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Before we start...
This is a story told in the rough form of a screenplay - a movie.
This format works best with lower font sizes, especially on smaller devices.
If you've never read a screenplay, you'll need to know the following:
EXT - Exterior. Found in scene headers to indicate we are outside.
INT - Interior. Also found in scene headers, but to indicate we are inside.
(O.S) - Off screen. Found next to character names.
(V.O) - Voice over. Also found next to character names.
(CONT'D) - Continued. Used to indicate continued speech next to character names.
SUPER: - Superimpose. To indicate text is seen over images.
The rest should be self-explanatory.
The air trembles with manic reverberation.
Screams pierce the darkness, bringing forth with them throat-torn, searing cries for cessation.
The terror-pleas get closer and louder, overwhelming...
INT. THE CELL - NIGHT
A heavy iron door tainted with thick and flaking rust stands ominous, its contaminate orange glow crawling across the brick textures that embrace it on either side.
The door flies open, an orange mist sizzling against the gush of air as a scrawny naked man soars through, thrown by two pairs of burly, rough-haired arms into the room.
Entrapment reverberates within the sealed walls.
Sobs begin to itch past the man's scabbed and blistered lips as he curls up, hugging his bleeding knees, his bruises resting against the thinly puddled stone and concrete floor.
The man is MIKE, his age indiscernible from an inspection of his frame; his body frail, emaciated and brittle like that of an old man, but, with the taut and grubby skin around his brow that gives way to young eyes, there seems to be a late teen lost somewhere within.
His bruises tread back from the once soothing puddles as goosepimples shiver their way across his flesh. Mike's hand skims over the concrete, finding cotton sheets - a thin mattress he stains with murk as he crawls onto it.
Laying his head down, Mike mistakes three white hospital robes for his pillow - which is a thin rag with half an inch of cotton inside at the bottom of his bed.
He closes his eyes.
Fine light spills through a crack under a door.
Chains are taut.
Senseless terror bleeds past crooked brown teeth.
Splintered toenails kick against brick walls.
Wiry grey hair, tainted red--
--smashes against the wall--
A deranged figure batters his skull and pounds his feet against the walls of his tiny cell, screaming.
The light under the door cuts dead.
The screams remain... resounding... the voice... distorting...
INT. THE CELL - NIGHT
Mike winces, the yells louder in his room than anywhere else.
The cacophony slowly thins... modulating... revealing itself to be the howl of wind.
The shadow of a swinging light bulb ebbs and arcs to the crescendos of the wind's cries.
Mike's eyes blink open.
His body is rattled with intense shivers. He turns his eyes up, seeing the window above his bed, the crying breeze tearing through.
Fingers curling under the cotton sheets, Mike pulls, scattering his 'pillow'. Somewhat confused, Mike unfolds the sheets, holding the fabric open to realise that he has three hospital gowns.
The warm texture of wood, patterned with dark rings, emanates a natural sheen.
Sandpaper rips against the surface.
Mike pulls the first of the robes over his peeling skin.
The orange flakes on the door hang precarious.
Finger joints screech against one another as they are jammed and wiggled into a clasp.
Mike's quivering fingers work the strings to his third and last hospital gown.
The biting wind fights through the hinges of his cell door.
Stood, his toes kneading against the springless mattress, Mike's gaze turns to the window again - a barred hole in the wall, no glass.
Dulled moonlight streams in on him as tears roll free from his blinking eyelashes and down his cheeks, cleaning off the grub.
Head bowed, he places his palms on either side of the square opening, watching his jagged ribcage expand and contract under his gowns.
The silver moon burns against the black skies.
INT. THE CELL
A furry, green caterpillar edges its way into Mike's window, along the inside wall and towards his fingers.
Glanced by the convulsing, tufty body, Mike pulls his hand away and then watches as the caterpillar moves down the vertical face of the cell porthole.
Where did you come from?
Embedded in underground grime, the caterpillar slithers.
You're lost... you're alone... Who misses you?
Hundreds of caterpillars writhe in a mass of mulch: dead, wet leaves.
They all think you're insane... alone; the concrete walls... the stone... the metal.
