Scene 4

EXT. – character jogging in the park early in the foggy morning

[as she stepped through the fog the wind was whispering something, as if it were trying to warn her, but she couldn’t make out what it was]

…If she only knew that it was her thought she should be aware of…

[Running, saying to herself]

There are times when the world is too much. When fate, fortune and the will of all turn against us, these are times of desperation, of hopelessness and of isolation. I’ve seen many turning to their faith, hoping and praying for relief, others reflecting within, searching for answers within themselves when none can be found in the world around them.

[Looking ahead, the park seems to be in an endless cycle of change, thoughts are gathering]

But no matter where you turn or where you look, you always learn about yourself and, in that small regard, our darkest times can be turned into our most valuable asset. For when we’re just going about our lives, we’re practically standing still. We’re not changing or making any effort to improve, we’re simply drifting. With shifts happening over months or years and little idea where we’re going, just a vague idea of where we’ve been, we learn nothing and grow little.

[Stopped for a second to take a deep breath]

The moments that move us not only change us, but show us the direction that we’re heading. For the first times in our lives, we see who we really are, what we’re becoming and are given the power to change it. Through the tears, pain and loss comes a sense of opportunity, a chance to rebuild, to improve and to grow.

[a soft silence covers still waters in the park]

In the long run, we are defined more by our dark times than the times we were just surviving. Our darkest hours are the ones that cast the sharpest contrast on our life, change us the most and make us who we are. For no destruction takes place without presenting an opportunity for recreation and no dark times can pass without providing valuable lessons and a chance to become something stronger.

[like a Scotch mist, pirate ghosts could emerge at any moment and drag her to the foggy oblivion: she has finally found her words]

Through it all, you must remember that the future is being written today, even as history is being destroyed. You must remember that when you emerge from these times, no matter when that is, you’ll be a changed person, wiser, stronger and with a new understanding of who you are.

[having reached only half of the distance, before she could realize it, the fog had disappeared, and the rising sun was already coloring the sky]

You must use that to work toward creating a better future, a greater tomorrow. That’s the only way to ensure that what was lost hasn’t perished in vain and the only way to paint a picture of your life defined not by the darkest hours, but by the lessons learned from them.


Scene 3

INT. – an apartment in the city centre – later in the night

(characters are trying to enter the apartment – they are drunk and noisy)

Ann: Darling, here’s the door. Now you must find the key. [laughing]

Me: I’m not as drunk as you are. I will find it. And please be quiet, will you? [still looking for the damn key in the tiny purse].

Ann: Perhaps you’ll get me another scotch once we’re inside and start telling me who that man you were talking to for the past two hours was.

Me: Ann, shut up for a while. I can’t find the key. [telling herself: in my dreams, I never do]. Oh, here it is. Let’s go inside. And Ann, do close the door.

(in dim light the apartment looked abandoned, the Chinese style is suitable for someone who doesn’t spend much time at home)

(lights are on)

Me: Have a seat. I’ll get you that scotch. [going in the kitchen]

Ann: I must have landed somewhere else, I sure have. You did some great work here, I mean, the whole redecorating. [laying on the couch]

Me: Your scotch.

Ann: Aren’t you going to tell me then, love? That man and…

Me: He’s a doctor. He’s interested in my story.

Ann: Oh, I see. And do you believe him?

Me: Not really. It’s not the first time when doctors want to learn more about psychosis, and most of them are skeptical. I am already risking my life to escape a life I wasn’t supposed to live. I must say, genuine or not, his interest seemed quite remarkable. [thinking of their conversation at the Lounge bar]

I’d like that, to close the door. Well, let’s stay better inside. I have another closed door… Maybe it’s the same one, but I’d like to open it.

(suddenly they felt like words were floating in the air, trying to give a message)

The lust for silence. The wing beat of a dove. The sunset on your lips. Time and silence. Cries and laughters. Hugs and kisses. Voices were breaking. To be born in your smile. To grow in your cry. To lay down in your arms.


Scene 2

INT. – a chalet in the woods – night

A. is a rare combination of beauty and innocence. One-of-a-kind hunter. Women hunter. You don’t get to see him, but you can only hear him, feel him around you. When he runs, at the speeds he reaches, he’s like air exploding from the inside. Wind whispering into a woman’s ear. He is after her. He folds up his wings and he’s got her. Just like that. But the most important thing are his eyes. His black icy eyes; he couldn’t hunt without their powerful vision.

Tonight he needs to clean his eyes. To see her again.

The only way he could stop whatever sort of thinking or remembering and empty that tank full of memories was to smoke weed first, and then induce himself into a state of hypnosis. If only he could feel his body light from the start and so relaxed. Now the stoned thoughts made more sense than the sober ones. His pupils were fully dilated, his heart felt sore, but he still had to go deeper into the next phase of dreaming. He could no longer close his eyes.

