Annika
Dear Diary;
I woke up sore and disoriented this morning, my head buzzing like the aftermath of those reckless nights in Palm Springs back in college.
The ones where I thought I was on top of the world, when in reality, it was something much darker.
Funny how easy it is to blame my son's father for introducing me to cocaine, even after all this time.
Charlize said I sleepwalked again last night. I thought I'd leave that behind, but some ghosts cling tighter than others.
Maybe it's the constant pressure from Christian—new director, full of ambition, always adding more to my plate.
He seemed genuinely rattled after catching me wandering the halls, though. Oddly enough, he gave me the day to rest.
**The Next Page**
Not that it helped. Turns out 80% of my stocks are tanking. I need to move fast before everything sinks.
Told Christian I'd sold my Cisco stock today, and he gave me that look—the one where you're not sure if you're being judged or pitied.
Who does he think he is? Some Wall Street prophet?
But it wasn't just about my financial decisions. No, he came down to meddle in makeup and scene design again.
I get it—he started as an artist—but why does he need to micromanage everything?
Most rookie directors focus on coaxing decent performances from actors, not nitpicking the technical details.
He's got this obsession with directors like Cameron and his "Terminator 2" days, but what we're doing here isn't some blockbuster epic.
Still, I'll admit—I have a soft spot for "Terminator 2."
Sarah Connor's fight for survival hit close to home when I named my son John. Funny how life imitates art sometimes.
**The Next Page**
I'm furious. Christian's latest "vision" cost me an entire day of work, only for him to reject it outright.
In the original script, making mutants look grotesque was simple—distorted eyes, twisted features.
But now he wants something "ugly, unsettling, sacred."
How the hell do you balance ugly with sacred? It's like being told to walk in two directions at once.
If I could pull off what he's asking, I'd be working on bigger sets, not stuck in this low-budget nightmare.
But no—here I am, being made to feel like I'm the one lacking imagination.
**The Next Page**
Maybe I misjudged him.
After tearing apart my last design, Christian came back with an idea—primitive religious totems as inspiration.
Ugly, mysterious, sacred. It made sense in a twisted kind of way.
He even brought rough sketches—crude, but with something raw beneath the lines.
I built a new design off his concept, and it worked. Better than I expected, honestly.
Maybe there's more to him than just pointing fingers.
Christian approved the new look, but now he insists on adding his "finishing touches" whenever I apply makeup to the actors.
Small changes, barely noticeable to anyone but him.
If John's school bills weren't looming over me, I'd call him out on undermining my work. For now, I'll let it slide.
But one day, I'll show him exactly what I can do with a makeup brush.
It's not just me he's got issues with.
Today, he decided the "Cannibal House"—the rundown set we use for the mutant scenes—wasn't twisted enough.
He had the crew rearrange everything and painted strange symbols on the floor. Dark, circular patterns that looked more like occult sigils than set dressing.
The paint smelled metallic—rusty, like dried blood.
We already filmed half the scenes there, so why the sudden changes? Reshoots? Or something else entirely.
Christian never lingers on unnecessary retakes.
He moves through scenes quickly, almost like he's trying to stay one step ahead of something the rest of us can't see.
Maybe now, he's finally letting whatever that is catch up.
**The Next Page**
Finally, Christian's turned his focus to the actors—about time.
As I guessed, the Cannibal House scene was reshot. But it wasn't just a retake.
The script changed, the camera angles shifted, and even Addison, our cinematographer, got into it with Christian.
They argued for nearly an hour before Addison gave in. It's rare to see him back down.
Sally got hit hardest. Her role's more complex now—same lines, maybe, but a whole new emotional depth. Surface acting won't cut it anymore.
I used to think she landed this part through... less-than-professional channels, but maybe I was wrong.
She's holding her own. Could anyone but Jodie Foster pull this off?
To get that layered effect in Sally's performance, Christian gave her two separate scripts—one public, one private.
When I asked about it, she said it was "part of the process."
Right. Process or mind game?
Whatever it is, it's working. Sally's growing into the role, and despite Christian's endless notes and cold demeanor, she's starting to nail it.
There's something haunting in her performance now—something beneath the surface. It's subtle but unsettling.
Even from behind my makeup brushes, I can feel it. There's a shadow behind her eyes that wasn't there before.
Is it the secret script? Or is Christian just that good at pulling strings?
Maybe he is.
Not just Sally—the entire cast is stepping up, especially with fear.
The raw, genuine kind. Some of the crew say it's Christian's presence. When he steps behind the camera, the temperature seems to drop.
The room quiets. He doesn't yell, doesn't need to. People... respond.
I've worked with directors who scream, directors who coddle. Christian doesn't do either. He watches.
Waits. And somehow, you end up doing exactly what he wants. It's like he sees straight through you and all your excuses.
Maybe horror is his calling.
**The Next Page**
Erica broke down today.
She plays a minor character, dies early in the film, but it's her big moment. Christian wasn't impressed.
Took after her with sharp precision. Not cruel exactly, but... cutting.
She tried to hold it together, but the tears came anyway.
I don't particularly like the girl, but even I thought he went too far.
"Old Gun"—our deputy director—asked me to check on her. Guess being the only older woman on set makes me the unofficial crew mom.
He's a decent guy, that Gun. Without him, Christian's pressure might crack the cast wide open.
I've heard rumors they were close. Friends, maybe more.
Also... the beard. There's something charming about that red beard.
A rare thing happened today: peace.
No shouting, no breakdowns. Everything ran smoothly.
We might be nearing the finish line. Not the most dramatic entry, but a welcome one.
I still hate writing in this damn diary.
That shiny young psychiatrist said it would help relieve pressure, manage my temper.
But after all these entries, I'm not feeling any lighter.
Honestly, I think Dr. Sweet just wanted to pad his report with some nonsense about mindfulness.
(T/N: Dr Lance Sweets- character from 'Bones' series)
Sweet. His name even sounds fake.
If I'm being real? I don't need therapy. I need someone to lean on. Someone strong. Someone real.
Not gonna lie—battery-powered comfort has its place. But it's not exactly emotionally fulfilling.
Also, those things chew through double-A's like candy...
Lord, send me someone who lasts longer than a charge cycle. Amen.
(Annika attempted to cross this part out, but not very effectively.)
**The Next Page**
Miracles do happen.
After filming wrapped, Old Gun got a call from his ex, something about not letting him see his kid.
He looked gutted. Christian, of all people, asked me to talk to him.
I agreed. He handed me a bottle of tequila as a thank-you.
One drink turned into two. We talked—his ex-wife, my son, our broken little families.
By the time I realized what was happening, my underwear was around my ankles, and his hands were everywhere.
Turns out "Old Gun" lived up to the name.
We talked until late, and the tequila did most of the talking.
For a second, it felt like the start of something.
Then his phone rang—an investor call. Important, he said.
Didn't share the details, and I didn't ask.
Right now, I need to focus on telling John that there might be a new man in our lives.
Too soon? Maybe. But good men don't come along often.
And this one has kind eyes behind all the sarcasm.
I'll take the risk.