The caterpillar moves through the metal bars, closer to the edge of the glassless window.
He brushes the caterpillar away from the window's edge and keeps his palm before it, a wall that it retreats from.
Lost in thought, Mike looks over his shoulder to his cell, to the glowering door, then up to the moon, a distant, pointless beacon. Meanwhile...
The caterpillar crawls around his fingers, out of the window and down the outer wall.
Rubbing his hands together, Mike leaves the window to lie down and rest his frame.
Wind shakes the caterpillar as it moves down the brick wall...
A sharp cry of wind sways the brittle air.
... blown loose, the caterpillar plummets through the voidal darkness, falling inches from the blur of rock--
--lost in a thin puddle on the muddy ground, the ripples along its surface the only remaining perturbance of the night. Soon...
INT. THE CELL
Alone, Mike sighs.
He brings his hands out from the cover of the sheets to rest them under his face, but in doing so he sees the RED BAND strapped to his wrist - one that couldn't have been there before.
He is confused as he puts his wrist into the light to inspect the band with an adjusting gaze...
Fear glazes over Mike's eyes.
Panicked, he tries to rip the band off, first with his fingers, then with his teeth, then by slamming it against the wall.
The band doesn't give.
Helpless, Mike starts screaming again, wrapping himself up in the covers as to hide from his wrist that he holds outstretched.
INT. THE CELL - MORNING
Mike wakes, his arm under the mattress, pressed against the stone floor, as to hide the band.
A film of dust embraces the morning beams that streak through the cell.
At the foot of the door is a tray; buttered toast and a glass of water. Mike looks at it and then at his arm hidden by the mattress, hungry.
He bites his lip then pulls his arm out from under the mattress with closed eyes.
Holding his arm out in front of his face he quakes with anticipation, muttering indiscernibly.
He forces his eyes open.
Upon seeing the band, Mike immediately breaks into tears. He slams his wrist against the bed moaning 'No, no, no' over and over...
... the sheets suddenly shift...
... the fabric around Mike concaves...
... he dissolves into the mattress...
... his sobs soon lost.
INT. THE CELL - LATER
Calloused, reddened fingers pick up the tray. The arm, a pillowcase wrapped around the wrist, retreats away from the cell door.
Sitting back on the bed Mike bites the corner off of a piece of toast, an ounce of cheer finding its way to his lips.
The door opens, revealing a young psychologist, DR. ROW.
She stands in the doorway holding her breath, the corridor behind her engulfed by darkness. Exhaling, she edges into the room.
The door slams shut.
With slow measure Dr. Row steps across the room, eyeing Mike as she goes. She is cautious, but intrigued, an air of self-awareness and control brought in by her light footsteps.
Stood before Mike, she waits for his gaze to raise; he either hasn't recognised her or is so far refusing to as he stares through her white, flat-soled shoes.
She clears her throat. He looks up.
Her voice fades into silence; her lips move but nothing comes of it.
Mike watches her with apparent attention. When she smiles so does he, when she nods so does he; when she pauses, he looks down until he thinks her lips are moving again.
The surrounding walls crumble, a web of fractures surging around the room, the brick and stone collapsing, leaving a void of darkness to loom about the periphery of Mike's spotlit cell.
Dr. Row is oblivious to the change in environment. Mike keeps his shifting eyes on the ground or her shoes as to distract himself from the change.
Approaching vibrations quiver across the floor and towards Mike's mattress.
From the dark shroud storms forth a huge man with crimson eyes, his top off and his muscles bulging.
He screams and shouts, consumed by an immeasurable rage, but, like Dr. Row, is stricken to quietude. He approaches, beating his head and chest like a territorial gorilla, inflamed gaze locked onto Mike.
Dr. Row taps Mike's shoulder then hands him a piece of card with string attached to it.
He turns the material over to see a photograph of eyes facing downward printed on the card. He simply looks at her, confused.
Mike's SHADOW steals the contraption from his hand and straps it onto his head, over his eyes.
Dr. Row smiles with a thumbs up toward the shadow.
Mike looks at it, flat on the wall, facing his way, the print eyes on the ground, then turns to Dr. Row, who continues to talk as if nothing happened.
