"The Lake of Fire"
screenplay, by me
Author’s note: Below is a screenplay for a short film, based off of something I’ve written previously. All fictional. xx
“Where do bad folks go when they die?
They don't go to heaven where the angels fly
Go to a lake of fire and fry
See 'em again 'til the Fourth of July
People cry and people moan
Look for a dry place to call their home
Try to find some place to rest their bones
While the angels and the devils try to make 'em their own”
EXT. RIVERBANK – EARLY MORNING
A thick Appalachian mist blankets the valley. Dew clings to leaves. A slow breeze carries birdsong.
A lone figure steps barefoot onto the rocks. THE GIRL (18), slight, paler than she should be, with dancer's posture and hollow eyes.
INT. RIVERBANK – MORNING
A soft breeze rustles mossy rocks. “LOLITA”, barefoot, begins to undress, slipping off her yellow sundress and placing it on a nearby rock. It flutters lightly in the breeze. The cool river laps gently around her tired feet.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Today, I am practicing the sacred art of detachment. The sun will hit the horizon soon …then my time is due.
FLASHBACKS swirl… young Lolita dancing ballet, days at the university dorm, a lost innocence, pain.
She steps gingerly into the stream, submerging herself. Her foot is cut from the rock.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
This is a familiar pain I subject myself to. A comforting pain...
A physical pain that distracts me from unbearable sorrow.
Underwater: Bubbles. Ripples. Silence.
She washes herself slowly with Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap. Suds and blood drift downstream.
A BEAT-UP GREEN VW VAN, painted with psychedelic flowers, is parked nearby.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The van was a grand in cash. From the classifieds in the local paper.
Sure, she’s seen better days…but she watches me like an old friend.
Lolita steps out of the river, wraps herself in a pink gypsy towel, and dries off in the sun.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The greatest sin I committed when I was alive were the sins against myself.
God says, this is still a sin… and because I am scorning His creation, he sent me to hell.
I didn't know the consequences of my actions cold be so severe. I thought I was just surviving. I was born starving, while everyone else around me had something to eat.
Couldn’t he understand that?
INT. FLASHBACK – DORM ROOM – NIGHT (1984)
A dim dorm room lit by a lava lamp. A BOY (20) sleeps shirtless, back turned.
She sits beside him, fully clothed, staring at the glowing wall. Empty.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
It wasn’t love. That much I know.
But it felt like heroin in my veins.
Numbed the pain I’d felt since a child
Pain I was too young to bear…
She sits out of the college dorm window and lights a cigarette. Her hand trembles.
EXT. RIVERBANK – MORNING
She dresses slowly… white cotton panties, then the yellow sundress. Her movements are ritualistic, like a dancer in prayer.
From the VW van, an old tape player clicks on. A low hiss, then Leonard Cohen’s voice begins, faint but distinct:
“Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river…”
She pauses, standing in a beam of sunlight. Her eyes close as the sound reaches her.
“…you can hear the boats go by, you can spend the night beside her…”
She lies back on the towel. The fabric clings damp to her back. Eyes still closed. Arms open. The sunlight pierces her forehead… right between the brows. The mark of a third eye.
“…and you know that she’s half-crazy but that’s why you want to be there…”
A soft smile flickers at the corners of her lips.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Curiouser and curiouser…
She opens a worn copy of Alice in Wonderland. The spine is cracked, corners dog-eared, pages colored in crayon, chaotic and innocent.
“…and she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China…”
INSERT – PAGE:
The Mad Hatter’s tea party—cups filled with glitter, margins scribbled with stars and spirals.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
She reads it like scripture.
Like it holds the rules to a dream she once knew.
“…and you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind…”
Her fingers trail across the page, as if touching the world inside it. A wind lifts the corner of the book.
“…and you know that she will trust you, for you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.”
INT. FLASHBACK – FRENCH CLASSROOM – DAY
A dusty chalkboard. Conjugated French verbs in neat cursive: être, avoir, aller, faire.
Sunlight slants through half-closed blinds, striping the classroom with gold.
YOUNGER GIRL (16) slouches in her desk, jaw set, eyes like flint. The class is half-empty. A silence hovers—tired, charged.
GIRL
The school daycare only encourages teen pregnancy.
Reproduction is one of the most selfish things someone can do.
