John Dalton was a director from the 90s. He was probably one of the best ones out there up until today. At thirty years old, he was the youngest and most successful in the Film community.

Majority of the population say that John was a self-proclaimed "Director of the Century". It was an understatement for his fans but for most people, not really. Many hated his guts, especially the ones he scold often in between takes or even at parties.

"Do you think the monster mascot looks boring?" John asked his crew. They were shooting a film that takes place in the Sahara. He was looking at the cameramen intently in the middle of a manmade desert somewhere around noon. "We can replace it if it does."

The cameramen were dumbfounded. Not a single one of them laughed during the take nor made a comment about the mascot. Dalton's judgment was a bit more sensitive at extreme weather conditions.

"It is an artistic move that only I can pull off. The reason behind the practical effects is not because an issue with the budget, but because it looked more eerie and mysterious that way. It is the direct manifestation of our protagonist's suffering in the desert for god's sake!" Dalton continued. He jumped off his high chair then threw the megaphone at his side. "He is literally wrestling with his thoughts!"

John's assistant and secretary rushed to him and gave him a glass of lemon water. He drank all of it in one go. While they both walked across the stretch of dunes toward the warehouse, Dalton kept on complaining. It was the first time the mascot was used in the set and it did not meet his expectations.

"I designed the mascot myself and it does not belong to the setting or anywhere in the world!" John exclaimed.

"But that was the point, right?" the secretary said. "It was supposed to look like an alien or something out of this world!"

"Yeah, yeah because this is the first time our protagonist experienced a fight for survival in a place he was unfamiliar with bla-bla-bla," John lit a cigarette. "It's hideous! I wanted it to be ugly-beautiful and not ugly-ugly!"

"Maybe the lines and the flaws are more defined here outside where the sun is shining bright," the secretary shrugged. "It did look different when we designed it in close quarters."

John looked back at the set observing the mascot being cared for by the production team. He recalled the sleepless nights he spent with them designing the monster. "Useless sun shining bright," he muttered, "It's wasting everyone's time!"

John gave the finger to the heavens above then pulled a flask of whiskey from his pocket and took a shot. "I guess we'll make another one, hmm?"

The assistant sighed with relief. John looks at her and asked her if he was just lashing out because of the heat and the sweat streaming from his forehead every five seconds. She did not react. He continued to strut across the manmade dunes, kicking them as he did.

Dalton was the best because almost every film and script that he made was a hit. He was a perfectionist with bad temper but a bit charming in favorable conditions. A lot of people dislike his character but most of them still went to see his movies.

John was different. People were not aware how fast the world of showbiz evolved. Their taste became more and more diverse every day thanks to the growing usage of the 'internet'. He was the only one who saw that in his time. In one of his speeches, he even predicted that the future of entertainment will be as volatile as the shifting clouds.

Dalton's fellow directors were always about "their craft", "preferences", "acquired taste", and "going back to the old times". All of them were "eccentrics" that only a specific audience welcomed. John was a visionary. It was as if the audience didn't know what they wanted until the great John Dalton released a film.

"The ability to create anything and be loved for it is my gift from god", John mentioned in one of his interviews. He was so loved that many of his fellow directors made rip-offs/spin-offs of his films. Ironically, these directors turned out to be more successful than that of the eccentrics, money-wise, which he loathed of course.

Back at the warehouse, John finally eased down. He breathed in deeply then breathed out, smelled his armpits, then sprayed some perfume on his chest. He took a mint, looks at his reflection on a car window, and fashioned his long blonde hair with a shiny silver comb.

John went upstairs to his personal quarters then took his Ray Bans and shoes off. As soon as he went inside, his face bloomed into a smile without knowing it.

"Wow. You don't look so good," his wife Melissa greeted him. "You look like you could use some refreshments!"

"That's why I'm here. I needed to see you." John replied softly. He rushed to her and kissed her, embraced her intently then stared at each other, like they were communicating telepathically. They both giggle moments after. "You look so pretty zoomed in."

"And you smell like piss zoomed in," Melissa smiled then kissed John one more time. "What happened in the set? Was it the mascot?"

"How did you know it was the mascot?" John was shocked that she knew precisely what went wrong with everything going on in the set.

"I know you, John. You overthink too much," Melissa winks at him.

"It's my job to overthink."

