by Rebecca Hendricks
INT. ABANDONED HOME - DAY
A DESPERATE MAN backs into a dimly-lit room, EVAN coming after him with SHOTGUN aimed. Cold light comes dimly from a window over a dirty SINK, DISHES piled high, and a hole in the roof, illuminating an unnoticed BODY OF A WOMAN on the floor.
You are number seven.
What—you can’t—what do you want from me?
EVAN twitches violently, and the SHOTGUN BLAST throws DESPERATE MAN against the sink, dishes CLATTERING to the floor. EVAN steps forward, jaw clenched in concentration, and BODY OF A WOMAN fights to lay still as yet again, take number twenty-fucking-eight, the superstar steps on her forearm in his precious-fucking-focus.
Let me count the ways…
As EVAN recites the litany, BODY OF A WOMAN hears the whir of the camera coming around. Her open eyes sting, her heart pounds and she stares forward, a dead woman, dead, dead, dead. She stares at the bent curtain rod, the cold light, the peeling wall above the sink, the artful smear of blood, the perfect image of forgotten with IKEA dishes broken on the floor. What about the line she was supposed to have? Not after nine years of auditions and bit parts and extra work. Not at forty. Not now. Not ever.
BODY OF A WOMAN fights the sting in her eyes, but then she sees the BOOM MIC dip right in front of the window, and she closes them.
Let’s take it again.