INT. DINING ROOM – DAY
On the table, an old typewriter sits, its keys worn and familiar. Next to it, a row of pill bottles are lined up, a quiet testament to Septimus’s struggle. He sits down heavily in front of the machine, staring at it as if it holds the answers he seeks.
The clock on the wall reads 8:00. A deep, almost reluctant breath escapes him.
SEPTIMUS
(softly, to himself)
Dearest. Dearest…
He begins to type, his fingers moving with an absent rhythm, the sound of the keys clacking filling the silence. He pauses, reading over what he’s written, and adjusts the side of the typewriter knob with a deliberate slowness.
SEPTIMUS (CONT’D)
(reading, his voice
barely audible)
Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again.
He looks up, his gaze unfocused. For a moment, the words seem to float in the air before him. The stillness stretches on, his mind lost in a fog.
He types a few more words, but they don’t seem to come out right. His hand falters, and he pulls the sheet of paper from the typewriter with a swift motion, examining it blankly. With a flick of his wrist, he scrunches it up and tosses it aside, the discarded paper tumbling to the floor.
CUT TO:
INT. DINING ROOM – CONTINUOUS
A fresh sheet of paper rests in the typewriter. Septimus’s fingers hover over the keys before he begins to write. He pauses after a moment, the words not coming easily. He leans back in his chair, his face clouded with thought.
SEPTIMUS
(whisper, detached)
So I am doing what seems to be the best thing to do.
His gaze drifts ahead, his eyes unfocused as if searching for something in the emptiness. The weight of his own thoughts seems to drag him further into the void.
He pulls the paper from the typewriter with a quick, impatient motion, then reaches for a pen nearby. He scratches over the words he just typed, the pen’s ink a violent contrast against the paper. After a few moments, he writes over it, making new marks, erasing the old. His frustration builds.
He examines the paper, his breath shallow, and then slams the pen down onto the table with a sharp, frustrated sound. He rubs his face with both hands, stress etched into every movement.
SEPTIMUS (CONT’D)
(groaning loudly,
defeated)
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