To bring another soul into purgatory like this…
JAMES FRANCO (FRENCH TEACHER, 40s)
(leans on the desk, voice low)
I use the daycare.
For my own kids.
GIRL
(flat)
That tracks.
(She flips her pen. Clicks it. Taps. He watches her, not offended… more like he’s reading a familiar book.)
FRANCO
You’ll change your mind when you get older.
GIRL
If I get older.
(She reaches into her backpack. Pulls out a dented metal flask. Takes a sip, low. No one reacts. No one’s surprised.)
FRANCO
You’re smart… too smart for your own good… and your grades reflect none of that.
(long pause)
But hey...
you showed up today.
That counts for more than you think.
GIRL
(smirks, not unkind)
Honestly? I had nothing better to do today.
I think what could really fix me up isn’t compulsory public education, but a good acid trip. Preferably at a music festival.
FRANCO
(grinning faintly)
This isn’t Woodstock.
GIRL
But it could be. Reality starts in the mind…
(He studies her. The air thickens with something quiet… something almost tender.)
FRANCO
(switching tones, playful)
Alright. Conjugate avoir.
All six pronouns. Out loud.
GIRL
(sighs, but obliges)
J’ai. Tu as. Il a. Nous avons. Vous avez… Ils ont.
FRANCO
Merci.
(He almost says something else. But doesn’t. Just nods, and looks down.)
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I passed French with a “C.”
This was fine with me.
I think it’s a very sexy language.
I have thoughts in French sometimes.
Especially the bad ones.
(She sips again. This time, slower. No one’s looking.)
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I wish I paid more attention in school.
But I was busy surviving.
And kissing boys who smoked clove cigarettes.
And crying in bathroom stalls between classes.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
But that teacher…
he looked at me like I was a person.
Not a problem.
That kind of mercy sticks to your ribs.
Like the way Leonard Cohen says her name…
Suzanne.
Like he’s already mourning her.
EXT. RIVERBANK – LATER
Lolita lies still on the towel, eyes closed, sunlight on her face. The river hums quietly.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I think about that classroom sometimes.
About verbs that mean to have.
And about the things I never had.
…and about the things I’ll never let go.
EXT. MOUNTAIN HIGHWAY – SUNSET
The van winds around tight curves as orange and pink streak across the sky. She hums softly… unheard music from the radio.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The most spiritual experience someone can have in their life is dying.
Deep down, it’s what everyone craves.
Even those too scared to admit it will inadvertently spend their whole lives planning for death, yearning for that final stretch toward the heavens.
Everyone’s a junkie.
Comfort is a drug, too.
The worst way to die is by slowly suffering through a comfortable life.
I’d much rather do it quicker, more efficiently.
She grips the steering wheel tighter. A curve comes up sharp, but she doesn’t slow down.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
The problem is, I don’t think I really wanted to die.
Maybe I just needed a hug.
Wind rushes through the cracked window. Loose pages flutter on the passenger seat, a journal, lyrics, or maybe prayers no one answered.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
And when the world goes quiet, just before the sun sinks for good,
there’s this humming. Like a memory you never made.
Like something waiting to welcome you back,
even if you’ve got nothing to return to.
The radio cuts through the silence… soft, distorted, warbling. A low song begins to play. Maybe “Suzanne.” Maybe something she remembers only in dreams.
She exhales, slow. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t smile. Just drives.
EXT. “LUST GENTLEMEN’S CLUB” – NIGHT
A flickering neon sign reads: “Barely Legal College Girls”.
She parks the van. Kills the engine. Sighs.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Like many girls my age, I work at a store. At this store in particular, the product is me.
She reapplies lipstick in the mirror. A long pause as she looks into her own eyes.
INT. LUST GENTLEMEN’S CLUB – BACK ROOM – NIGHT
The club's noise muffled behind the heavy door. Flickering fluorescent lights hum. The smell of sweat and cheap perfume fills the cramped space.
THE GIRL (Lolita) sits on a worn leather couch, pulling off her heels. Her face is tired but guarded.
Across from her, MARIE (28), a seasoned dancer with a sharp edge but warm eyes, smokes a cigarette, watching her carefully.
MARIE
You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders. Hell, maybe you are.
LOLITA
(quiet, bitter smile)
Isn’t that the truth? Sometimes I wonder if the weight’s all that keeps me from floating away.
MARIE
Floating away ain’t all bad, kid. But not all of us get the opportunity.
