Within Frame
by Christian Barragan
Given my lifelong fascination with the concept of reaction, it’s no wonder I eventually gravitated toward film. I wasn’t allowed to watch many films growing up, so this interest developed much later. Still, I spent much of my early years trying to evoke emotional reactions from the people around me. I wasn’t successful.
Given how often my parents beat me, I was given many opportunities to practice. The process became predictable. Each time they took their frustrations out on me, I always looked for signs of the emotions I had learned. Sympathy. Regret. I knew what the words meant, but I never saw them in the eyes of my parents. Or the other family members I told in secret. It never surprised me because it’s all I ever knew, but it still felt wrong. These people were supposed to protect me. The reactions from my peers whenever I arrived at school covered in bruises weren’t the ones I wanted. Disgust. I knew that word, too.
I looked for a reaction when my parents kicked me out of the house after graduation. I tried to picture the image of myself leaving the doorstep for the last time as they might have seen me, a defeated child crying into a dark unforgiving silence. Perhaps it was the natural state of the world not to react to me. I wanted to change that, if only once.
I took my interest in images with me when I briefly studied film at my hometown’s local community college. It was there that I met the Squid Hat group. You’ll understand why I can’t use the real name of the group or its members. At its most basic function, the group was a club of filmmakers meant to support each other and create loosely collaborated projects. I say “loosely” because, in reality, most of the members cared more about their individual pursuits than anyone else. Most creatives are like that, it seems.
Even after dropping out of school at the end of my second semester, I remained with the group for another two years. During this time, I learned practically nothing about any of its members. Most of them attributed their tight-lipped nature to Citra. She was a former journalist they were afraid would reveal their intimate details if she ever decided to regress to her old profession. Despite this, she never gossiped and wore her reactions on her sleeve. It was never a challenge to see her intentions. She was also the only member Darnell paid special attention to.
Darnell was the only member I knew on a somewhat personal basis. He was a dependable but reserved member of the group who happened to be by far the most frustrating. During the screenings of our short films, it was almost impossible to tell what he thought of our work, as he hardly gave any feedback other than minor suggestions. Though young, his tired face attested to a trying life. It was in the microscopic intricacies of his expressions and his previous background in theater that I knew he was capable of every conceivable emotion. Yet he chose not to use them.
Despite his somewhat distant approach to the narcissistic group, he was fiercely loyal to Squid Hat. If not for him the group likely would have disintegrated long before I joined. He was hardly ever thanked for his efforts, but he made most of the planning and arranged several of our group exercises. Otherwise, the motley collection would have been little more than a group chat with a shared interest. He was especially loyal to Citra, who he worked with most often, given her difficulty grasping many of the concepts.
Our collaborative projects were mostly small-scale, and we had an unspoken rule that we weren’t supposed to reveal who came up with each idea, but it was usually easy to tell who did. This time, I couldn’t tell. Once the idea was announced, Darnell wrote a one-word emotional reaction on a strip of paper, one per member, and placed it into a hat. Each of us picked out a word without revealing it to the others. The idea was to shoot a simple short film embodying the reaction as best we could. I knew the game had been rigged since I received the most abstract, hardest reaction to complete.
I gave my best effort to conceal my frustration. A cesspool of emotions threatened to explode in my face that same instant, but it would have been unthinkable to break right then. Fine, I thought. I’ll give them a reaction. Using myself was out of the question. This wasn’t high school. I needed real actors. Or perhaps just one. I labored over my idea for days. Most of our group members went separate ways and the deadline neared but eventually I recognized my opportunity. Given my information, there was only one way to make this film.
I knew Darnell was the only other member of the group who had remained in the general vicinity. I invited him to witness the completion of my own shot, however brief it was supposed to be. I sent him the location of the abandoned theater where I had set up, the same theater where we had our first meetings, and informed him I wanted his feedback before the deadline.
I brought him through the mess of gear I had staged through the piles of concrete and fence that had been strewn about. He kept himself a few steps in front of me, deducing the basic path of where I was taking him. I wanted so badly to see his expressions, but I knew I’d get my chance.
I could tell he knew something was wrong. He passed by the stains on the floor he knew couldn’t have been there for long. The place was a mess, as always, but it was worse than usual.
He passed a boom mic. Then a camera. Then another. A larger collection of stains on the ground. A lamp knocked over with a broken bulb. His pace quickened.
He found a camera on the table I had set nearby and immediately recognized it as Citra’s. He only turned to tell me that we weren’t supposed to directly involve other people from the group. I said nothing.
Darnell turned toward a pocket in the alley where he saw the final setup of the film. Disgusted, he asked me how I was able to get the prop to look so much like her. I stood with him in silence, knowing he was asking the wrong question. Darnell then asked me what word I had received from the hat. He said he couldn't tell from my setup and that wasn’t a good sign.
I waited until he eventually faced me in a final admission and the remaining denial drained out of his face. As he turned back toward the grisly scene, I imagined myself the way he must have imagined me up to that point. How they’d all imagined me. A defeated girl, crying into the darkness. This time my cry would be heard.
Right then he felt the pointed nub press against the soft tissue of his back. At what I can only assume was the perfect moment, he noticed the camera perched above him. I wanted so much to see how the shot would come out, knowing it wouldn’t be quite the same as the real thing. That’s when I told him my word.