"Yes. But not too much Johnny boy," Melissa smirked then shook her head. She took a seat on their bouncy couch and continued. "You hijacked the whole production team and made them work sleepless nights just so you can make it look 'realistic'."

"What's wrong with realistic?" John shrugged.

"It's a figment of the character's imagination. Don't try to make it realistic. Try making it look majestic! Anything but realistic."

"I just wanted it to look like it belonged in the setting. That's all." John replied in a soft voice.

"The lines were too defined especially on the tentacles. Worst was you added hair to the whole thing. It looked like a scrotum with tentacles, John. Scrotum with tentacles! It doesn't belong to the setting; it belonged to your grandpa's cock." Melissa argued while laughing a bit.

The image finally dawned on John. If it's anything any creative loves, it was scrapping an abomination where tons of resources were wasted on: a clear result of tunnel vision. Her wife gave him the push to trash it. He felt light like a feather.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

"You are so mean. I love it," John sat down beside her wife and hugged her. "No worries. I already have an idea."

John's life wasn't all too colorful and explosive like his films. He was not a fan of the idea of a family, especially when he is immersed in social gatherings. Although he attends them and puts up a front, he never really enjoys them.

The only "family" he treats was his wife, Melissa. He still has the first flower Melissa gave to him folded between the pages of his favorite book. It was a white jasmine flower that she handpicked from their neighbors garden. "Stolen" was the word that Melissa used because she thought it was cute.

That time, John really thought that it was indeed cute, and if anyone would have read his mind on that moment they wouldn't believe it. Everyone knows 'cute' is as similar to 'pretty-ugly'. She was the color to John's existence and the only life he had outside of his showbiz career.

The relationship of John and Melissa as married couple was intimate and warm. It was a rare occurrence for someone with a bulging ego like John Dalton's. It almost looked like a miracle.

On April 27, 1993, John's world turned upside down and so did his life as a director. An aggressive tumor in Melissa's brain developed. He spent a fortune on Melissa's operations and countless medical procedures. The moment the doctor told them that she was running out of time, he started to spend most of his waking hours beside her.

Films and projects were postponed. John dropped everything. All he wanted was to be with his wife. Lawyers and employers from the film industry visited him in a daily basis warning him of breaches of contract, fines, and termination.

John never really cared about the formalities of signed documents. For all of his successes and fame wouldn't mean anything if not for Melissa. In her deathbed, he thought over and over again a life without Melissa.

On July 16, 1993, Melissa Dalton died and so did John's will to live. He always thought his life was intertwined with hers. It was only a matter of time until the famous "Director of the Century" claims his own life. But like any other director, it was mandatory to do it with a bang.

At exactly 8:30 AM in the morning, John went to her wife's funeral. He was half an hour late. He thought that going straight down the altar was a good idea.

John did not give a single damn about the ceremony that was going on and it was probably the longest entrance anyone ever did. Heads turned to him as he swiftly strode amidst the crowd with his white suit.

The old white jasmine flower Melissa gave to John was pinned on his chest. His white bowler hat had a thin black lace tied around it and he had a marching band surrounding the church ready to play Melissa's favorite song. His black pointy shoes clicked and clicked while he ascended the steps of the altar.

As soon as John stood in front of the crowd, he smirked. He looked at both of his' and Melissa's friends and family. He didn't want to shed a tear just yet. He wanted his act to be perfect and true to her wife's last wish.

When John turned his gaze to a picture of Melissa on top of her casket, his eyesight started to blur. Tears fell from his eyes. Instead of thanking her for giving a beautiful life, he muttered something else.

"I'm sorry, my love. I can't make it right." John whispered to himself, "Even in the end. I can't make it right."

He turned his head and faced the crowd again. The orchestra and the choir's hymn stopped abruptly. A loud murmur started to rise.

"I can't make anything right," John whispered again. He bowed and closed his eyes trying to conceal his despair.

John grabbed one of the microphones from the podium and went toward the middle of the altar. The priest sat down shaking his head while the sacristans stood, waiting for something to happen. John stared at the stained glass where Christ's crucifixion was portrayed. Then for a brief moment, there was silence.

Everyone at the church expected John to do something worth remembering. He was an egotist after all, they thought. But all he did that day was to tell the whole world how much he loved his wife.

