INT. HOUSE - BASEMENT - LATE AFTERNOON

 

A lavender envelope adorned with flower stickers falls to the floor. A man shifts through sheets of college ruled paper. Scoffs. Folds them closed. Stares blankly.

 

MAN

She’s a terrible liar...

 

He whips around. Bare feet lightly dusting the cement floor.

 

MAN

...isn’t she?

 

Slowly paces. Dry feet shuffling.

 

MAN

But these letters aren’t for me.

(amused)

I don’t even live here.

 

A soft whimper behind him. Stops pacing.  Glances back over his shoulder. The whimpering ceases.

 

MAN

She’s lost. Doesn’t know who she

is anymore.

 

Cranes his neck to scratch his prickly jaw.

 

MAN

Doesn’t recognize the world she’s

trapped in or the voice she hears

in her head. Moving away from home

unearths a lot of things.

 

More whimpering. Soft moans. Begging. Crying. The man sighs. Turns around. Storms towards the woman tied to a chair with layers of rope, twine, ribbon and pantyhose. Her legs spread open, wrapped around a chair leg.

 

MAN

What!

​

He unravels the gag around her mouth.

 

BOUND WOMAN

(crying)

Please, let me go.

 

MAN

You’re the one who said you wanted

to have a good time. So I share my

feelings with you. Try to discuss

the existential crisis hidden in

this young woman’s letters—-

 

BOUND WOMAN

Please—-

 

He groans. Snatches the knife from the table beside the woman. She screams. He covers her mouth. Holds her in place with vacant eyes. Doorbell rings.

 

MAN

Hm?

 

He stares at the ceiling, listening. His hand slowly falls from the woman’s mouth. Knife tip taps her heaving heart. Doorbell rings again. The woman screams.

 

The man’s eyes leave the ceiling. Raises an eye brow, questionably. Tightens his grip on the knife.

 

BOUND WOMAN

Help me! Please!

 

His brow furrows. Enraged.

 

EXT. HOUSE - FRONT YARD - MOMENTS EARLIER

 

Young woman, MIRA, steps off a bus. Struggles to get a large suitcase off the last step. Bus pulls away. She walks gingerly and quickly; her suitcase bumping against her calf, impeding her balance.

 

Darkened clouds follow her down the street. A water droplet splashes her nose.

 

She stops at a house. Tall grass. Unkempt shrubs. Wilted mums. Bird droppings on the sedan.

She quickens her pace. Drops her suitcase in the driveway. Peers inside the grubby, blue sedan.

 

 

Walks to the front door. Kicks newspapers off the path. Knocks calmly.

​

MIRA

Tricia?

 

Pushes a shrub aside to locate the doorbell. Presses it once.

 

MIRA

(to self)

Please, be okay. Why won’t you

answer the phone?

 

Nervous and paranoid. Checks behind her. Knocks vigorously. Rings doorbell a second time. Kneels to peer through the mail slot.

 

MIRA

Tricia, answer me. Mom?

 

Heavy rainfall. She runs to retrieve her suitcase. Eyes on the ground, exhaling with each tiny step back to the front door. Drops suitcase. Deeply exhales as she raises her eyes. Stumbles back.

 

MIRA

(surprised)

Oh?

 

A man stands in the doorway. Black, sleeveless undershirt and gray sweatpants. Barefoot. Mira looks him up and down. Attempts to look pass him into the shadowy house interior.

​

MIRA

You are? I mean...I’m Mira. Tricia’s my step-mother.

 

The man is silent. He observes her troubled face. Glances into the sky to gauge the looming storm.

 

MIRA

(frantic)

Is she okay? Is she in there?

(suspicious)

Who are you?

 

The man looks down at her worn suitcase adorned with flower stickers and marker drawings of cats.

​

MIRA

Emilio?

 

The man nods.

 

MIRA

Emilio? Really? I...

 

He grabs her suitcase with ease.

 

EMILIO

It’s about to storm.

 

Emilio caries her suitcase inside the house. Mira looks back. Shudders from the rumbling overhead. She enters the house and closes the door.

 

INT. HOUSE - LIVING ROOM

 

Emilio drops her suitcase near the couch. Watches Mira intently as she surveys the front of the house. With her back turned, he tilts his ear to the basement door.

 

MIRA

Emilio, where’s Tricia? I’ve been

calling, leaving messages, mailing

letters. Is she okay?

 

His eyes trail away from her.

​

EMILIO

She’s fine. She’s just...away.

