SCENE FROM SCRIPT: “LOST GIRLS”
INT. Apartment-Kitchen. Early Morning
A worn out Mahogany table, two women sit on either side with a half drunken beer in front of them. The first woman is an anxious looking brunette, wearing a sleeveless shirt, boy shorts, messed up hair, and with a cigarette nuzzled between her index and middle finger; her name is TRACE. The other girl is a little less tense, dirty blonde hair, wearing a dirty white shirt, pink lace underwear, and plays with the top of her beer bottle; her name is ALEX. Both women are in their late 20’s.
“Its just—fucked up.”
Trace takes a deep hit of her cigarette and huffs out a ball of smoke.
Alex stops playing with the beer bottle and looks up at Trace.
“Just say it Trace.”
Trace blows out more smoke.
“Hmm, it’s not that easy…life has a way of fucking things up, making shit complicated. I can’t beat that, believe me—I’ve tried.”
“What are you talking about? Why won’t you just say it? What’s going on in that fucked up brain of yours?”
“What’s going on in my brain?! The whole fucken universe is going on in my brain, and she doesn’t give a rat’s ass what happens to me! A fucken whore with an ego…that’s dangerous ya know.”
“I think you’re too fucked up to tell me. You’re scared aren’t you? I won’t be able to understand what you’re going through if you don’t tell me. Come on. Tell your fucken best friend what’s giving your brain probably a hemorrhage, about the size of Texas.”
Trace takes a sip of her beer with her right hand still occupied with the cigarette. Alex continues to look at her, placing both of her elbows on the table, the palms of her hands resting under her chin.
“Okay Bitch, I guess you win, but I don’t wanna hear no complaining, this is your fucken fault, you want me to open the fucken box, I’ll open the fucken box. So deal with it, and just–I guess, handle it whatever way you can.”
Alex looks amused but interested.
TRACE (Takes a deep breath):
“I think about it sometimes—life and shit. The way things move, the way people move, go around living day by day, all different, alive, some not so much as others, but you would like to think there’s hope, that in some way they’re all happy. That happiness is possible…”
Trace takes another sip of her beer. The cigarette is getting smaller.
“A couple days ago I was walking, and there was this old lady. She was sitting on a bench by herself just looking at everything, absorbing everything and I—I kinda envied her for it. To be so attuned with life, with what’s around her…I was jealous…real jealous, because I didn’t know what it fucken felt like…my mind is—well, unfortunately—it exceeds all patience, any slow motion ability necessary to capture those moments. Anyways, the tables started to turn in my head. All the years that have gone by and I could barely remember one whole day…just one goddamn day. What I did, what I saw, what I felt, or what moved me. All of the moments, the hours, the days, and the time that had gone by, everything leading up to that very spot I stood at. In that moment, in that moment I realized that I was a prisoner, that I had been a prisoner stuck by the choices I have made in my life. And I realized, does it all really matter? If I’m that old woman sitting on that bench fifty, seventy years from now, if I even get to that fucken age, what did I live for, what have I done with my life to get to that point? Then she looks at me…like she knows something that I don’t. It’s hard to explain…she smiles, she sees me, she actually sees me ya know? Through the fucken soul and shit. I know it’s stupid but that moment I felt like—for the first time in my fucked-up life, that something was wrong, and I felt guilty for it. Yeah, the world I live in…for the first time I began to notice it—my eyes were open to what was around me—she stared and stared at me—just smiling. It freaked me out at first, I felt uncomfortable. But, after however long, she started to make me feel warm and safe, as if—as if she was some type of goddamn guardian angel or something…”
Alex laughs, breaking away from her concentration, unlocking her hands from under her chin, her palms lying on top of the table. Trace rolls her eyes.
“Forget it! It’s stupid, right!?”
“No, no. I’m sorry. I just—please keep going.”
Trace puts out her shrinking cigarette on top of the table. Then she takes out another cigarette and lights it.
(We can hear thumping on the ceiling, someone is walking around upstairs.)
“I’m done with this shit, Alex…all of it. I can’t do it anymore…”
Trace takes a long inhale from her cigarette, followed by a big puff of smoke.
ALEX (raising her voice):
“Are you kidding me?! One fucken old woman and that’s it, your all done?! We’ve been doing this shit for almost ten years. How can you just wanna leave?! How can you leave me?!”
“That’s right, ten fucken miserable years. But, I want you to come with me Al. Both of us could leave this place, get help, and start new lives together. We could be strong, live somewhere different—anywhere else—anywhere than this shit hole we’re living in now.”
“I think you need a hit Trace…”
“Are you fucken serious!? Is that your goddamn answer ‘you need a hit Trace?’ What kind of shit is that! Don’t you see, Alex? Don’t you see the fucked-up world we’re living in? It’s a fucken mess, were fucked…”
Trace runs her hands anxiously through her hair.
“This is the way it is, you can’t change that! If Craig hears you say these things—who knows what will happen to you…”
“I don’t give a shit about Craig! I can’t do this anymore, I fucken mean it! I can’t…I can’t live like this—its bullshit! All of it!”
Trace smashes whatever is left of the cigarette into the table, driving it hard into the wood.
Trace stands up, pushing the chair away from her. There’s a moment of silence as Trace stares intensely into Alex’s wide-owl eyes.
“This game is over Alex…I’m ready to find me a new one…and you can either come with me or stay, it’s your choice.”