He knew that history is what unites him and her. But each one of them is also a history. Always carrying it inside, in the deepest part of their memory. She told him once that she felt ashamed of human race.

Nobody is totally innocent, you know.

The history of man is a chain of atrocities, cruelty, lies and injustice.

But here we feel less guilty. Being here with you is a poetic act. Memorable.

These were her last words before she ended up falling into the sea. The sea of sadness. He just can’t let her go. Not like that. Not yet. He knows she is somewhere around the world, lost and bewildered. At least, he thought that. That is why she had to leave, to find her inner self, to feel free again. But she wasn’t. And he had to find her before it was too late.

Every morning she would wake him up with a kiss. Every night she would read him from his favorite book. Back then they seemed to have lost touch with reality, all that mattered was that they were together. What a lovely love story, you’d say. But it’s not. Never was.

Because time is a jealous lover. He took her from him before he could gather a bunch of memories of her. All that he’s left is a black and white photograph of her embracing an old tree from the back of their house.

It’s hard to control himself now when he’s feeling so empty, and this invasive feeling is with him until he finds her. He stopped being selfish ever since he’s met her. Her eyes. He could never forget them. Because what she sees is what he feels, and almost brought him to death once.

Mind what you see. I know your name fits better when time passes by.

She once asked him if he knew how to love anybody. He looked deep in her eyes and felt so small. All that he knew back then was gone. Now he just can’t forget her hands holding his so tight. The best place where he could be now is where they spent their first weekend together. As if it were waiting for him, for so long.

Free your subconscious.

He never dreamt her again until last night. She closed the door behind her after she stepped out of the house, which she didn’t actually do the last time. That was a sign. He was losing her track. She wouldn’t have done that, so someone is playing with her mind.

Another closed door, he said.


Scene 1

INT. ‘Shades of Grey’ Lounge Bar – evening

(character monologue)

It all started with a sinking feeling that felt familiar.

Soft music began to flow from the ceiling speakers: Andre Rieu’s ‘Jeux interdits’. The melody never failed to send a shudder through me, but this time it hit me harder than ever. I had to bend forward, keep my face in my hands, preventing my skull from falling apart. That feeling – I’ve had it all my life, but never as strong as this. I just wanted the world to stop moving.

Then I raised my head, after the dizziness faded away, and started to scan that fanciful room and the people there – some of them were chitchatting, flirting, dirty dancing, getting drunk, or seeking to get laid that night whatsoever.

If only I had a seatbelt around me to fasten, so I could stay as far as I could from that piece of depraved society. I haven’t chosen to be there, you could just say that I’ve suddenly woken up there. Actually, I can’t even remember. My mind was blank. Erased. Gone. Who were those strange people? Did I know them? It was as though I was looking at them through frosted glass. I wasn’t a part of that world, that’s for sure, and how could I be?

There were constantly people coming in as if they had a prize to win. These cartoon characters, who spend their lives slaving away at a job they hate, only to get home next and watch soaps.

The supposed “normal”, victims of a clichéd life they’ve seen on TV, coming towards me and giving me some life lessons I could somehow use. In a way I had become a victim, but of something else. It felt like nothing of the film running in front of me had something to do with me. It somehow consumed me.

So I found myself with my eyes wide open, laughing all by myself in the middle of the room, thinking of all I had lost during my life: times gone for ever, friends who had died or disappeared, feelings I would never know again. The next moment, from what I recall, I only felt the blood floating incredibly fast through my veins, as if life itself urged to get somewhere to hide.

Then it started as an uncertainty, like a tiny hole in my mind.

I was looking for an answer, but I did not even have the right question. You might say, memory is a funny thing. Tell you what, it’s not. When I was in the scene, I barely paid it any kind of attention. But attention is everything. I’ve never stopped to think of it as a forever lasting memory, but still, here it is, standing in front of me in such detail. I should have told you that day that I broke the glass and not our black, fluffy cat.

I was sitting with my eyes closed on my lounge chair in the orchard listening to some symphonic metal tunes. The smell of grass, the chill of the wind, the barking of a dog, they come first to my mind with absolute clarity. I sort of fell asleep, I guess, as I woke up trembling and whole sweating, still my body felt cold although outside there were about thirty-five degrees Celsius, a suitable living temperature for myself.

When I stepped into the grass to go and wash my face, I cut myself. There was glass in the grass, and I was wondering who the hell broke the glass while I was asleep for no longer than fifteen bloody minutes. I wouldn’t have imagined it, but the bleeding was pretty bad. I had to get a towel to stop it.