Time Is Money

 looked down at my hands.

They were red.

Blood spilled through the lines in my palms, warm and adhesive, clinging to me like guilt that wouldn’t let go. My fingers twitched involuntarily, like they could shake it off. They couldn’t.

I couldn’t breathe. When I looked up at him, he didn’t move. He just stood there, still as stone. Watching like I was some specimen pinned under glass.

His mask was sealed shut. No eyes. No mouth. No expression. Just a blank wall where a human should be. A man made of nothing.

“Why…” My voice cracked as I turned. She was lying there, collapsed in a mess of torn fabric and still limbs. Her eyes, once bright and loud and full of that fire, now just stared blankly through me.

Gone.

“I’ll fucking kill you.” I spat the words, not even recognizing my voice.

It didn’t sound indignant. It sounded broken.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift his weight. Like I was yelling at a statue.

“You—” I started. My throat burned.

“You. You.” My voice kept cracking. My legs moved on their own.

I stumbled toward him, fists clenched so tight I thought my fingers might begin to bleed.

“You ruined everything.” I started walking faster.

Then running.

I wanted to break him.

I wanted to see him shatter.

I wanted to rip him apart and force him to feel even a fraction of what he just stole.

“I hate you.” Every step hit the ground like thunder.

“I hate you.” I wasn’t even sure if I was yelling it or whispering it by then.

But I meant it.

I meant every word.

Before it happened...

Some of these kids still have baby teeth. One of them brought their mom, like holding hands together before going on stage. They’re all wearing bright colors and tight smiles like it’s a school field trip. Me? I’m in a hoodie, I’ve had a headache since breakfast.

One by one, they step up to the mark and hit the line.

“Moo-Moo Munchers! A stampede of flavor in every bite!”

Big voice. Bigger grin. Some of them are decent. One kid’s funny. I hear one casting assistant snort while the others keep nodding like they’re legally required to.

When it’s my turn, I say the line out loud. Clean. Sharp.

 I do it well, arms out like I’ve done it a hundred times.

Because I have.

They’re already looking down at their clipboards before I finish.

I sit back down. Try not to overthink.

But I already know.

“Juno, it’s obvious you have experience. Your confidence is apparent when you go up on stage next time. Hold that close to you—it’ll take you far.”

The truth is, I never left the stage. Not really.

“Thank you, Director.” I flash a smile.

No handshake. 

No “we’ll be in touch.” 

Just the kind of nod people give when they’re already thinking about lunch.

I’m the last one out of the room. As I round the corner, I hear the casting assistants still talking.

“Do you think he’ll get anywhere continuing like this—I mean, Juno?”

“The kid has natural talent, but he has to face the facts. Nobody’s looking for a teenager on the edge of growing facial hair. He’s sixteen now. People don’t want to see someone like him on screen anymore.”

Out in the hallway, I lean against the wall and check my phone even though I already know what I’ll see.

No new emails. No missed calls.

The light overhead buzzes and flickers like it’s tired, too. Down the hallway, a little girl is crying. Her mom tells her she did amazing.

On the bus ride home, I sit by the window and try not to look at my reflection. I don’t look tired. I don’t look old.

Every bump in the road rattles up into my knees.

Three stops before mine, my phone vibrates.

Not an audition.

Just Eli.

“u still coming back tonight?”

“I got something to show u”

I smile at the screen like I’m someone with a future.

“On my way! brotato.”

Damn autocorrect.

I think about dinner. Probably just pick something up on the way home.

Home is a one-bedroom apartment that probably should’ve been condemned a year ago. I split the rent with a roommate I haven’t seen since Tuesday. He’s probably crashing at his girlfriend’s again.

Eli’s already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open and a half-eaten bowl of cereal beside him.

“You already ate?” I hold up the plastic bag. “I bought wings.”

He looks up and grins.

“You’re back early, Bro.”

“Yeah,” I say, setting the food on the table. “They didn’t need much. Just the usual. I crushed it.”

He nods like that makes sense. Like, of course I did.

“Check this out,” he says, turning the laptop toward me. It’s a short sci-fi animation—alien world, floating islands, weird little creatures with antennae. Rough, but clever. It even has impact frames.

“I was thinking,” he says, “if you ever get cast in, like, a space show or something, I could help design it. The world, the ships, the whole thing.”

“That’s genius,” I say, dropping down next to him. “We’ll pitch it. I’ll act, you direct. Brothers taking over the galaxy.”

He lights up.

That kind of light—it burns brighter when it’s still new.

Eli’s thirteen. Just hit that perfect window, young enough to look fresh, old enough to sound like he means it.

That’s the sweet spot.

But he’s not into acting. Thank God.

“So, genuine question,” I say, nudging his shoulder, “if you do help design it, you’re not gonna let me die at the end, right? Like, I get to kiss the pretty space princess and live?”

“Shut up!” He hits me on the arm.

