Post by Dale on Mar 22, 2010 1:56:38 GMT -5
I'm not really sure what this is yet. Just an idea that's been buzzing around in my head for a while and I wanted to get it out.
----
----
BLACK SCREEN
A in the DOOR SNAPS open, looking in at a dark cell, stone
floors, Damp, No windows. Nothing but an empty TRAY and a
BUCKET.
Opposite, hair mangy, greying, cold eyes lurking beneath,
sitting with his back to the wall, is the KILLER.
We linger on his face before;
CUT TO:
INT. PRISON -- CELL WING
The Killer, wearing an ORANGE JUMPSUIT, chained at his wrists
and ankles is lead by a GROUP of ARMED GUARDS, wearing full
RIOT GEAR. This Man is dangerous.
He is led past locked door after locked door, passing
PRISONER after Prisoner lurking behind the STEEL DOORS.
CUT TO:
INT. PRISON - SECURITY CHECK ROOM
A BUZZ.
The barred doors open.
The Killer is brought in.
Nervously a guard approaches. He checks the KILLER down. The
Killer does not divert his eyes from a singular spot on the
wall.
The Nervous guard looks up warily at him as he does his job.
NERVOUS GUARD
He's clean.
INT. PRISON -- VISITOR'S ENTRANCE
The INTERVIEWER, young, eager, ready to make an impact is
escorted through security checks and the like.
He is guided towards a barred door and takes a somewhat
nervous breath as his ESCORT turns the key in the lock.
He notices the look in the Escort's eyes, incredulous and
concerned.
The door BUZZES open and the Interviewer passes through.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM -- DAY
A dark interrogation room opens, the light from the outside
world momentarily filling the room. It closes with a THUD...
Already seated across the table is the Kiiler.
His legs strapped to the chairs, his arms cuffed together. He
sits, looking every bit like the criminal he is.
The Interviewer tentatively takes a seat, putting down the
briefcase in his hand, that moments beforehand had been
carefully searched by the Prison's guards.
He makes himself comfortable, sitting back in his chair as he
soaks in the man, the animal, sitting before him.
A tense, silence hovers through the room for a moment.
CLICK, a tape recorder is turned on...
The Killer looks over at it, all to familiar with the slight
whirring sound it emits.
Finally, the Interviewer speaks.
INTERVIEWER
I guess, my first question is quite
simply; how do you feel?
The Killer moves ever so slightly, his chains clinging
together. They seem to answer his question for him.
Nevertheless, he verbalizes an answer. His voice rough,
hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken for a long time.
KILLER
How do I feel?
The Killer considers this for a moment. He repeats the
question posed to him.
KILLER (CONT'D)
How do I feel?
He looks up at the Interviewer, cold eyes. Hidden behind a
veil of filthy hair, falling into his eyes.
KILLER (CONT'D)
Like I've been caged as an animal.
The animal that I am.
INTERVIEWER
You say you're an animal ... Does
that mean you feel remorse the
crimes you committed.
KILLER
Crimes?
INTERVIEWER
You don't think the murders where
crimes?
The Killer answers, an uneasy calm to his voice.
KILLER
No.
INTERVIEWER
Then what where they? Act's of
pleasure. Act's vengeance,
retribution. What?
The Killer responds, the calm gone now snapping back at the
Interviewer.
KILLER
No.
The Interviewer pushes the issue, trying to get more than a
one word answer.
INTERVIEWER
Just no? You have to work with me
here. Come on, the public want to
know. Why did you kill over twenty
five people, in less that two
years. If not a crime, what would
you call these killings. Acts of...
KILLER
Insight.
That's the last thing the Interviewer expected. He repeats
the word in question, trying to make sense of it himself.
INTERVIEWER
Insight?
KILLER
To know thyself.
INTERVIEWER
What do you mean?
The Killer stares a hole in the Interviewer. His eyes, grey,
the life almost drained out of them.
He's been in this prison for a long while.
KILLER
Have you ever killed a man? --
The interviewer does not respond to this particularly jarring
question.
KILLER (CONT'D)
I didn't think so. There's a lot to
be said, in the moment that they
go. Sometimes there's a struggle,
and you feel the strain. Muscles,
vein pulsating, tightening. And
then -- it's gone in a second. And
you feel their spirit leave the
room. And you're alone -- all
alone.
The Interviewer has to verbalize his thoughts to try and make
a shred of sense out of the Killer's answers.
INTERVIEWER
All alone.
He follows up with the most obvious question he could ask.
INTERVIEWER (CONT'D)
And you like to be alone?
KILLER
Yes.
The Interviewer leans back in his chair. He feels a smug
sense of arrogance as he gets to throw the next statement at
the Killer sitting opposite him.
INTERVIEWER
Then I suppose you've liked
solitary confinement, where I
believe you've been since you
killed a fellow inmate. What did he
do, to deserve death?