Marie takes a long drag, exhales slowly.
MARIE (CONT’D)
How’d a girl like you end up here? You got that look, like you should be in the ballet or a Hollywood movie, or something.
Lolita laughs, bitter, short.
LOLITA
Used to dance ballet. Years ago. Before everything... fell apart.
MARIE
And now?
Lolita shrugs, eyes distant.
LOLITA
Now I sell what I’m left with. My body. My smile.
She taps her temple lightly.
Sometimes I think it’s easier this way. Pain you can see... easier to deal with than the pain inside.
Marie nods, understanding.
MARIE
You ever think about doing something else, sweetheart?
Lolita’s smile fades.
LOLITA
Yes. But what’s the alternative? It’s better than being alone. I’d rather die than be alone.
Lolita sits still as Marie stubs out her cigarette. A muffled voice crackles through the intercom:
DJ (O.S.)
Now gracing the stage… give it up for the beautiful Lolita...
Marie gives her a look of half concern, half resignation.
MARIE
Go break hearts, kid.
INT. GENTLEMEN’S CLUB – MAIN FLOOR – NIGHT
The house lights dim. The club pulses red. The first notes of "Sex and Candy" slink through the air… syrupy, slow, seductive.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The music is the leash.
The light is the cage.
And I am the showgirl in a snow globe, shaken every night to see how long I’ll keep dancing.
“Hangin’ round… downtown by myself… and I’ve had too much time to sit and think about myself and then there she was…”
A single spotlight cuts through the dark, landing on the center pole.
Lolita steps out.
She's bare-shouldered, wrapped in thin silk, like a dream that's been weeping for too long. Her rode sweeps to the floor, revealing red lace lingerie underneath. Her movements are fluid, not performative… like muscle memory from a life that no longer belongs to her.
“In platform double-suede, yeah, There she was… like disco lemonade…”
The crowd watches. Some with lust. Some with dead, hungry eyes. Some like they’ve seen her before… in another town, another club, another life. Men begin to slip dollar bills onto the stage, slowly, not all at once.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
There’s always at least one.
A face in the dark that reminds me of someone I once knew.
The boy with the clove cigarettes.
The ghost by the river.
They all blend together, they all look the same under neon: hungry.
She twirls slowly, arms raised. Eyes closed. The bass thuds in time with her heart.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
This place is where popular girls go to die.
I wonder where my French teacher thinks I am right now.
I remember… he said… "you showed up today. That counts."
But all anyone ever counts here is tips.
The red light glows. The stage hums with the slow ache of “Sex and Candy.”
Lolita moves like a question no one wants answered… dreamlike, her body fluent in grief and grace.
“This surely is a dream…”
NARRATOR (V.O.)
One face in the dark knows too much.
Tonight, that face has a mustache and a well-cut coat…
Almost like the devil himself.
ANGLE: THE CROWD
STAN (35) sits in the far corner, tucked beneath the shadows of a low-hanging light. No smug smirk. No desperate gaze of naive fascination. Just watching.
He’s not like the others, his stillness is surgical, like a man diagnosing something terminal.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
He watches like a priest could watch a dying sinner…
Not to save, but to witness.
ON STAGE
Lolita spins slowly, back arched, hair cascading like a curtain of ash. Her eyes flicker across the room,
…and land on him.
A breath catches in her throat. She recovers, too quickly.
Lolita slides down the pole into a split, slow and deliberate. The crowd erupts in hoots and bills.
She doesn’t look at anyone anymore. Meeting someone else’s eyes is about as difficult as looking into the mirror. Instead, she stares at the ceiling, where there's a crack in the plaster shaped like a bird with broken wings.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
They think I’m selling sex.
But really… I’m buying silence.
For three minutes and thirty-seven seconds,
no one asks me who I used to be.
She flips her hair and smiles, mechanical, perfect. The song swells. The spotlight heats her skin. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn't blink.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
And when it ends,
they clap not for who I am, but for the ghost I’ve become.
INT. LUST GENTLEMEN’S CLUB – MAIN FLOOR – NIGHT
The club hums like a hive… low lights, red velvet booths, a rhythm of heat and desperation.
“The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie” begins to pulse through the club speakers, slow, gritty blues that feels like a warning. The guitar growls under dim red light.
On the stage, another girl sways with mechanical grace. Her glitter doesn’t sparkle anymore, like it did when she saw her earlier tonight.
