Rising action: kitchen and backyard yield no results. Party goers too drunk to be helpful. My character begins to panic. I go to the the bedrooms and systematically wrench open the doors.

The second room is bathed in a pale blue light from a TV left on. Creepy guy looks up at me with wide eyes. He is on top of my good friend. She is on top of a bed. Her shirt is unbuttoned in the front and her face registers no conscious expression. Creepy guy waits for me to make a move with the tensed-up look of an animal about to flee.

I don’t hate you. We’re here in this setting because of a series of events that dented and shaped us before this point in the story. People do what they do because it’s in their character and they have a part to play. We have as much control over our actions and thoughts as the invisible pen that writes us. Perhaps you have a loveless family, or maybe you had too many broken hearts to care anymore. No matter what, I understand.

But our characters are in conflict and the plot must go on.