With the man marching closer and closer...
... Mike begins to whimper, hugging his legs. Dr. Row kneels down with patient inquiry.
The man's beetroot feet slam to a stop behind her.
Nothing but silence.
Enraged further, the man stoops with a piercing glare directed at the side of Dr. Row's face. She still chats away.
He roars in her ear... but to no effect.
Slamming his fists against the ground, beating a futile tantrum into the indifferent stone, the furious figure exudes incomprehensible anger.
Peeping past Dr. Row, Mike whimpers helpless--
He's suddenly swamped with the violent cacophony, and so snaps his eyes shut, kicking out at Dr. Row with fear, sending her stumbling backwards, toward the figure, with shock.
Mike opens his eyes back on Dr. Row.
The angry man has vanished. But, someone else is coming; soft footsteps approach.
From behind Dr. Row, who has recomposed and is reassuring Mike (still muted), appears a sleazy skinny man wearing a suit with a red rose in the breast pocket.
His loafers slide to a stop.
He looks Dr. Row up and down from behind and then caresses her hips, lightly pecking her neck with puckered lips.
Only able to watch Dr. Row obliviously talk on, Mike grows infuriated.
The sleazeball grabs her breasts, extending a wet tongue to lick her face.
Mike bolts to his feet, fist cocked.
Dr. Row steps back in fear.
The man pulls away and backs off with a grin.
Mike steps forward, ready to push past Dr. Row, when a bald man with red skin appears behind her holding a six-foot samurai sword--
Blood sprays out of the gaping, spluttering hose that was her neck.
Mike falls back on the bed, blasted by the red haze.
Sobbing into his pillow and cursing with feeble refrain, he tries to stop hyperventilating, his body quivering with emotional over-activity.
With apprehension, Mike turns to the dead body, opening his eyes...
Dr. Row is talking again, stern, unimpressed. She continues to do so as Mike catches his--
Dr. Row glitches.
--for a second she's is gone, replaced by a WOMAN IN A RED DRESS.
Mike watches her closely as she continues to talk, rubbing his wet face with the sheets.
She glitches again.
Mike cocks his head to the side, confused and trepidatious.
Dr. Row stops and mouths: 'what's wrong?'. In that instant, she is gone, replaced by the Woman In The Red Dress who looks down at Mike with disgust.
More a skeleton with skin, wrapped in loose fabric that should be tight, the Woman has hard, impenetrable black eyes and a man's haircut.
The figure begins to grow, stretching into a lanky giant, pummeling her hands down on either side of Mike as he shrivels, dwarfed.
The Woman chortles menace as he, again, starts to cry.
With Mike's back turned on her, she begins to shrink down to her normal size again. Quickly growing annoyed by his shielded sobs, the Woman starts beating him with open hands.
Mike can only curl up tighter and bear the beating.
Teeth grit, eyes wild, she slaps her palms down on his back, disquieting insanity imbued into her frame as her arms fly and spindly legs wobble over her impractically high heels.
The pounding stops.
Rattled and distraught, Mike turns over and opens his eyes, expecting the delusion to have ended, but the Woman isn't gone. She stands by his bedside. Her face is soft, forgiving, warm. She opens her arms.
Infantalised, his stature meek and submissive, Mike stands and embraces her.
She pulls him in tight and whispers in his ear. He listens with a growing smile until, weakly:
Mike pushes her away with resentment.
She strikes his face, expecting him to pull away, but he doesn't.
Staring down at his toes, Mike's hanging arms tense, his veins beginning to throb, muscles taut, a scream itching to escape his lungs--
Mike lunges at her.
They hit the floor, Mike on top of her.
He gets his hands around her neck and starts squee--
From the darkness Dr. Row's hand touches his shoulder.
He jumps off the Woman, trips backwards, and...
... is back in the cell, sitting on the bed unnervingly staring at Dr. Row's shoes with heavy, panting breath.
Returning to apparent consciousness, Mike looks up at Dr. Row's understanding smile.
She seems to have finished talking and so leaves the room.
Mike stares at the rust and then looks around at the solid walls, still catching his breath.