Reality and Illusion

A/N - Sorry guys for the inconsistent update rate. My last exam is on 10th, so hopefully till then I don't break the upload rate...

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The filming of "Buried" went extremely smoothly, so much so that it could be said to have exceeded expectations.

The entire burden of the production rested on the shoulders of Renly, with all other tasks streamlined to the minimum. The progress of the shoot depended entirely on Renly's performance quality. If he was in a bad state, making continuous mistakes in a scene could lead to delays of several hours, ruining the entire day's work. Conversely, if he was in top form, only a few simple takes would suffice, sometimes even bringing surprises. Shooting five to six scenes a day posed no problem.

Fortunately, Renly was in excellent condition, even bordering on exceptional.

In less than five days, shooting progress had already surpassed two-thirds, far exceeding expectations. With the fastest estimate of two days and the slowest of four, the film could be smoothly wrapped up. Even for an independent film with a small budget and limited scope like "Buried," this was truly remarkable.

For a production team with limited funds, this was excellent news. If shooting lasted more than two weeks, the existing funds would be exhausted, forcing them to interrupt filming and seek additional investment. If things didn't go smoothly, the project might be shelved indefinitely, gathering dust. However, now the team could complete shooting within ten days, leaving even more room for post-production and promotion. This was undoubtedly a huge relief.

With the smooth progress of filming, the entire crew was operating at high speed. Even the hired hands were happy, seeing this as the most enjoyable collaboration: smooth shooting, getting paid, and leaving. They didn't need to do any extra work or deal with complicated personnel issues. All they had to do was complete their job and watch the performance on the sidelines. Such an easy gig was rare in the midst of a global economic crisis.

However, Renly's personal condition was getting worse and worse.

The boundary between reality and illusion in his mind was becoming increasingly blurred. His sleep quality plummeted, and ever since the claustrophobic experience, he would be awakened by nightmares every night.

In his dreams, he was buried under the desert, desperately using his phone to seek help through various channels, but no one responded. Everyone had cold, emotionless faces, without features or expressions, coldly replying, "Sorry, we can't help." He was abandoned in the desert, silently waiting to die.

Or he would dream of being bound and thrown into a deep pit, terrorists standing at the edge, laughing hideously, shouting in Persian, which he couldn't understand, then picking up shovels to dispose of him. The soil fell like rain, and he stared wide-eyed, unable to muster any strength, only able to watch himself being buried alive, despair turning his blood cold and stiff.

After filming began, these occurrences became more frequent. He could be awakened two or three times in one night, and both the duration and quality of his sleep were declining rapidly. Dark circles formed under his eyes, and his eyes were bloodshot. Even his footsteps began to feel light and floating.

To make matters worse, one time after a nightmare, he became confused, unable to distinguish whether he was Renly or Paul. He strongly suspected himself to be Paul—except this time, he was rescued smoothly. Even after being rescued, the memory of being buried alive in the desert still haunted him.

Although this situation occurred only once, it left Renly feeling mentally foggy. During lunch today, he fell asleep while sitting and then woke up abruptly, drenched in cold sweat.

After finishing a day of shooting, Renly returned to the hotel early, attempting to rest. However, despite feeling heavy-eyed, he couldn't sleep. His muscles were sore and tired, but his mind was incredibly alert. In frustration, Renly took out the script and started reading the content scheduled for the next day's shoot. Although the script for "Buried" wasn't complex, with few lines, the real space for actors to perform lay in the hidden content behind the words.

As he flipped through, he gradually fell asleep. In the hazy sleep, he felt something disturbing him, annoyingly persistent. He waved his hand subconsciously, only to find sand grains falling. The sensation was so real that it startled him. He opened his eyes abruptly, only to find himself hitting his head on the wooden board. The sharp pain made him grimace, but he had no time to pay attention. Frantically scanning around, his breath stopped—

He was in a coffin, with sand continuously falling. This wasn't a hotel room; this was the place where he was buried alive.

It was a dream, just a dream. He was Renly Hall, lying in a hotel bed, asleep. It was just a nightmare. He swallowed saliva, trying to reassure himself. But everything felt so real—the sound of falling sand, the weight of sand accumulating on his chest, the suffocatingly hot air, the flickering flashlight, and the buzzing vibration of the phone...