LOLITA, now in red lace, walks with the fluidity of a ghost. She glides over to a shadowy booth where STAN (35) waits. Black mustache, British accent, slick suit that somehow doesn’t quite match the room… too clean, too tailored.
STAN
Hey there, doll. You got a name?
LOLITA (softly, but with practiced charm)
Lolita.
The lyrics croon from the speakers:
“Reverend, Reverend, please come quick…. ‘Cause I met a man out in the sticks….”
Stan smirks, swirling his drink.
STAN
(chuckles) Is that the one we’re going with?
Well, Lolita, what’s your story?
LOLITA (dryly)
You’d need a PHD and extensive clinical experience.
He nods, amused. She sits beside him, their bodies angled… close, but guarded.
STAN
You look like a nice girl.
What on Earth are you doing in a place like this?
Lolita's expression softens just enough to keep him engaged.
LOLITA
I have nowhere else to go, I suppose.
Stan leans forward, the kind of intimacy men perform when they’re sure they’re winning.
STAN
Have you ever been to New York City, darling?
Her eyes flicker, something old and sharp beneath the surface.
LOLITA
When I was little.
I remember pigeons. And puddles.
And a crazy man yelling about God in Times Square.
“Don't you know the Devil wears a suit and tie
I saw him driving down the sixty one in early July…”
The lyric loops faintly behind her words. He pulls a slick card from his coat pocket, slides it toward her with quiet ceremony.
Black matte, gold foil lettering. Fake salvation.
STAN
That’s New York, alright.
You belong there, darling, not here. You’ve got the look.
STAN (CONT’D)
I work in talent. Fashion. Real money.
You could be somebody.
She doesn’t pick up the card. Just lifts her glass and clinks it gently against his.
LOLITA
I’d consider it.
She leans back, watching him, calculating. A shadow flickers across her face.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
This is how I met Stan. Or how Stan met me.
But I already knew his name.
It was written in the margins of every other Bible verse.
The guitar twangs, the lyrics low and prayerful—
“…I know you I know you, young man
I know you by the state of your hands
You're a six string picker
Just as I... I am…”
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
The devil doesn’t arrive with horns.
He arrives with eye contact.
With opportunity.
With a business card and just enough warmth to pass for human.
She watches the stage dancer’s legs rotate mechanically under the haze of neon.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I believed… briefly… he could save me.
But I’ve heard this song before.
It’s always the same.
“White as a cotton field, and sharp as a knife, heard him howling as he passed me by...”
The lyrics hum louder, cutting through her numbness like static in the bloodstream.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Even the devil was an angel once.
Or maybe he just dressed like one.
Stan smiles across from her, sipping slow. He thinks he's making progress.
But “Lolita” is nowhere to be found.
She’s somewhere else… inside herself, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles, at smoke rings that look like halos when you're too tired to care about anything at all.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I pretend to hear him,
But every word outside of me is a stone down a well,
a hollow echo. No bottom.
Her eyes trace the cracked ceiling tiles, the smoke curling lazily above.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I’m a ghost in a yellow sundress,
sold for moments that never touch my soul.
Each smile, a mask pressed tight over the yawning void inside.
She looks back at Stan, lips moving but words hollow.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Stan talks about drowning out the pain.
I wonder if he knows some pains don’t drown, they just wait, patient,
like wolves behind the trees, staring down at you while you try to sleep.
Her fingers twitch nervously on the table.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Tonight, I am drowning in a sea of empty faces and empty promises.
But soon, the night will end.
And so will this performance.
She swallows hard, eyes distant.
STAN
You ever feel like you’re meant for more?
LOLITA
Everyday.
She stands up slowly, her red lace catching the club light like an omen. She places a dainty hand on his, a lonely human being searching for warmth in a cold world.
LOLITA (CONT’D)
(Whispers) I’ll be back. Don’t go.
STAN (watching her walk away)
I’ll be here.
The song fades as she slips backstage…
but the lyrics linger in her head, quieter now, like a memory:
“Foolish, foolish was I…
Damn my foolish eyes
Cause that man's lessons had a price
Oh sweet price…
My sweet soul
Everlasting
My very own
Eternal light”
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS – LATE NIGHT
Lolita lies across the cold steel tracks, the metal humming beneath her. Her yellow sundress clings to her legs… skin damp from her shower.