 

MIRA

She left and didn’t tell anyone?

 

EMILIO

Um...Yeah.

 

Mira relaxes her shoulders. Peels off her jacket and lays it across the chair. Sinks into the couch.

 

MIRA

I guess she tells you

everything. I was so worried.

 

Emilio keeps his eyes on her as he sits on the other end of the couch. His knees press tightly together. His hands interlock on his lap.

 

MIRA

Sorry I beat the door down. I’ve

been trying to reach her for

weeks. I thought she was ignoring

me--but that’s not like her--so

then I thought...something bad had

happened.

 

EMILIO

You’re here to check on her?

 

MIRA

Yeah.

 

She fluffs her hair. Emilio’s fingers tighten.

 

MIRA

Well...It’s kinda funny. I think

this is the first time we’ve ever

met.

 

She turns to him.

 

MIRA

When my dad married your mom, you

were already out of the

house. When you visited, I was

away at boarding school or at my

grandma’s.

 

She reaches her hand out to him.

 

MIRA

What I mean to say is...Hi.

 

Emilio stares at her hand. He slowly takes it then flinches at her enthusiastic shake.

 

MIRA

It’s nice to finally meet you.

 

Alarmed by a red spot on his pants, he quickly yanks his hand away and rises. Turns his back to her. Covers his crotch with his hand.

 

EMILIO

I have to finish some things in the

basement. We’ll talk later.

 

MIRA

Oh? Um...

 

He speeds away.  Slams the basement door behind him.

 

MIRA

...okay.

 

Mira stands. Continues to survey the house. Touches the plant by the front door. Feels the soil. Dry. Peers through the blinds into the front yard.

 

MIRA

This isn’t like you. Why not tell

the neighbor to toss out your

paper? Why didn’t you arrange to

have the grass cut?

 

She steps back from the blinds.

 

MIRA

Why haven’t you called

me...wherever you are?

 

Mira brushes her fingers against the dusty dining room table. She wipes her fingers on her pants before picking up the cordless phone. Blunt dial tone. Places the phone back on the receiver.

 

She lingers over the answering machine’s flashing, red light. Tentatively presses the play button.

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

First message. Tuesday. October

sixth—-

 

MIRA

No.

 

She skips the message.

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

Second message. Thursday. October

eighth...

 

Mira leans down to listen.

 

MIRA (V.O.)

Hi, Tricia. It’s Mira. Hope

everything is well. Everything is

well here. College is fun--

 

Skips to the next message. Listens intently.

 

MIRA (V.O.)

Hey, Tricia. Mira...again. We need to talk.

(whimpering)

I really messed up. Something bad has—-

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

Message erased.

 

She rubs her forehead, deleting the following messages.

 

EMILIO

Having a hard time at school?

 

She quickly turns around. Emilio stands at the far end of the dining room table. His shirt and pants slightly different than what he wore earlier.

 

EMILIO

I guess you’ll be wanting to get

rid the letters too.

 

MIRA

You saw the letters?

 

EMILIO

There’s no need to be ashamed—-

 

MIRA

You opened them? Why!

 

EMILIO

We can keep it a secret.

 

She steps closer. Nails digging into her palm.

 

MIRA

You had no right to open them.

 

EMILIO

You wrote them to Tricia but they

weren’t meant for her.

 

She shakes her head in disbelief. Turns away from him and flicks a tear from her eye. Emilio focuses on her trembling hands.

 

A boom of thunder. She gasps. He smiles.

 

Mira looks ahead at a framed school portrait of a young boy. Bronze skin, brown hair, a mole under his eye. She squints, rolls her eyes around. Struggles to recall. She turns back to Emilio walking away from her.

 

MIRA

Wait. I didn’t mean to yell.

 

EMILIO

When you feel lost, it’s natural to want to come

home and reconnect with the person you once were.

But sometimes the wrong person is waiting for you.

​

She attempts to speak, then pauses.  Contemplating his words.

 

EMILIO

I’m sorry Tricia--M-Mom--isn’t here.

 

MIRA

You call her Tricia too?

 

EMILIO

She left some papers out about a trip.

A cruise, I think. I misplaced them

so you’ll have to take my word for it.

 

He moves towards the basement door. Lingers on the door frame, intrigued by Mira’s step forward.

 

MIRA

You...You really understood what I

was trying to say in the letters?

You know about feeling...lost?

 

She steps closer to him.

 

EMILIO

I do. It’s refreshing to have

someone admit it.