Everything was too real, especially the pain in his head and arms, which became increasingly evident. He raised his hand to look and saw blood on his hand. His phone was vibrating incessantly. Memories rushed in.

A bomb had just exploded, shattering the coffin lid, and sand poured down like rain. The phone lost signal, and his call was forcibly interrupted. In the face of adversity, the survival instinct erupted with unbelievable strength. He tried to block the crack with his shirt to stop the sand from pouring in, but the wooden board eventually broke. Sand continued to fall sparsely, leaving him less and less time. If he didn't get out soon, he would have no chance.

Yes, he had little time left.

Seeing the vibrating phone in his hand, a glimmer of hope ignited. The phone that had lost signal finally rang again. He had to let them know that something went wrong, and rescue needed to come faster. This was his only chance.

He immediately pressed the call button, without any hesitation. "Hello? Who's there?" Holding up the flashlight, the pale yellow light revealed the steady stream of falling sand. It had a tragic and magnificent feeling, but he had no mood to appreciate it. His voice sounded urgent, grasping at the last straw of salvation.

"Is this Paul Conroy?" The voice on the other end of the phone was calm and deliberate, so much so that it was unbearable. He had to interrupt, "Yes, yes, yes, I'm Paul, who are you?" He had to use his other hand to stuff the shirt more tightly into the crack because the sand was still falling, and the situation seemed to be getting worse.

"Paul, I'm Alan Davenport, from the CRT company's personnel department."

"Yes, I left you a message." He hoped the response would come faster, the sand was still falling, and the phone was running out of battery, not to mention the intermittent signal.

"Okay, Paul, I've also heard from Rebecca Browning of the State Department. Can you tell me about your current situation?"

The slow and steady voice on the phone was really annoying, but he didn't have time to get angry now. With sand still falling, he couldn't afford to pay attention to the other end. He replied impatiently, "It's getting worse. There may have been an explosion, and the sand has been leaking continuously. It'll probably be filled in about half an hour." His words were frantic, and he couldn't even organize his thoughts.

"Okay, okay, slow down. Try to calm down." He rolled his eyes, he was about to die, and the other party still wanted him to calm down. But in the moment of anger, he clenched his teeth and concentrated on stuffing the shirt into the crack, finally seeing hope. He was completely focused on his left hand's work, without time to pay attention to the other party. "Let me ask you, who have you talked to on the phone?"

The crack was finally blocked, and the sand stopped falling.

"Damn it! Does that fucking matter?" Frustration surged up, and he couldn't help but curse, but having gone through all this struggle, he also knew that anger wouldn't help. So he took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, trying to get his brain to work again. "Uh, the hostage takers, Dan Brenner of the hostage working group..."

"Okay, Paul, I got it. What about the media? I know your kidnapping video was leaked, but have you directly mentioned it to anyone?"

The other party interrupted his words, asking directly. His brow furrowed—why did the other party want to know this? But he still answered, "No, no, no."

"Okay, okay." The other party seemed very satisfied with this answer, which made his brow furrow even more. His peripheral vision was distracted because of the crack stuffed with a shirt, and he couldn't focus on thinking. He sensed something was wrong, but now it was a matter of life and death, and he couldn't afford to pay attention to those details. "Keep up this state. It's important that we keep the situation contained as much as possible."

The anger broke through the fear for a moment, and he fiercely hit his head with his left elbow, shouting angrily, "The current situation is that I'm fucking in a coffin!" Sand started to fall again because of the intense shaking. "I think the situation is contained enough!" He exerted all the remaining strength in his body, the fear of death, the frustration of being buried alive, and the desire to survive, all erupted at this moment, "Save me! Save me!" His pupils completely dilated, he shouted irrationally, "What the hell are you doing now? How are you helping me? Huh? Huh!"

He struggled like a drowning man, but all his strength melted away beneath the calm surface of the water. His body began to sink slowly, and no matter how he struggled, it was of no avail.

How he wished this was just a nightmare.