Above her, the sky is a deep bruise. No stars. Just breathless black.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I washed myself with peppermint soap today.
The kind with the tiny words all over the bottle.
It stung everywhere.
I think I needed it to. I need to feel clean.
The earth begins to tremble.
A distant train horn, faint, but growing.
Her hands are still. Her eyes, closed.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
That man could be my salvation. If only I cared about anything, anything at all…
“Something in the Way” by Nirvana drifts in like a fog. Faint. Half-remembered. It sounds like it’s leaking from a nearby car stereo, or maybe it’s within her own blood.
SONG LYRICS (low, haunted)
“Underneath the bridge… Tarp has sprung a leak…”
Then…
A voice.
Soft, but echoing through her body like a pulse.
UNSEEN VOICE (V.O.)
Go home, sweetie. Just go home.
Her eyes snap open.
She jerks upright just as the light from the train crests the hill.
She stumbles off the tracks, skin scraping on gravel, breath ragged.
She looks around, nothing.
Only the silhouettes of trees, watching.
The low roar of the mountains, patient.
She sees something at her feet.
A tiny plastic cap.
From a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s.
The label is gone. The cap, cracked.
But she knows what it is.
She picks it up. Stares at it.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
The soap promises purity, revolution, God.
All in eight-point font.
But it never promised healing.
She puts the cap in her pocket and begins walking along the gravel beside the tracks, barefoot and shaking.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
There are things that follow you.
Scents.
Voices.
Warnings you weren’t ready to hear the first time.
She disappears into the dark forest.
The train passes behind her, loud and furious.
She doesn’t look back.
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS – LATE NIGHT
Lolita walks beside the rails now, barefoot and dazed, like a sex crime victim who’s been dropped in a ditch and left to die. The plastic cap from the Dr. Bronner’s bottle clutched in her hand.
Her pace slows.
A memory begins to flicker through…dimly lit chalkboards, the smell of dust and coffee. His voice. Gentle. Worn. Real.
FRENCH TEACHER (V.O.)
Tu es là. C’est ce qui compte.
(You showed up. That’s what counts.)
She stops walking.
Looks up.
The sky cracks open with distant thunder, a summer storm miles away.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Scruffy, sharp, a little sad around the edges.
I looked for him everywhere after that.
At AA meetings.
In bookstores.
In strange men who said kind things too early.
She rubs her arms like she’s cold.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
But no one else ever looked at me like I was a person, not a problem.
She holds up the soap cap to the moonlight, squints.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
French was the only class I passed.
With a C. I don’t think I learned very much.
But I still remember how to say “I am.”
Je suis.
I am.
She drops the cap on the ground, and closes her eyes.
LOLITA
(Barely a whisper) Je suis.
INT. VAN – NIGHT
The hum of the highway outside is low and distant, like an old lullaby. A small dome light casts a warm glow across the worn interior.
Lolita writes feverishly in her leather journal, her handwriting jagged from urgency rather than messiness.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Words catch me when I fall.
They’re the only hands I trust.
She continues her poem, lips moving silently with each line:
LOLITA (writing)
Danser avec les fantômes dans ma tête
Danser avec le diable jusqu'à ma mort
Au rythme que nous partageons
Au rythme que nous pouvons entendre
Il me chuchote des mensonges sucrés
Je les bois comme du vin rouge
Jusqu'à ce que le monde devienne flou
Et que je devienne à nouveau une fille.
Dancing with the ghosts in my head
Dancing with the devil until I die
To the rhythm we share
To the rhythm we can hear
He whispers sweet lies to me
I drink them like red wine
Until the world goes blurry
And I become a girl again.She exhales slowly. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry.
Instead, she flips the page. Draws a small sketch of a horse, wild-eyed, mid-gallop…with no rider.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I used to think poetry was for the soft.
But now I know it’s armor.
It’s the only thing that ever loved me back without asking for anything.
She closes the journal and presses it to her chest. A soft hum escapes her lips… faint, like she’s remembering a song from long ago.
She looks out the van window. The world is black and full of stars.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT'D)
I didn’t die that night.
Not fully.
But something in me…
Changed shape.
Turned to mist and memory.
She turns off the light. Darkness wraps around her gently.
And from somewhere… distant, low, a familiar voice:
WHISPER (V.O.)
Just come home, baby, just come home.