 

MIRA

Is there...an escape?

 

EMILIO

(amused)

Escape?

 

MIRA

Sounds weak. Like I’m giving

up, or don’t wanna face my feelings.

 

EMILIO

Choosing to escape instead of

fighting through it isn’t weak. An

escape is simply a way out.

 

He steps down into the basement.

 

MIRA

What are you doing down there?

​

EMILIO

Tidying up.

 

He closes the door behind him.

 

MIRA

This is not how I expected our

first meeting.

 

Mira drags her suitcase across the floor into her bedroom. As the sky groans, she closes herself inside.

 

INT. HOUSE - TRICIA’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

 

Mira enters Tricia’s bedroom. Checks behind her before closing the door. Flips through papers on the desk.

 

Picks up a small photo frame containing Mira’s high school portrait. Places it down and picks up another photo frame containing the same picture from the dining room: the young boy with the mole under his eye.

 

MIRA

Nothing recent.

 

She returns the photo.

 

MIRA

He’s so much different than what

you said. Supposed to be friendly,

not weird and cryptic...and nosy.

 

She looks up to the calendar.  The current week is bare.

 

She drops her hand on an address book. Flips through the pages and lands on Emilio’s name. Sits on Tricia’s bed. Address book in one hand. Cordless phone in the other.

 

Mumbles the numbers as she dials.

 

MIRA

What if he picks up? What if he

picks up? Oh, goodness.

 

MAN (V.O.)

Hello?

 

MIRA

Uh...Em...Emilio?

 

Thunder booms. Mira holds her breath.

 

MAN (V.O.)

Yeah.

 

Mira expels a stifled gasp.

 

MIRA

(frightened)

Em-Em-Emilio?

 

MAN (V.O.)

Yeah.  Oh, no.  This is Harry.  Emilio’s not here.

 

Relieved, she exhales fully.

 

MIRA

Who’s Harry?

 

HARRY (V.O.)

His roommate. Who’s this?

 

MIRA

I’m Mira, his step-sister.

 

HARRY (V.O.)

Didn’t know he had one of

those. He’s not here. Left,

maybe, two weeks ago. Trip with

his girlfriend, I think.

 

MIRA

He’s not house sitting for his mom?

 

HARRY (V.O.)

Doubt it. They don’t get along.

 

MIRA

(shocked)

They don’t?

 

HARRY (V.O.)

Nah. Sorry, I can’t talk long.

 

Thunder booms. Closer. Louder.

 

MIRA

One more thing. What’s Emilio

look like?

 

HARRY

So you’re not his sister.

 

MIRA

I am. But--

 

The lights turn off.

 

MIRA

Hello? Harry?

 

No dial tone. She stands, crosses the room, flips the light switch. Opens Tricia’s bedroom door and peers into the darkness.

 

MIRA

Emilio? Are you okay?

 

Mira guides her hands along the walls to the basement door. Fumbles with the handle before opening it.

 

MIRA

Hey! Can you hear me?

 

INT. HOUSE – BASEMENT

 

Mira steps cautiously into the basement. Her foot taps each stair before she slides down, gripping the banister with both hands. Stairs creak.

 

MIRA

If you’re okay, say something.

 

Her shoulders tense, stepping onto the cold, cement floor. Shuffles along with her hand brushing the grainy walls. She leaves the perimeter and walks into the middle of the room. Hands sweeping in front of her. Tender steps.

 

Stumbles into a chair. A brief screech. Wood clacking to the floor. Reaches her hand down and pulls back.

 

She shakes the mysterious fluid from her hand. It remains. Brings it close to her face to smell it. She gasps. Kneels down to the floor. Feels around the area. Slapping. Grasping.

 

Plants her knees and crawls. More mysterious liquid pooling underneath her fingernails.

 

MIRA

Emilio, answer me?

(to self)

Oh, god—-

 

EMILIO

Your last letter...

 

Mira flips around to face his voice. Loses her balance. Mysterious liquid soaking into her pajama shorts. The backs of her thighs wet and sticky.

 

EMILIO

...the lavender one. You mentioned

wanting the voices to stop. You

said, you don’t wanna punish

yourself but it feels right to.

 

She sweeps her hand in front of her. Presses against Emilio’s chest.

 

MIRA

We should head upstairs. It’s too

dark.

 

EMILIO

You said the dark was comforting.

 

MIRA

I don’t want to talk about the

letter. I want to go

upstairs. What...What’s going on

down here? Are you painting?