Betrayal.
Given how often my parents beat me, I was given many opportunities to practice. The process became predictable. Each time they took their frustrations out on me, I always looked for signs of the emotions I had learned. Sympathy. Regret. I knew what the words meant, but I never saw them in the eyes of my parents. Or the other family members I told in secret. It never surprised me because it’s all I ever knew, but it still felt wrong. These people were supposed to protect me. The reactions from my peers whenever I arrived at school covered in bruises weren’t the ones I wanted. Disgust. I knew that word, too.
I looked for a reaction when my parents kicked me out of the house after graduation. I tried to picture the image of myself leaving the doorstep for the last time as they might have seen me, a defeated child crying into a dark unforgiving silence. Perhaps it was the natural state of the world not to react to me. I wanted to change that, if only once.
I took my interest in images with me when I briefly studied film at my hometown’s local community college. It was there that I met the Squid Hat group. You’ll understand why I can’t use the real name of the group or its members. At its most basic function, the group was a club of filmmakers meant to support each other and create loosely collaborated projects. I say “loosely” because, in reality, most of the members cared more about their individual pursuits than anyone else. Most creatives are like that, it seems.
Even after dropping out of school at the end of my second semester, I remained with the group for another two years. During this time, I learned practically nothing about any of its members. Most of them attributed their tight-lipped nature to Citra. She was a former journalist they were afraid would reveal their intimate details if she ever decided to regress to her old profession. Despite this, she never gossiped and wore her reactions on her sleeve. It was never a challenge to see her intentions. She was also the only member Darnell paid special attention to.
Darnell was the only member I knew on a somewhat personal basis. He was a dependable but reserved member of the group who happened to be by far the most frustrating. During the screenings of our short films, it was almost impossible to tell what he thought of our work, as he hardly gave any feedback other than minor suggestions. Though young, his tired face attested to a trying life. It was in the microscopic intricacies of his expressions and his previous background in theater that I knew he was capable of every conceivable emotion. Yet he chose not to use them.
Despite his somewhat distant approach to the narcissistic group, he was fiercely loyal to Squid Hat. If not for him the group likely would have disintegrated long before I joined. He was hardly ever thanked for his efforts, but he made most of the planning and arranged several of our group exercises. Otherwise, the motley collection would have been little more than a group chat with a shared interest. He was especially loyal to Citra, who he worked with most often, given her difficulty grasping many of the concepts.
Our collaborative projects were mostly small-scale, and we had an unspoken rule that we weren’t supposed to reveal who came up with each idea, but it was usually easy to tell who did. This time, I couldn’t tell. Once the idea was announced, Darnell wrote a one-word emotional reaction on a strip of paper, one per member, and placed it into a hat. Each of us picked out a word without revealing it to the others. The idea was to shoot a simple short film embodying the reaction as best we could. I knew the game had been rigged since I received the most abstract, hardest reaction to complete.
I gave my best effort to conceal my frustration. A cesspool of emotions threatened to explode in my face that same instant, but it would have been unthinkable to break right then. Fine, I thought. I’ll give them a reaction. Using myself was out of the question. This wasn’t high school. I needed real actors. Or perhaps just one. I labored over my idea for days. Most of our group members went separate ways and the deadline neared but eventually I recognized my opportunity. Given my information, there was only one way to make this film.
I knew Darnell was the only other member of the group who had remained in the general vicinity. I invited him to witness the completion of my own shot, however brief it was supposed to be. I sent him the location of the abandoned theater where I had set up, the same theater where we had our first meetings, and informed him I wanted his feedback before the deadline.
I brought him through the mess of gear I had staged through the piles of concrete and fence that had been strewn about. He kept himself a few steps in front of me, deducing the basic path of where I was taking him. I wanted so badly to see his expressions, but I knew I’d get my chance.
I could tell he knew something was wrong. He passed by the stains on the floor he knew couldn’t have been there for long. The place was a mess, as always, but it was worse than usual.
He passed a boom mic. Then a camera. Then another. A larger collection of stains on the ground. A lamp knocked over with a broken bulb. His pace quickened.
He found a camera on the table I had set nearby and immediately recognized it as Citra’s. He only turned to tell me that we weren’t supposed to directly involve other people from the group. I said nothing.
Darnell turned toward a pocket in the alley where he saw the final setup of the film. Disgusted, he asked me how I was able to get the prop to look so much like her. I stood with him in silence, knowing he was asking the wrong question. Darnell then asked me what word I had received from the hat. He said he couldn't tell from my setup and that wasn’t a good sign.
I waited until he eventually faced me in a final admission and the remaining denial drained out of his face. As he turned back toward the grisly scene, I imagined myself the way he must have imagined me up to that point. How they’d all imagined me. A defeated girl, crying into the darkness. This time my cry would be heard.
Right then he felt the pointed nub press against the soft tissue of his back. At what I can only assume was the perfect moment, he noticed the camera perched above him. I wanted so much to see how the shot would come out, knowing it wouldn’t be quite the same as the real thing. That’s when I told him my word.
Betrayal.
Christian Barragan is a graduate from California State University Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become a novelist or editor. He's previously read submissions for Open Ceilings Magazine and the Northridge Review. His work has appeared in the Raven Review, Moria Magazine, and the Frogmore Papers, among others.