INT. MOTEL BATHROOM – NIGHT
Steam curls against the cracked mirror. Dim light hums overhead, yellowed, the room is silent except for the soft drip of the faucet.
Lolita lies in the tub, her body barely above water, limbs weightless. A half-empty bottle of vodka rests on the edge of the tub. Condensation slides down its glass like tears.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The water fills hollow places.
The vodka warms my heart… if only for a moment.
It’s not heaven, but it’s quiet.
She exhales slowly, the kind of breath that feels like giving something up.
She reaches for her razor, begins shaving her legs, absent-minded. A small nick—a red bead blooms beneath the surface.
She stares at her wound in childish amazement. Soon, she begins to disassemble the razor.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
If you could be anything you wanted to be, and the only person you had to sacrifice was yourself, would you do it?
She presses the blade against the skin again.
Slowly. Deeper. Blood swirls through the water like silk in the wind.
Her eyes flutter.
Her head tilts back.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I would. So I did.
A soft hum begins to rise… subtle at first… Kurt Cobain’s voice, faint and far away:
“And I swear that I don't have a gun..."
"No, I don't have a gun..."
The tub overflows.
The light flickers.
“Memoria… Memoria…”
And for a long moment, everything is still.
EXT. MOTEL ROOM WINDOW – DAWN
The sky breathes a soft pink. Morning light stretches across the bed like a second skin.
INT. MOTEL ROOM – CONTINUOUS
Lolita lies still beneath the thin sheet. Her face is calm now. There’s no makeup, no armor. Just skin. Just breath.
She sits up slowly, barefoot on cold tile, and opens her journal.
The pages are no longer stained or frantic. Just blank. Waiting.
Her forearms are smooth. Her skin clean. She runs her hand across it, not to check, but to remember.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The afterlife isn’t a place.
It’s eternity.
The softness after the storm.
A magical moment that you wish could last forever.
She looks out through the smudged motel window.
The mountains rise like old gods. The light glows soft around them, merciful.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
You don’t notice, when it happens, the subtle shift between one life and the next.
You just wake up one day and realize you’re not where you once were. And where you once were wasn’t anywhere at all. Just echoes that now exist only in your mind, like a horrible nightmare you’ve woken up from to realize it was only just a dream.
Lolita smiles, barely. But it’s real this time. She stops writing. Looks up, breathing in the stillness.
A faint guitar riff begins…“Sappy” by Kurt Cobain. It’s low, tentative. Like memory trying to find its shape.
She walks to the window. Sunlight spills across the floor in gold ribbons.
She opens the curtains wider. Mountains rise in silence.
KURT COBAIN (V.O.)
And if you say your prayers, You will make God happy…
A knock at the door.
She doesn’t move at first. Just stands in the glow, letting the warmth reach her skin.
Another knock. Not urgent. Patient.
She walks over, opens it…
…but we don’t see who’s there. Only the look on her face: a flicker of something between fear and recognition.
KURT COBAIN (V.O.)
And if you save yourself, you will make them happy…
EXT. MOTEL PARKING LOT – CONTINUOUS
The camera pulls back slowly from the open door, from Lolita’s silhouette, from the flickering neon VACANCY sign above.
KURT COBAIN (V.O.)
You’ll think you’re happy now…
The music swells gently.
CUT TO WHITE
“I give her all my love… that’s all I do…”
Kurt Cobain’s “And I Love Her” begins, slow and ghostly.
“And if you saw my love… you’d love her too…”
FADE IN — TEXT OVER WHITE:
For the girls who survived the fire and never told anyone.
For the ones who still hum to the ghosts in the walls.
I see you. I love you. You were always enough.
“Bright are the stars that shine…
Dark is the sky
I know this love of mine
Will never die
And I love her”
ROLL CREDITS.
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“Aberdeen”
“I couldn't handle the ridicule, so I got high and drunk, and walked down to the train tracks, and laid down
And put two big pieces of cement on my chest and legs and I waited for the eleven o'clock train
And the train came closer, and closer, and closer
And it went on the next track besides me, instead of over meThe tension from school had an effect on me, and so I couldn't attend the school anymore
And the train scared me enough to try to rehabilitate myself by
By lifting weights and, and mathematics seemed to be improving, so I became less manically depressed
But still never had any friends because I
I hated everyone, for they were so phony…”-Aberdeen, Kurt Cobain