 

Her elbow bends as he moves closer. She scoots away.

 

EMILIO

The voice inside your head doesn’t

sound like you anymore. You’re not

sure who it is. Did it just emerge

or was it always there?

 

She scoots away. He advances on his hands and knees, creeping lazily towards her in the void.

 

EMILIO

Did you really think Tricia could

help you?

 

MIRA

Mom?

 

EMILIO

Mom. Tricia. Whatever. She can’t

help you.

 

MIRA

What did you do to her? What is

this?

 

She holds her soiled hand out to him. His fingers interlock with hers.

 

EMILIO

Those girls hurt you.

 

She yanks her hand away. He pulls it closer to him and places her palm on his chest.

 

EMILIO

You weren’t weak. They weren’t right.

 

MIRA

Let go of me.

 

EMILIO

You don’t deserve the punishment.

 

MIRA

Stop.

 

EMILIO

If you want to feel better...if you

want that cruel, demanding voice in

your head to stop...you have to

hurt others--the ones who deserve it.

 

MIRA

No.

 

EMILIO

It’s telling you to hurt others,

not yourself.

 

He releases her hand. She grazes his prickly neck, outlining his jaw. Her fingers inch up his face. Circles his cheekbone. Floats to the other side. Pats one finger on his cheek. He seizes her hand.

 

EMILIO

I told you the way through, but if

you’d rather have the escape, I can

help you with that too.

 

He hugs her close. Her head resting on his chest. Her body snuggling inside his open legs. She whimpers. He combs through her hair with his fingers.

 

MIRA

You’re not Emilio, are you?

 

He continues to comb through her hair with blood-stained fingers. Content.

 

INT. HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NEXT MORNING

 

Front door opens. Slams against the wall and swings closed. Front door opens. A tall, voluptuous, cheetah-cloaked woman backs in with two suitcases. Tosses them to the floor. Her backside props the door open. Tosses in two more suitcases.

 

Door closes. The woman, TRICIA, kicks off her sandals and plops down on an armchair. Stretches over to an end table to turn on a lamp.

 

A small respite before standing. Wobbles to the dining room. Yawns.

 

TRICIA

Hm?

 

She hovers over the answer machine. No red, blinking light. She presses the play button.

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

First message. Tuesday. October

sixth. 10:10 A.M.

 

Dead air. She reaches for the skip button. Heavy breathing through the speaker. She pulls her hand away.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

(sobbing)

Tricia...Mom? I...

 

Tricia sits down in a chair. Covers her mouth. On the recording, Emilio clears his throat.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

(stern)

...I’m not...I’m not weak

anymore. You don’t have to worry

about me. I know a way

through. It works.

 

A small creak from the basement stairs.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

These voices--my voices--they used

to say I wasn’t good enough. Now

they say I’m strong.

 

TRICIA

(anxious)

Emilio.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

I don’t deserve to be punished. I

don’t deserve to walk around...

walk around with all this hate.

I’m not the problem.

 

The basement door opens.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

I feel free now. The look in

their eyes when they beg me to

stop...it’s...freeing. Empowering. If

they could somehow live again and

remember what I’ve done, they’d

never hurt another person again.

 

Tricia shakes her head.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

Maybe they will remember. And

remember me. Thank me.

 

Tricia turns to the basement door. Stands.

 

EMILIO (V.O.)

I didn’t mean to call, I just

wanted to speak. I’ll come see

you, so you can see the real

me. Bye.

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

End of message.

 

TRICIA

What are you doing here?

 

Emilio stands in the living room. Blood trickling down his hands, loosening his grip on the knife. A hand print stamped over his face, below the mole under his left eye.

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

Second message. Thursday. October

eighth—-

 

TRICIA

What have you done?

 

MIRA (V.O.)

Hi, Tricia. It’s Mira. Hope

everything is well. Everything is

well here—

 

TRICIA

What have you done! Answer me!

 

Emilio carefully leaves the knife on the coffee table.

 

EMILIO

She wanted to escape.

 

MIRA (V.O.)

--over the break we can have a

family dinner. Hopefully Emilio

can make it. I really want to

meet—-

 

TRICIA

Who are you talking about? Escape what?

 

He sits on the couch. Plops his hand beside him.  Opens it.  Gazes to the other side.  Smiles. 

 

MIRA (V.O.)

--Anyway. Love you. See you soon.

 

ANSWERING MACHINE (V.O.)

End of message.