James Franco helped me drag my bags into his home. "Your room's straight down the hallway, to the left."
"Thanks."
I went on and took my jacket off, hung it on a hook behind my bedroom door and went back out to ask what was for lunch.
James Franco was carrying a black shoulder sling bag, trying to roll giant pieces of colored paper into a cylinder. I guessed we weren't having lunch together.
"I wanna do that for a living too," I half-joked, trying to fill the silence with some kind of something.
James mumbled something under his breath.
"What'd you say?" I asked sweetly.
James just smiled at me, in a way that wasn't so much at me, more like, in spirit of me, with his eyes to the floor. I was getting really annoyed. He started struggling with his giant paper cylinders towards the door.
"Hey, don't just go. Tell me what you said."
"What?" he said, smiling at the floor again.
"You can't just mumble something under your breath every time and not share it," I was getting a bit snappy.
James Franco dumped his rolled pieces of colored paper on the floor, along with his bag. He started punching walls. These ones didn't hole. I was starting to get scared but didn't want him to see that. He was pacing now, breathing heavily as he started to turn red.
"Dipshit. Little dipshit," he mumbled again - I caught that one.
"You're calling me a dipshit?"
He began to let out these caveman groans. Okay, so I should've kept quiet from here, but I didn't.
"How can I be living with someone who's just called me a dipshit? I haven't even been here 5 minutes and you already can't stand me." Of course he didn't see the relevance of the question.
"UUUHH DIPSHIT STIPSHIT!"
He paced quickly over to his beautiful L-shaped sofa, took a corner with one hand and threw it against the wall effortlessly. Every breath he took now he'd scream "STIPSHIT!" after.
"James, stop. Why don't you have any respect for me? Is it because I'm not holding my own yet?" Serious question at a seriously inappropriate time.
At that he finally turned his gaze towards me. I didn't actually know if that was a great thing. His eyes were full of rage and I was shaking, but of course I didn't want him to see that. "STIPSHIT!" he screamed before heading over to me and pushing me against his giant work desk. I hit the table hard on impact, it shifted out of position. I fell onto the floor against it, and couldn't believe this was happening, again. I was officially terrified and helpless.
"James, please stop. Please," I begged. I started to cry.
He didn't stop. STIPSHIT STIPSHIT STIPSHIT! As he walked over to me I tucked my head into my knees and closed my eyes. He started kicking the right side of my body. Every kick almost broke my ribs. Or I swore he was going to.
I was crying, "James, don't. What're you doing?"
I was lying on my left now and he started kicking my head. His kick increased strength slowly, but surely, to the point I was sure my head was going to fly off. "You're going to kill me," I stammered between my breaths.
I locked eyes with him for a brief moment hoping to have maybe made him realize, oh yeah, I should stop now, don't want to kill her. But no.
At that, James Franco crushed my skull.
----
Felt my skull crush, woke up after of course.
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