The Letter

FADE IN:

1 THE SOUND OF A PEN SCRAWLING ACROSS PAPER.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

As of exactly 7:09

PM tonight, I will be dead.

ECU of the words: “DEAD”.

Continue CLOSE UPS on the following words as they are written by hand.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

Free. Gone the way of Sergei

Yesenin. Goodbye, my friend, good–

Wait, how do you even format a

letter? Address… Recipient…

Comma… No, colon… And title.

ECU on the corresponding information: “137 BARROW STREET, NEW YORK, NY”, “TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN”, a comma… a comma

redrawn to be a colon, and the title “SUICIDE LETTER”.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

It’s funny. People invariably ask

the same three questions when

someone takes their own life. First,

did I know the person who did it?

Reveal The Writer today: Lying wide awake in his bed, face up, eyes tired, distant. His hair tousled, his beard unkempt, his bedroom littered with books, finished liquor bottles and unfinished artwork.

INT. APARTMENT – BATHROOM – AN HOUR LATER 3

A rusty New York shower faucet turns on.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

The answer to that question is,

“No. You probably did not.” Not

that I blame you, I’m not an easy

person to know, I suppose, and this

town is very busy. All I can hope

is that I’m remembered as a good

person. As an artist. I hope I’m

remembered as a man who came to New

York with the girl he loved and

gave it his damndest.

The Writer stands in front of a steamy bathroom mirror. He

draws two circles, revealing his own two sad eyes. He then

etches a wide circle and an arch underneath, forming a FROWNY FACE in the cloudy mirror.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

But the truth is, I won’t be

remembered at all.

INT. APARTMENT – LIVING ROOM – MORNING

THE WRITER (V.O.)

The second question people ask is,

HOW did the person do it? For me,

the answer is “perfectly”. While I

didn’t get much right in life, I

want my death to be a work of art.

The perfect song, the perfect

setting, the perfect suicide

letter, handwritten, pen and paper,

traditional, heavy-hearted but not

heavy handed. Even the time 7:09

PM, perfect. The precise hour and

minute when, two years ago, I lost

her. When I lost everything.

The Writer places a framed photograph of Her on the table.

NEW YORK NOON

The Writer walks out of his apartment, nearly knocked down by the sirens and city ambiance. He puts in earbuds, blocking out the noise, and walks down the street.

He rides a subway car, headphones on. The Writer exits a hardware store with a shopping bag in hand. Crosses a street with heavy traffic, horns blaring. Eats noodles alone.

HE WRITER (V.O.)

And the third question, the darkest

question of all, really, is why?

Why did the person do it?

EXT. APARTMENT – NOON

As the Writer walks toward his front steps, he notices a

small DOG wearing a red knit sweater sitting on his door

step. The Dog stares at the Writer, his big brown eyes locked on his. The Writer scans the street for an owner. The Writer reaches down to pet the Dog, but the Dog suddenly scurries off, a leash drags behind him. The Writer watches him go. Sullen.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

I suppose, for me, the reason why

is because I’m, well… lonely.

Depressed… Broke… Broken…

Missing something… Missing HER…

Really fucking lonely… Tired…

WS of The Writer sitting at his table. SLOWLY PUSH IN as he

pens the letter we’ve been hearing all this time.

The Writer takes a drink of coffee. He considers, then pours

a splash of whiskey into his coffee, takes a drink. He

reconsiders, pushes the coffee aside entirely, and drinks

straight from the bottle of whiskey.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

Ultimately, I want to say that life-

– I want– I– I– I–

ECU of the letter “I” faintly scribbled by a pen that has run out of ink. The Writer tries another pen.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

(a whisper)

I want to say that life–

The Writer tosses aside the inkless pen. He grabs a SHARPIE.

THE WRITER (V.O.)

(a shout)

I WANT TO SAY THAT LIFE–

The Writer stops. He holds up the blotchy letter. The Sharpie ink has bled through. He SLAMS the letter on the table and lets out a deep sigh.

AFTERNOON – NEW YORK

The writer heads outside, earbuds in his ear. He notices a FLIER printing. It reads: “MISSING: SEBASTIAN. LAST SEEN: WEARING RED SWEATER. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE, PLEASE CONTACT ROSALIE”. CU on the photo of SEBASTIAN – a familiar looking dog in a red knit sweater. The Writer looks up from the flier to see ROSALIE.

ROSALIE (V.O.)

(a gentle, french accent)

I want to say that life is

beautiful… Some days.

11 EXT. APARTMENT – AFTERNOON 11

The Writer and Rosalie stand near the spot where The Writer

earlier encountered the Dog. No sign of Sebastian.

ROSALIE (V.O.)

But some days, life, it is shit.

Distraught, Rosalie tapes a flier to a tree. Then another.

Then another. Tears well in her eyes as she begins to appear

frantic.

ROSALIE (V.O.)

But these days, they pass.

The Writer nods and turns to walk in his apartment. Rosalie

reaches out and takes The Writer by the hand.

EXT. STREET CORNER

Still wearing his earbuds, The Writer holds the stack of

fliers and watches as Rosalie tapes a poster to a pole.

ROSALIE (V.O.)

And some days will break your

heart.

Rosalie’s shirt slides up, revealing a TATTOO on Rosalie’s

lower back. The name “SAM” is enclosed in angel wings.

ROSALIE (V.O.)

In time, these days pass too. I

know these days. I know loss. I

have lost much. But I have not lost

everything.

The Writer notices her tattoo but acts as though he didn’t.

He just hands her another flier, watching as she tapes it

down.

WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK – EVENING

The Writer passes a barefoot Musician alongside Rosalie.

She reaches over and removes the earbuds from his ears. We

hear the Musician’s song. It’s beautiful. The Writer

considers. He drops a dollar into his case. As he comes back

up, Rosalie is gone.

ROSALIE (V.O.)

Neither have you. Not everything.

Not yet. I know you’re tired. WAKE

UP!

A hand reaches out and pulls The Writer into the fray.

Rosalie dances, and reluctantly he does as well. Awkward.

Laughing. Carefree.