Part 7: The Empty Box

Bette: Jones.
Around the usual time, Bette arrives at Jones's ward—only to find a neatly wrapped gift box tied with a silk ribbon sitting on her chair.
Bette: Huh? A present? Who is it from?
She realizes a bit too late she shouldn't have said it so strangely; the gift is light, almost as if nothing were inside.
Jones: No, it's from me to you.
Bette: What for? Did I forget a special occasion?
Bette looks at Jones in surprise, about to open the box to see what is inside.
Jones: Don't open it yet.
Bette: Hm?
Jones stops her just as her fingers begin to pull on the ribbon and gestures for her to sit down.
Jones: This was the first gift I ever received—from my mother.
Hearing that, Bette examines the box even more curiously, turning it over in her hands.
Bette: What's inside?
Jones: It's a beautiful box—so beautiful that I thought it could be worth a lot of money on its own. I spent a long time trying to figure out what could be inside.
Jones: Cotton, stamps, banknotes ... even fairy dust.
Jones: I kept asking my mother for hints, but she wouldn't tell me.
Bette: Why didn't you just open it up and see?
Jones: Because ...
Jones lets out a sigh.
Jones: I was afraid.
Jones: It was my first real Christmas gift. I was terrified that if I opened it, It'd be empty.
Jones: Rather than finding out there was nothing inside, I figured it would be better to leave it as it was—so it could always be a "gift."
Jones: After all, the joy of receiving a present is the most important part, isn't it?
Jones: If I opened it, and it was empty, what would I do? It'd be the same either way.
A small wavering doubt stirs inside Bette.
Bette: Then ... what did you end up doing?
Jones: I placed it on my bedside table and held back the urge to open it—it sat there for ten years, maybe more.
Jones: Then, a director discovered me as I was interviewing to be a waitress and cast me in a film.
Jones: Holding the payment from that movie, I finally had the courage to face the mystery of that box.
Jones: Before opening it, I bought myself an expensive bracelet. If the box was empty, I'd put the bracelet inside and treat it as the first gift I ever gave myself.
Jones lies in the glass chamber, watching Bette.
Bette: So ... was there something inside?
Jones seems to smile, but the movement of the bandages is so slight that Bette wonders if she is only imagining it.
Jones: It doesn't matter what is in there. I had already realized by then that I couldn't live my life waiting for dreams. Whether I became a star or not.
Jones: Ah ...
Jones: Before I said anything, how would you have imagined my childhood?
Bette looks at Jones's bandaged face, trying to imagine what she would have looked like as a child.
But no matter how hard she tries, her mind can only picture something on a black-and-white screen—on it, Jones is sometimes a wealthy heiress, sometimes a poor country girl.
But the real Jones isn't someone on a silver screen. She is flesh and blood, born into this world just like everyone else.
Bette: I ...
Bette resists her initial thought.
To imagine her as just another girl—even if she knows it's true—feels wrong; it feels like taking something away from her.
It would mean she wasn't born to be the star that she became, that she didn't have any special gift to light up the screen, and that she's no different from her.
Bette: Why? Why are you giving this to me? Is there something inside?
Jones shakes her head once more.
Bette: Hm?
Behind the door, Laura enters, pushing a medical cart.
Laura: Visiting time is over. Miss Jones needs her treatment, and I'm going to need you to leave.
Jones: Go on, Bette. I'll see you later.
Bette: ...
Bette looks down at the box with newfound anxiety.
Bette: It is exquisitely wrapped, with a delicate ribbon tied into a bow on top. The knot is neat and smooth, as if no force had been applied to it in the tying.
Laura: Time to go.
Laura pushes Bette's shoulder gently, ushering her out of the ward.
Bette examines the box from every angle as she walks toward her room. Her feet shuffling and slow.
She shakes it as she holds her ear against it, but even that reveals nothing.
Bette: What does it mean? Is it just an empty box, like false hope?
Whispering tendrils seem to seep in from the corridor's shadows, filling her with a quiet sensation of fear.