'Coming from a broken family was not easy', John said as he started his speech. A drunkard father, a mother on a mental hospital, and no siblings whatsoever, being alive was a hassle for him, he thought. He asked for forgiveness for being born. He knows his upbringing brought pain and suffering for other people in the Film community.

"I wouldn't date me either," John shrugged and chuckled a bit. "But Melissa thought otherwise. Now I am here."

Meeting Melissa was when John's life became less bleak. They both wanted to create stories, so they went to study Film together in college. She was going to be a star, while he was going to be the one to direct her movies.

After his speech, John went to the middle of the altar to finally end his scene. He went down the steps then faced Melissa's casket. He raises both his arms slowly before chopping them down violently, cuing the marching band outside to start playing Melissa's favorite song.

John quickly turned his head and strode toward the entrance of the church with the same carefree manner from earlier.

That was the last time anyone saw John Dalton, with trumpets and drums playing. No one really worried about him going missing even a week after Melissa's was buried. Many said that it was typical of him to not show up on funerals.

Melissa's friends and family assumed that he was somewhere drinking "Moving on the Dalton way", as many would recall him bragging about it. Even at his wife's death, he was still being consistent as a pain in the ass, that his ego still prevailed, they thought.

On August 4, 1993 John Dalton was on the side of the road next to a cliff somewhere at the outskirts of town. It was an hour past midnight and there was no one around but the rustling leaves and the tranquil crescent moon.

John was lying on the windshield of his old Ford Cortina, legs sprawled across the hood. There were bottles of beer and wine around the vehicle. Inside his car were dozens of photos of Melissa. He also had her suitcase on the passenger side full of her belongings.

John's heart is full of alcohol and his veins are flooded with drugs. He knew he was about to OD if he sniffed one more hit. But it was Melissa's voice that prevented him from doing so: 'If it doesn't kill you, too much of it is something that I would allow.'

Whispers emerged from John's mouth. He jumped from the hood and barely landed his feet on the ground. He chuckled nervously and started running towards the cliff. He tried to jump over the road barricade but his leap wasn't high enough. His foot was caught at the edge of the metal.

"This is probably one of the funniest attempts of suicide in the history of man!" John laughed hysterically. "I could have made this easier if I drove the car through the barricade!"

John laughed while he fell. But moments before his head hit the ground, he whispered: "Sorry Melissa. Even jumping off a cliff, I can't make it right."

A white light and a buzzing sound entered John's mind. He was unable to witness all of his memories rushing before him, like what they always say in stories. He doubted his own death. He thought to himself: "what if I did not do it right?"

The buzzing noise started to fade. Colors start to emerge from the white background. There was chattering around. Someone on his left side is talking to him, something about following someone on Instagram.

"What's Instagram?" John thought, unknowingly blurting out the words.

"What do you mean what's Instagram?" A white teenage male who wore a white hoodie stares at him blankly. His hair was tinted rose gold. "Bro, are you trippin'?"

John might be an atheist but his expectation of heaven and hell is very high.

"Yes I am... trippin'?" John was shocked that a male teenage voice came out of his mouth, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. He tried to cover his mouth with his hands without knowing that he was holding sort of plastic with a glowing screen on it. "What the f—?"

The cellphone fell to the ground. The cityscape finally met John's eyes. He turned around and sees a street full of colors and shiny cars with LED headlights. Almost everyone either had their hair dyed with bright hues or treated with balayage. His body began to experience constant shock from all the information his brain is processing that he fell flat on the ground.

"Bro if you really are trippin', like fo sho, I might be forced to end our friendship here and now," the boy reached out his hand to John. "Drugs are bad for your health, homes."

"What are you talking about?" John replied with crooked eyebrows.

John stands up and glances at a car's window to look at his reflection. Instead of a thirty-year old brown-skinned man with tattoos and piercings, he sees a young skinny male teenager with electric blue hair, still with tattoos and piercings.

"What the fuck?" John said while feeling his face and his body with his hands. "What the fuck is happening?"

"Yo, Keanan stop it! This is not a good color on you. Twitter is too hot right now Selena Gomez just broke up with Bieber so everyone is on their phones! If someone tweets about you losing your balls on the street, that's social suicide!" The boy answered.

John looks at the boy with wide eyes and inhaled deeply, "WHAT THE—?"