A happ"E" place

The world is vibrant, alive. Sunlight dances on the pond, couples laugh, and ducks glide effortlessly across the water. Justin, mid-30s, exudes confidence in his plum shirt and sunglasses, a picture of serenity as he sips coffee on a park bench. His voiceover is warm, reflective: "I’ve been clean for eight years." He speaks of simple pleasures—fresh air, sunlight, the joy of feeding ducks—contrasting them with the chaos of his past: the drugs, the reckless sex, the self-destruction. "You can’t understand unless you’ve been there," he muses, dismissing judgment with a smirk. But, the serenity is a lie. As Justin tosses crackers to the ducks, his sunglasses slip. The left lens cracks, and reality fractures. The park dissolves into a squalid room: drugs scattered on a table, empty bottles, a loaded .38 special. The right lens remains empty, revealing the truth—he’s not in the park at all. He’s high, trapped in a cycle of addiction, clinging to a fantasy of sobriety he never achieved. "Addicts never change," he admits, his voice breaking. "You suppress the demon, but it always comes back stronger." The cracked lens becomes a metaphor: one eye on the life he craves, the other on the hell he can’t escape. With chilling resolve, he presses the gun to his temple. For a fleeting moment, through the shattered glass, he sees himself in the park—peaceful, free. Then the gunshot rings out.