Bette: Maybe Jones figured it out? Could she have seen through the illusion I created for her?
Bette: But ...
Bette searches her memory of their last conversation; she had been different, but not in a way that revealed anything.
Bette: So, why give me this box?
Bette: Should I do the same thing—wait until I have something to give myself before opening it?
People hurry past her, but Bette hasn't moved in what feels like minutes.
Bette: I must be different from her. Because even if this box is empty, I don't think I'd feel disappointed ...
Bette: Because ...
The thought crosses her mind and is met with a sudden panic that crawls up her spine.
She yanks off the ribbon.
It isn't empty. A reel of film is bound in the middle to prevent it from making any sound when shaken.
Bette: What ...
The cutting and splicing technique is immediately familiar. This is her film.
Bette: How ...
Bette removes the film.
Bette: Jones has been in that glass chamber this entire time. So who helped her retrieve the film? Who wrapped it up like this?
A suspicion races up to the front of her mind, one that drives her to turn and then run back toward the ward.
Bette: Jones!
Laura is injecting some kind of medication into Jones through the glass chamber's tubes.
Laura: Oh dear.
Jones: You opened it.
Bette: I did. So, you knew? The "Storm" ...
Jones: Yeah.
Bette: Did she tell you?
Laura: Don't glare at me like that. She asked first.
Bette: But ... it doesn't really matter. The world outside looks just as beautiful as the pictures, and it's safe ...
Bette steps toward Jones's chamber.
Laura: I got what I was here for. I'm leaving.
Pushing the syringe empty, Laura packs up her things, grabs the motionless camera from the table by the door, and leaves the room without another word.
Bette isn't quite sure yet what to make of this scene. But she hasn't given up.
Bette: The camera doesn't matter. I can buy another one. I've already rewritten the script.
Bette: Once you get better, even without the director and crew, we can still finish things.
Bette approaches Jones, looking up at her in the chamber, which now seems more like a glass coffin, as if pleading for a princess to awaken.
Jones: You will finish it. I'm sure of that.
Jones: This movie is yours now. I want you to complete it; that's why I wanted you to have the film.
Bette: But what about you ...
Jones: My days on the silver screen are over, Bette. Just look at me; I'm not star material anymore.
Jones: I'm going to be stuck here in this thing for ... the rest of my life.
Jones says it all as if it were just lines in a script—a first read-through. No emotions needed.
Bette: No. That's not true!
Bette's voice trembles.
Bette: They said your recovery is going well. That you'll be able to get out of this bed soon.
Bette: And didn't you see your face that night? We ... that night ...
Jones: I have a mole; I always had it covered up on set. But you would have seen it ... if it were still there. The rest was perfect—right down to the eyebrows.
Bette: ...
She had tried so hard to recreate her face. But Jones is right; she never saw the mole. Her scars had covered up all of it.
Bette: So ... you already knew ...
Jones: Do you remember me saying that you remind me of someone?
Jones's eyes have begun to flutter, looking more and more heavy.
Jones: You remind me of ... well, me.
Jones: Always waiting for someone else to give you what you need. Not realizing that you ... had the power to get it for yourself.
Jones: I saw your dream as you see it, on that silver rectangle, and it's going to be beautiful. But I won't be your star.
Jones: You look wonderful on camera, and you look best when you're wearing your own face.
Jones: Now it's your role. Your movie ... Finish it ...
Her voice fades out, as if being pulled into a heavy slumber.
Bette: Jones? What's going on? What's happening to you?
Bette turns in horror to realize the liquid that the nurse injected has already drained completely into Jones's body.
She pounds on the glass, trying to grab Jones's attention. But her friend is slipping away from her, like an anchor falling into unseen depths.
Bette: Jones!
Jones: I asked for this ... Bette.
The voice is a clear and crisp whisper.
Jones: A sweet and eternal dream.
我真讨厌这里。
I hate this place.
You haven't got my eyebrows right at all!
Now it's your role. Your movie ... Finish it ...
A sweet and eternal dream.
THE END