The Killer responds, as if his response is the most normal
thing in the world.
KILLER
He got my name wrong.
INTERVIEWER
And that's a big deal for you?
KILLER
Yes. It is.
With a through sense of sarcasm, The interviewer again
responds.
He can't help but chuckle under his breath as he does.
INTERVIEWER
For you and the voices in your head
--
The Killer responds, deeply offended by the implication he
has Voices in his head.
KILLER
Voices? They're no voices. There's
no whispers. Nobody in my ear,
telling me what to do. I was in
full control. I knew what I was
doing. I chose all those people to
die, I followed them home, I
followed them into an alley, I
followed them into a parking lot in
the early hours of the morning. And
I ended their lives. I did it, I
was there, Me alone. Front and
fucking centre. All the lights
where on, I was the only person
home. Do you understand me?
The Interviewer doubts his words. He responds, as if he's a
full most authority on the matter.
INTERVIEWER
You were in full control? People in
full control don't kill.
KILLER
You're very naive. Everybody kills.
From the people on the street,
smoking cigarettes. The pot head,
who shares a joint with his friend.
The policeman, who had too much to
drink at his sisters wedding.
Everybody, you see everyday.
Including the blonde in your office
you want to fuck on the desk you
put your wife's picture on.
INTERVIEWER
I'm not married.
The Killer doesn't seem to care. He pauses for a moment. He
repeats one word, one last time, making sure to pronounce
every single letter, clearly.
KILLER
Everybody.
The Killer has gotten under the Interviewer's skin. The
Interviewer responds, almost challenging the Killer to tell
him why. The Interviewer raises his voice, letting himself
get angry against his better judgement.
INTERVIEWER
What drove you to murder? To many
people blow smoke in your face?
Daddy a drunk, beat you up when you
were a kid? You wanna be alone ...
What the hell is that supposed to
mean?
KILLER
No. I kill because it gives me
solitude. I killed all of those
people because I wanted to escape.
INTERVIEWER
If you want to escape, why not kill
yourself?
KILLER
I said I wanted to be alone. I
didn't say I wanted to be dead. I
don't want to escape life. I want
to escape people.
INTERVIEWER
You don't like people?
KILLER
If I liked people. I wouldn't kill
them, would I?
INTERVIEWER
I don't know. I don't understand
you.
KILLER
You wouldn't. Like I said, you
haven't killed anybody. Yet.
The Interviewer sits back in his char. Troubled by the
connotations in the last word of the Killer's statement.
Chilled even. Like he just bit of more than he could chew.
A in the DOOR SNAPS open, looking in at a dark cell, stone
floors, Damp, No windows. Nothing but an empty TRAY and a
BUCKET.
Opposite, hair mangy, greying, cold eyes lurking beneath,
sitting with his back to the wall, is the KILLER.
We linger on his face before;
CUT TO:
INT. PRISON -- CELL WING
The Killer, wearing an ORANGE JUMPSUIT, chained at his wrists
and ankles is lead by a GROUP of ARMED GUARDS, wearing full
RIOT GEAR. This Man is dangerous.
He is led past locked door after locked door, passing
PRISONER after Prisoner lurking behind the STEEL DOORS.
CUT TO:
INT. PRISON - SECURITY CHECK ROOM
A BUZZ.
The barred doors open.
The Killer is brought in.
Nervously a guard approaches. He checks the KILLER down. The
Killer does not divert his eyes from a singular spot on the
wall.
The Nervous guard looks up warily at him as he does his job.
NERVOUS GUARD
He's clean.
INT. PRISON -- VISITOR'S ENTRANCE
The INTERVIEWER, young, eager, ready to make an impact is
escorted through security checks and the like.
He is guided towards a barred door and takes a somewhat
nervous breath as his ESCORT turns the key in the lock.
He notices the look in the Escort's eyes, incredulous and
concerned.
The door BUZZES open and the Interviewer passes through.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM -- DAY
A dark interrogation room opens, the light from the outside
world momentarily filling the room. It closes with a THUD...
Already seated across the table is the Kiiler.
His legs strapped to the chairs, his arms cuffed together. He
sits, looking every bit like the criminal he is.
The Interviewer tentatively takes a seat, putting down the
briefcase in his hand, that moments beforehand had been
carefully searched by the Prison's guards.
He makes himself comfortable, sitting back in his chair as he
soaks in the man, the animal, sitting before him.
A tense, silence hovers through the room for a moment.
CLICK, a tape recorder is turned on...
The Killer looks over at it, all to familiar with the slight
whirring sound it emits.
Finally, the Interviewer speaks.
INTERVIEWER
I guess, my first question is quite
simply; how do you feel?
The Killer moves ever so slightly, his chains clinging
together. They seem to answer his question for him.
Nevertheless, he verbalizes an answer. His voice rough,
hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken for a long time.
