This is the screenplay version of my short story “A Father’s Love”.
If you are familiar with screenwriting you will see instantly that it is not in proper format. This is
because of limitations of this website's formatting abilities. Screenwriters are self-proclaimed
“Structure Nazis”.
My wife and partner Jill is extremely structured and she was instrumental in the creation of this adaptation. For our efforts, we won an Honorable Mention for "Most Creatively Disturbing
Screenplay" in the Orange County Screenwriters' Association's screenwriting contest. The Director
of the contest, Mark Sevi, commented that after reading it they were too afraid to consider it for a
higher award.
Update: We recently attended the Southern California Writers' Conference for our second year. Our editor, Laura Taylor, entered the screenplay into the conference contest and we won Best Screenplay.
A Father’s Love
FADE IN:
INT. CHURCH - DAY
The dying winter sun shines through a stained glass window image of Christ with his
hand placed upon a child's head.
The only other light comes from half-burnt candles. Flickering shadows lay across the
pews in the sanctuary. The nave and the narthex are darkened.
A MAN stands, his back to the camera, at the side of an open casket. He faces the
casket and we cannot yet see into the casket.
A closer look shows the man dressed in a rather worn brown suit. His personal
hygiene does not seem to be a priority, as evidenced by his poorly shaven jowls.
His eyes are red, but not necessarily from tears.
To his left, three photographs sit on an old folding card table, next to a bouquet of daisies.
The first of the pictures show a family together. The man is the same person we have
already seen, but younger. He is smiling. The WIFE is not. She wears a grim expression.
The young DAUGHTER is smiling. She appears to be six or seven years old.
The second picture is of the man and the daughter. She is older now, possibly thirteen. He
is smiling and she is not. She looks more like her mother did in the previous photo.
The third picture is the daughter’s high school yearbook picture. She is expressionless.
Her eyes are blank.
In the casket, although her eyes are now closed, the expression and face of the corpse
mirrors that of her high school photo.
In a swift, impossibly fast motion, the daughter's corpse grabs the FATHER’s arm.
Her right hand grips tightly.
His expression quickly shifts through surprise to terror. A battle ensues.
He tries to resist being pulled towards her, into the casket. He presses against the
side of the casket.
A glance around the church shows no one else in sight. Fear grows on his face.
He looks back down into the casket.
His daughter’s eyelids snap open. The eyes are lifeless, dark and emotionless.
The father attempts to cry for help. He is so frightened he can only moan in terror.
He struggles for breath.
With a second spasm, his daughter’s left arm thrusts upward and grabs his shabby lapel.
Rough stitches run along her wrist, a long, unhealed, red wound.
The father’s body rises up off the floor and is pulled, laboriously, into the casket.
SERIES OF QUICK SHOTS
INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The father is lowering himself on top of the daughter.
INT. CASKET - DAY
The father is pulled closer to his daughter’s corpse.
INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The daughter pushes against him.
INT. CASKET - DAY
The father pushes against his daughter’s corpse.
INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The father’s face comes closer and closer to his daughter’s.
INT. CASKET - DAY
The father’s face comes closer and closer to his dead daughter’s face.
He is terrified. His eyes are wide and he perspires profusely. Their bodies rock back
and forth with his efforts to be released.
INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The father is pressing his lips towards the girl. She struggles. He perspires with the effort.
She moves her face away and turns toward the camera. Her eyes close.
INT. CASKET - DAY
The daughter’s corpse’s lips are very close to the father’s lips. Her lips part as the
struggle causes her mouth to fall open. The father recoils and begins to retch. The smell
of the chemicals in her body causes him to turn his face away from her. He closes his eyes.
The father makes one final effort to free himself from the clutch of death. The daughter’s
corpse draws him back slowly, steadily and inexorably.
He starts to find his voice. He starts to scream.
The casket lid falls. Everything goes black.
INT. CHURCH – DAY
The closed casket rocks furiously. Slowly the movement comes to a stop, then silence
returns to the church.
INT. CHURCH - NIGHT
The candles are almost completely burned down.
A WOMAN’s well-manicured hand appears in the dark.
Dim lights become brighter in response to her hand turning a dial on the wall at the back
of the sanctuary.
She strides silently into the church.
Dressed in black with a flash of a starched white blouse showing through past taut buttons,
the FUNERAL DIRECTOR glides up to the young girl's casket.
After an obligatory glance down at the casket, the Funeral Director’s eyes move upwards
to a large crucifix suspended above the altar. It is particularly grisly in styling with blood
painted in bright red on the tortured Christ’s wounded hands and feet.
Averting her eyes from the icon, but not fully engaging her sight with the casket, she tightens
the bolts that seal the casket.
Two strong YOUNG MEN, also dressed in mourners' black, enter the church, their faces
dour with grief rehearsed.
MAN # 1
So sad.
MAN # 2
So young.
MAN # 1
So pretty.
MAN # 2
Such a pity.
With practiced efficacy, the two men attempt to swing the casket around and wheel it away. It does not move as easily as they expect.
They stop. They look at each other in silent question. Why is this so heavy?
They return their attention to the casket, shrug their shoulders and apply more muscle
to move the casket. They swing it around and wheel it away.
The Funeral Director watches them go.
Turning, she forces herself to look again at the image of a tortured and bleeding Christ.
She shudders.
FUNERAL DIRECTOR
I don't care if she committed suicide. If you want me to believe in your mercy, you'd best find a place for her in your heaven.
Her eyes narrow.
She sighs and shakes her head.
She looks again at the image of the dying son, anger in her eyes.
FUNERAL DIRECTOR (CONT’D)
How could a loving father do that to his child?
Heels click against the hard floor as she turns sharply. Her footsteps echo in the empty sanctuary.
She turns the dial on the wall and light fades to pitch black.
FADE OUT.
copywrite Jeff Michaels, 2009
Please do not reprint in part or whole without prior permission.