INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
It’s dark, save for the moonlight spilling through a window.
The moonlight casts as many shadows as it chases away. It’s
A WOMAN is lying in bed, on her side. The moonlight offers
glimpses of her but nothing concrete. We note that she has
A SOUND, possibly a door opening. Not sure. It’s QUIET again.
The woman stirs, rolling onto her back. Her brow is knotted,
Suddenly the covers are RIPPED OFF the bed. A FIGURE leaps on
top of her, straddling her. Her eyes SNAP OPEN, a SUDDEN
INTAKE OF SURPRISED BREATH. Surprise turns to terror in the
blink of an eye-
--A MUFFLED SCREAM as a GLOVED HAND covers her mouth.
Telltales of SUDDEN EXERTION, STRUGGLING.
The figure is wearing a dark mask. A FRANTIC HAND stretches
up, yanks the mask off his head-
--his face stares down at her in the moonlight. A nice face
turned evil under the circumstances. A LEERING GRIN.
He jerks his hand off her mouth and SLAPS her HARD across the
face. Her head SNAPS to the side.
He displays a strip of HEAVY RUBBER, slides it over her head,
clamps it over her mouth. Her LONG HAIR is pinned against the
sides of her face.
He GRABS her wrists, yanks them up over her head, and lashes
them together with another STRIP OF RUBBER.
He puts his mask back on. He pulls a KNIFE, long and
menacing. It GLINTS in the moonlight. A MUFFLED CRY as SHARP
as any blade.
He holds the knife between her eyes, waves it back and forth.
He LAUGHS. She stares at it through terrified eyes. He slowly
lowers the knife to her chest, between her breasts, down to
--and slides the knife up under her shirt. He turns it so the
blade is facing up.
He pulls it taught against her shirt, begins slicing the
shirt up the middle. He reaches the collar and the shirt
He repositions the blade between the cups of her bra. Cuts
the strap. Her breasts are exposed to the moonlight.
He lays the knife between her breasts, the point facing her
chin. A MOAN escapes him. He grabs one of her breasts,
squeezes it, sucks on it.
Nice tits, bitch. Be good and I
won’t cut them off.
A MUFFLED WHIMPER. She squeezes her eyes shut. Tears roll
down her quivering cheeks.
The man SLAPS one of her breasts. A MUFFLED EXHALATION OF
PAIN. The man LAUGHS.
He grabs the knife off her chest, holds it inches from her
face. Her eyes snap open, drowning in tears.
You move and I’ll gut you, bitch.
He lowers the knife to her panties, slides the blade up under
the elastic band, slices through them. He yanks them off of
her, the RIPPING SOUND PUNCTUATED in the moonlit darkness.
She WHIMPERS as he locks eyes with her. He holds her panties
to his face. He SNIFFS them, GROANS. She closes her eyes.
THE SOUND of his ZIPPER GOING DOWN-
--and she squeezes her eyes shut as tightly as she can, her
brow a straining knot.
He grabs her bound wrists, positions himself on top of her.
He SHOVES himself inside her--
--and she CRIES OUT, a SHARP, TERRIBLE SOUND MUFFLED by the
He plunges in and out of her, GRUNTING in sick pleasure--
--and she CRIES OUT and CRIES OUT, SHARP, PAINFUL, MUFFLED
SOUNDS, her eyes squeezed shut against the pain-
--and everything is SLOWING DOWN, becoming DREAMLIKE, the
SOUNDS DISTORTED, and now everything FADES INTO DARKNESS...
INT. HOUSE - BEDROOM - MORNING
A woman’s eyes in GENTLE MORNING LIGHT. Her brow is knotted,
deeply disturbed. Her eyes open.
CAMERON LANE, 24, the WOMAN from before. Her HAIR is
different, is SHORTER and more stylish, but it’s HER.
Cameron sits up in bed. She looks tired, haggard, with bags
under her eyes. She frowns, and for a moment hugs herself
against the memory...
WE NOTE that the bed isn’t the same bed, the bedroom isn’t
the same bedroom.
Cameron sits in bed holding herself, a distant, yet painful,
look in her eyes.
She sits there for a moment, staring off into a painful place
inside herself, then shakes her head, SIGHS, and climbs out
of bed. She pads toward the door.
INT. HOUSE - HALLWAY - MORNING
Cameron closes the bedroom door and walks down the hallway,
rubbing her eyes. She walks toward a flight of stairs-
INT. HOUSE - STAIRS - MORNING
--and YAWNS as she walks down the stairs.
INT. HOUSE - KITCHEN - MORNING
HELEN LANE, 47, stands at a counter pouring a cup of coffee.