KILLER
How do I feel?
The Killer considers this for a moment. He repeats the
question posed to him.
KILLER (CONT'D)
How do I feel?
He looks up at the Interviewer, cold eyes. Hidden behind a
veil of filthy hair, falling into his eyes.
KILLER (CONT'D)
Like I've been caged as an animal.
The animal that I am.
INTERVIEWER
You say you're an animal ... Does
that mean you feel remorse the
crimes you committed.
KILLER
Crimes?
INTERVIEWER
You don't think the murders where
crimes?
The Killer answers, an uneasy calm to his voice.
KILLER
No.
INTERVIEWER
Then what where they? Act's of
pleasure. Act's vengeance,
retribution. What?
The Killer responds, the calm gone now snapping back at the
Interviewer.
KILLER
No.
The Interviewer pushes the issue, trying to get more than a
one word answer.
INTERVIEWER
Just no? You have to work with me
here. Come on, the public want to
know. Why did you kill over twenty
five people, in less that two
years. If not a crime, what would
you call these killings. Acts of...
KILLER
Insight.
That's the last thing the Interviewer expected. He repeats
the word in question, trying to make sense of it himself.
INTERVIEWER
Insight?
KILLER
To know thyself.
INTERVIEWER
What do you mean?
The Killer stares a hole in the Interviewer. His eyes, grey,
the life almost drained out of them.
He's been in this prison for a long while.
KILLER
Have you ever killed a man? --
The interviewer does not respond to this particularly jarring
question.
KILLER (CONT'D)
I didn't think so. There's a lot to
be said, in the moment that they
go. Sometimes there's a struggle,
and you feel the strain. Muscles,
vein pulsating, tightening. And
then -- it's gone in a second. And
you feel their spirit leave the
room. And you're alone -- all
alone.
The Interviewer has to verbalize his thoughts to try and make
a shred of sense out of the Killer's answers.
INTERVIEWER
All alone.
He follows up with the most obvious question he could ask.
INTERVIEWER (CONT'D)
And you like to be alone?
KILLER
Yes.
The Interviewer leans back in his chair. He feels a smug
sense of arrogance as he gets to throw the next statement at
the Killer sitting opposite him.
INTERVIEWER
Then I suppose you've liked
solitary confinement, where I
believe you've been since you
killed a fellow inmate. What did he
do, to deserve death?
The Killer responds, as if his response is the most normal
thing in the world.
KILLER
He got my name wrong.
INTERVIEWER
And that's a big deal for you?
KILLER
Yes. It is.
With a through sense of sarcasm, The interviewer again
responds.
He can't help but chuckle under his breath as he does.
INTERVIEWER
For you and the voices in your head
--
The Killer responds, deeply offended by the implication he
has Voices in his head.
KILLER
Voices? They're no voices. There's
no whispers. Nobody in my ear,
telling me what to do. I was in
full control. I knew what I was
doing. I chose all those people to
die, I followed them home, I
followed them into an alley, I
followed them into a parking lot in
the early hours of the morning. And
I ended their lives. I did it, I
was there, Me alone. Front and
fucking centre. All the lights
where on, I was the only person
home. Do you understand me?
The Interviewer doubts his words. He responds, as if he's a
full most authority on the matter.
INTERVIEWER
You were in full control? People in
full control don't kill.
KILLER
You're very naive. Everybody kills.
From the people on the street,
smoking cigarettes. The pot head,
who shares a joint with his friend.
The policeman, who had too much to
drink at his sisters wedding.
Everybody, you see everyday.
Including the blonde in your office
you want to fuck on the desk you
put your wife's picture on.
INTERVIEWER
I'm not married.
The Killer doesn't seem to care. He pauses for a moment. He
repeats one word, one last time, making sure to pronounce
every single letter, clearly.
KILLER
Everybody.
The Killer has gotten under the Interviewer's skin. The
Interviewer responds, almost challenging the Killer to tell
him why. The Interviewer raises his voice, letting himself
get angry against his better judgement.
INTERVIEWER
What drove you to murder? To many
people blow smoke in your face?
Daddy a drunk, beat you up when you
were a kid? You wanna be alone ...
What the hell is that supposed to
mean?
KILLER
No. I kill because it gives me
solitude. I killed all of those
people because I wanted to escape.
INTERVIEWER
If you want to escape, why not kill
yourself?
KILLER
I said I wanted to be alone. I
didn't say I wanted to be dead. I
don't want to escape life. I want
to escape people.
INTERVIEWER
You don't like people?
KILLER
If I liked people. I wouldn't kill
them, would I?
INTERVIEWER
I don't know. I don't understand
you.
KILLER
You wouldn't. Like I said, you
haven't killed anybody. Yet.
The Interviewer sits back in his char. Troubled by the
connotations in the last word of the Killer's statement.
Chilled even. Like he just bit of more than he could chew.
