NARCissus

1. [He’s sitting on a curb in a shitty part of a shitty town with the sun barely coming up, legs placed closely to his body with a cigarette in his hand, he looks over his shoulder in an almost exaggerated yet believable way. He smokes quickly, then lights one after another, constantly. Even later as he’s running, he keeps relighting cigarettes to smoke. Almost comically how quickly he does it. During the narration, while shooting wrap around shots of him, flashbacks of his hands running through the sink with lots of blood going down the drain, shots of an attractive woman laughing and drinking, shots of a handsome man seemingly interested in something, intently listening to a conversation over a table perhaps. Show him drinking a bottle of brandy while looking around a corner and walking under street lights, through a park at night with trees and lamps. At the "coital desires part, flash a glimpse of the woman’s legs wearing a miniskirt on, a shot of her breasts and a seductive face, maybe even lying on a bed. The exhausted breath part, flash his mouth puffing out smoke then inhaling another quick lung full of smoke. The empty gallows part flashes to empty swing sets with swings moving back and forth in the wind under an odd lighting.]

1. Narrator:

“The sun always shines brighter on the morning of revelation, drastic gasps of nicotine to devour the sums of vile intoxication. Narciszoid sat on a curb reflecting in a puddle of his mirror, enveloped in his bitter sorrow contemplating the enraptured evening that had passed hours before. The coital desires fading faster than the ash from his hands, laden dreams lulled away in exhausted breaths and self- destruction. The empty gallows swinging back and forth, awaiting my judgment. The proclamation of the criminally insane, I know this. I feel this. I want this.

2. [Shots of a bloody hand on a door handle opening the door, forearms drenched in blood, collapsing on his bed, shots of a small hatchet chopping with splashes of blood shooting up. Shot of him under a tree eating raw meat, pork for film. The camera moves from behind him and the tree 90 degrees to the left in a circular motion, while moving in closer to find a small pile of clothes, about 50 lbs of pork and a severed head, only showing the hair and a quick glimpse of what appears to be the woman laughing. He’s running his hands through the bloody mess, poking meat and licking his fingers. Shot of a man’s hand moving up the woman’s thigh at the part of slamming his head and things he’ll never see, very quick glimpses moving back and forth between the hand and him grabbing his head in madness while the camera quickly moves around him. Music similar to VAC’s Fun With Drugs, approx. two minutes in. While moving around him, move from his waist slowly scanning upwards to his face screaming without sound, then moving past the tree into the sky with the crescent moon. Then fade out and fade back in to the next scene.

2. Narrator:

The blood couldn't measure his emotion, riding higher on a precipice soon to give out to a tragic fall. Foreshadowing downfall regards him as the soon deceased, stained hands by the crimson splatter of quick scythe slashes. The nocturnal winds still blew over his face; he still sat solemnly over a massacre he'd chase from memory in a Bacchus-like endeavor. Draining strands of curtailed flesh through his hands, hands born of atrocity and flesh dead from betrayal. His mind reeling themes and ideas of how to move on, dreams never to come and memories he'll never have. Instant remorse slammed the back of his head.

3. Flash a shot of a police car, impose sirens over the music. Flash to the rising sun over his shoulders after he stands up, alerted by sirens wailing. He looks quickly down the street then runs violently in the opposite direction. Constantly looking back, smoking the entire time, if it’s not in his mouth then it’s only in his hand for 3 seconds at a time. His arms swinging faster as he legs burn, running faster and faster, his life and freedom on the line.

3. Narrator:

Sirens call his name; the sun burns holes through his darkness as he made a mercurial dash off the curb. Unbridled realization urges into his mind, capture could be release or suicide. Freedom brings back the emotion and thoughts he fights to drown out, but he's not going to prison.

4. He runs under a stairway in a shitty apartment complex, he pulls a gun out of his pants waist, he puts the gun to his head, feeling very nervous and afraid, sweating and gasping but still smoking. It goes out and he lights up another cigarette with the gun still in his hand. He paces back and forth waving the gun and choking down puffs of smoke, maybe a slight tear welling in his eyes. The sirens get louder, the stop as you hear a car in nearby stop and doors open up, running foot steps approaching. He stops pacing and grits his teeth, grinding them together as hard as he can. He puts the gun to his temple, cigarette still in his lips, camera focuses on the finger over the trigger, the click, the explosion of brains and blood on the wall behind him. Fades to black, you hear the body drop. At the god part, flash an image of cross.

 

4. Narrator:

A resting presence of the barrel on his temple, the shaking hands with fingers to release the tremble, his pacing hastens to stand still. His hands commanding the empiricist snap, blowing brains across the wall painting dark red and black, little bits of brain, a nasty stain. Inevitable since his birth was his untimely death, his pervasive eternal death. Ratted and torn from the pages of the holy book, God if there were could hold him close and break away the disease. There is no god.

[Flash Quote: "Internal revolution; a sampled query destined for resolution", hold for 10 seconds.]

Rolls Credits with music, dark wave. At the end, he says, “There is no such thing as an almighty god without an unwavering faith“