace his madness. but soon, madness follows him"

"good, that's good"

he weaves back to his desk. his legs bent too low, his arms splicing the air like a... like a... jagged desert tree..

// or plant, or palo verde, or lightning bolt of energy, or 

his hands spiral and his fingers twirl

he arrives at his destination

"you're editing", he tells himself "don't edit" 

// or maybe he doesn't

he types

> of course, it wasn't the cia that came, it was simply a man selling solar

another knock 

he checks his phone security camera 

its ok, he's expecting him

---

"hello" he says, with a reverent sheepishness yet resolute in his message. "hello" he said. it was firm, respectable, but not aggressive. they were equals. but he knew he had one leg to stand on, and josh had two. 


he had to show submission, show his regret. but dominant, affirmed in his actions.

---

CUT TO 

INT. TABLE - DAY

// a tea kettle is boiling in the background. the writer prepares a french press. he pours coffee beans into the grinder. grinds them. fills the press with grounds. walks over with two empty cups. he places one in front of josh, and sits down

the two sit across from
each other 

the writer starts

"how are you doing?"

well and yourself 

keeping busy, as you know. i wish we could have met under better circumstances 

yeah, yeah, but it is what is is

---

we see the men rummaging around in a back house

well, we can't see them, only hear them and the clamoring of furniture and objects 

// envision a scene from a wes anderson film. fantastic mr. fox meets fear and loathing in las vegas

---

the trunk of a car is slammed shut

two hands shake 

"thank you"

"hey, no worries, i just want to keep the peace"

"i wish it were under better circumstances"

"right. sure."

the car drives away. the writer is left standing in the middle of street, watching him drive away. 

---

the writer is at his post

> the car drives away,

he typed 

suddenly, a knock

this time. there's no one there.

not that he can see.

he sits down

he types

> the writer is left standing...

he pauses. he looks from one side to another, without moving his head. right to left. he enters stealth mode. he enters high alert. his senses were primed.

someone. was in the house.

---

---

ACT II

---

---

the thing about searching a house for a person is

there's a lot more places for a person to hide than you realize 

and you have to search it fast because they could move from room to room

that means if you're searching your own home, by yourself 

you have to check under every bed, in every closet, in every row of coats in your closet (because just a quick glance won't do, one has to be scrupulous), every sofa, every corner behind the door, every shower curtain, the garage, the cupboards, hell, even the ceiling.

in a matter of _minutes!_

they could be in the hvac closet. they could be here to kill you, right now!

simply open this door and bam! 

they're not behind this door, but perhaps the one by the water heater? 

---

there's a moment where you realize you have enough enemies 

to ever leave the door unlocked

---

you're relaxing in the evening 

time to unwind with a nice bath 

you slip into the tub

hot water streaming down from above

when suddenly you remember 

you didn't lock the front door 

---


that would be fine. except this was a day your enemy's had already paid you a visit. had an opportunity to scope you out. play it nice. play it "no hard feelings"

and then you receive ominously threatening messages afterwards

of all the days, this would be the day to play it safe 

but then again, this had become so normal to you, that you might as well leave it open

and see how it plays out

---


they might be here to beat you 

it doesn't worry you 

until you remember leon

suddenly you leap up

_no fucking way am i letting that happen_

half naked in a towel waist wrap, you slowly get up and wait patiently for sounds outside the bathroom door

hearing nothing of suspicion, you grab your glasses from the counter

you don't put them on yet; too much steam

you brace yourself to arm them the moment you open the door and the fog dissipates

not a moment in the battle of war could be without sight 



---


you can't leave a door unlocked when you have as many enemies as i have 

--- 

you take a shower but you can hardly enjoy it

---

you re-enter the bathroom 

content, more or less, you had fulfilled your obligated effort required to absolve yourself from regret, you sleek gently back into your shower 

safe, at last 

you realize, you didn't lock the door

but you're being paranoid

// the watch on the counter shows 2:31am

not narrated: suddenly someone bust through the door with a bat and the character wakes up. he had fell asleep in the bath.

---

i don't ever lose sleep on the things i did to other people

but i lose sleep over what they might do back

---

you can't leave a door unlocked when you have as many enemies as i have 


---

---

ACT III

---

---

"that's good" he nods

as we see on his screen the words that were just narrated.

 // he begins typing the final monologue, as we hear it narrated to us. actions below will be seen simultaneously


---

CUT TO

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

a hand turns on a bathtub spout

he undresses

he throws his watch onto the counter

2:05am

as the bath draws, he prepares a few lines

just a night-cap

if you don't manage your drug habit effectively, it can go unmanaged for a long time

an unmanaged drub habit becomes unmanageable 

an unmanageable drug habit only ends one way

// we see him getting ready for bed. but we also see him typing. the two moments unfold, interleaved, as he writes the following monologue:

---


> it's almost like we choose our own destiny

he dons a robe. the bath water is still drawing. we see him cleaning up, putting away the untouched coffee cups. dumping the unused boiled water. he continues chores until he prepares a bath. even better, he should finish making the coffee but never actually serve it. that way we can have a long awkward silence as he prepares the coffee

// these moments are interleaved this with moments from earlier in the story

> we write our own story
> 
> not necessarily the characters
> 
> but the outcome, we do write
> 
> certainly, the outcome is one of your design
> 
> one of your machinations
> 
> the fate you chose.
> 
> your pen is your actions
> 
> your story is yours
> 
> what are you writing?
> 
> what ending will you choose?
> 
> and if you had to pick one book
> 
> only one book to read
> 
> for the rest of your life
> 
> would you pick the one you wrote?
> 
> or someone else's

---

---

he throws his watch on the counter

2:30 am

he drops his towel. he places one leg into the bath

// typing:

> the fourth wall is when the fiction acknowledges it was written

he slips into the bath.

> the fifth wall is when the fiction acknowledges it was written by you

and closes his eyes.

> the sixth wall is acknowledging you are the fiction

and breaths out

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

CUT FROM BLACK

he wakes up. his eyes move right to left. high alert. slow motion.

> the seventh

the water moves slowly.

the sound of the water is slowed

we can hear his breathing.

> is meeting your writer

we see him type:

CUT TO BLACK.