“Hey, I’m just saying—”

We both break into laughter.

I know the role I play. I do it well. Like I’ve done it a hundred times.

Because I have.

And I will a hundred times more—if it means he can keep his.

There are four folding chairs in the room.

Two are occupied by casting assistants who haven’t looked up since I walked in. One’s scrolling. The other’s pretending her pen isn’t dead.

The third chair belongs to the director. Tired. The tiredness you don’t recover from.

The fourth chair? I haven't the slightest clue.

I stand on the little taped “X” in the center of the floor. It smells like sweat and coffee grounds. The lighting’s too warm. It makes my skin look sick.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just flips a page and says, “Scene six. From the top.”

I nod. Crack my neck. Step into the character.

It’s a convict. A thief. A liar. Begging the world for a second chance while staring down a gun.

Typecast? Maybe.

I start the monologue. Not big. Not loud. Just enough.

“You think I lied? I just gave them something worth believing in.”

I shift my weight. Make eye contact. Two of them blink. That’s something.

“You want the truth now? Too late. The story’s already printed. Blood and all.”

I clutch my chest—part of the scene. Except it kind of hurts.

“They didn’t want me. They wanted a version of me that bled neatly.”

I breathe in. Stumble. Keep going.

“I never lied. I just… dressed the part.”

My voice wavers.

I pull the prop gun from my coat. Plastic. Light.

But my arm feels heavy.

I raise it to my head.

“This is where it ends, right?”

Silence.

No one claps. The guy in the sweater checks his watch.

But I hold the pose anyway. Just one more beat. One more second of pretending it means something.

Then I lowered the gun. My hand trembles a little. That’s new.

I take a step back.

And the world shifts.

Just a second.

Like the floor isn’t under me anymore.

And then it happens.

Pain, like fire, cracked down the center of my chest.

I blink. My knees give.

The prop gun clatters against the floor.

The assistant looks up. Finally.

“Uh—”

Everything starts falling away. Lights. Sounds. My heartbeat.

“Wait,”

“Not yet.”

I never got the callback.

I never got Eli into college.

I never—

“I’m not done.”

That’s my last thought. Not regret. Not hope.

Just:

“I still had lines left.”

It was Midnight. The apartment was hot as hell, the living room lit by one flickering ceiling light and the glow of Eli’s cracked iPhone screen.

We didn’t have a tripod, so we stacked ramen boxes and duct-taped the phone to the wall. High budget. Real professional stuff.

I had eyeliner under one eye, glitter on one cheek, and a makeshift cloak made out of our bedsheet.

Eli sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a bag of popcorn in one hand and my dignity in the other.

“You kinda look like Jojo Siwa with all that glitter.”

“Silence.” I spout, trying to get some glitter out my nails.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, giving me the kind of look people usually reserve for a squirrel trying to cross the freeway on stilts.

“This,” I said, swishing my cloak dramatically, “is not just an audition. It’s a declaration of war. On mediocrity.”

“It’s for a background voice role in a fantasy anime,” he deadpanned. “The guy dies in episode one.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “That means I have less than 30 seconds to make the world fall in love with me. Now hit record, Spielberg.”

He didn’t even argue this time. He just sighed and mumbled, “Recording…”

And I went off.

“You think the shadows fear you?” I growled, pointing a spatula like it was a cursed blade.

“I was born in them. Raised by silence. Trained by assassins who spoke only in riddles.”

Eli choked on his popcorn mid-line. “That’s literally from Shadow Reign: Crimson Tide.”

“Borrowed,” I snapped. “It’s called homage. Quentin Tarantino made a career out of it.”

“You’re not Tarantino.”

“Not yet.”

I spun dramatically, too dramatically and knocked over our only lamp. It hit the floor with the grace of a dying fish.

Eli stared at me. “That was Mom’s only working lamp.”

“Correction: was. Now it’s a prop that died for art.”

He was going to kill me. But also… he was laughing. I could hear it, even through the judgment.

I kept going.

Voice shaking. Eyes wide. Knees slightly bent like I was about to drop the greatest line in cinematic history.

“I am the storm,” I whispered.

Then added, “Also the umbrella.”

Because why not? It sounded cool in my head.

And when I collapsed to the floor in a final, overly dramatic death pose spatula outstretched like it was the sword of a fallen hero, I looked up and said, dead serious:

“If this doesn’t book me the gig, they don’t deserve me.”

Eli threw popcorn at me.

“You’re insane,” he said.

I grinned. “No. I’m committed.”

He shook his head but I saw it, the smile. He thought I was an idiot. But a loveable one.

“You always talk like you’re already famous,” he mumbled, shutting the camera off.

“I’m just preparing the world for the inevitable,” I told him.

“You’re delusional.”

“Delusion is just early success,” I said, smirking like I actually believed it.

And for a second, maybe I did.

But now I’m gone.