Part 1: http://www.pspizza.net/2010/11/snow-whitewhite-snow.html
Part 2: http://www.pspizza.net/2010/11/snow-whitewhite-snow-part-two.html
Part 3:
[We re-open on the office, now in normal speed. Anton and Sara are sitting across from Sara’s desk where past-Sara is working. The rest of the office is empty and she works alone.]
Sara: It was for some kind of new sink, they said it was like reinventing how we would wash dishes or something. They always said that, that X was the new Y and would revolutionize how we would think of Y forever. My job was to help the small company in Tulsa or Bismark or wherever sell the garbage to everyone they could.
Anton: Zombie.
Sara (punching him lightly in the arm): No! Well…maybe. Alright, most of the time. But you know, stepping-stones.
Anton: To?
Sara: I always wanted to have my own design studio, to work for the clients I chose not the ones they threw at me. If one day I just wanted to make cute pictures of puppies I could, just…just freedom.
Anton (leaning close against the wall, looking down at his hands): I understand. I understand.
[Fade to black.]
[Anton and Sara sit in chairs at a deli, it is night outside and past-Sara is just finishing her dinner scrolling threw something on her tablet. She notices something intriguing.]
Sara: It was a job offer, a headhunter at another firm looking for someone. They specialized in design and were looking for someone with my talents. Eighty grand to start plus a signing bonus. Three years, three years and I could afford my own studio. Well, with a bank’s help.
Anton: Could you have tolerated that? It’s almost the same captivity as what you had before.
Sara: They said I would have some say in the clients I handled, it’s better than being forced into all of them.
[Past-Sara gets up and begins to leave, dumping the refuse of her meal into the trash and walking out, waving goodbye to the old man behind the counter.]
Sara: Mitch, he was nice, his wife died a few years ago.
Anton (getting up and following past-Sara out the door): I thought that might have been the case…
[A transition as the bell of the door chimes. It is a Parisian looking café, Anton now with a different hair color, black glasses and clothes most wealthy men of his age would envy. Though many in the room hold cigarettes in one hand he does not, instead it is a book of poetry written by Pablo Neruda. He sees a beautiful woman across from him, she is wearing a bright dress, her hair flowing down to her shoulders.]
Anton (writing on a piece of paper): Target arrives at café at 9:15am, third straight day.
[She sees him watching her, he has not been as careful as usual, the poetry pulled him into the past. She comes over to him.]
Woman: You sit here almost every day alone, why is that?
Anton (smiling and speaking in a rather American accent, knowing he has likely won this dance with death): I come here to read, to write, to relax. It is my sanctuary.
Woman: Sounds wonderful.
Anton (getting up to leave): It truly is. I trust I will see you again?
Woman: Perhaps (she hands him a piece of paper with her phone number written on it) perhaps sooner.
Anton (a devilish grin on his face): How does 7:30 sounds?
Woman: Perfect.
[Anton leaves and the woman vacates the table but a scrap of paper is left laying there a message from Anton to the woman which she never recieves. If suddenly / you forget me / do not look for me, / for I shall already have forgotten you.]
[Fade to black.]
[Sara and Anton are walking behind past-Sara, she nears a corner stopping at a cross walk. A man is next to her wearing a long black coat a cellphone to his ear.]
Man: Tell him to call it off, it’s a firesale and we both know that. Yes. No. No, I’m not going to sell any of it for that price.
Anton (looking over at Sara): Are…are you sure?
Sara: Yes.
Anton: You do realize you can’t come back.
Sara: I know, and I’m sorry.
[She leans in to kiss him but Anton pulls back, a pained look on his face. The light changes, past-Sara simply continues down the street ignoring the man. Anton begins to walk, Sara follows. Soon the man turns, headed off in a different direction]
Anton: It’s not that I don’t…
Sara: I know.
[The sounds of a couple fighting ring through the nearly empty street, the screaming only gets louder as the trio approaches. Soon three shots ring out. Past-Sara stops walking and looks down, a cherry blossom lies nearly crushed by her foot on the pavement. She falls to the ground feeling death creep slowly over her. She cries for help, slowly clawing her way towards the refuge of a nearby alley, towards the safety of not being in the street.]
Anton (transfixed by the scene): I…[he steps forward, wanting to comfort past-Sara, pulls her close to him, feeling the warm blood seep into his clothing.]
[Fade back to the park, it is night and Anton is standing alone on a small footbridge, a revolver in his left hand, his right is writing in a notebook carefully balanced on the railing.]
Anton (narration): My largest regret was putting this vengeance in front of you. He offered freedom through you and I took it, but it wasn’t worth the cost. Over fifteen years I sold my soul to Satan himself just so I could give them what they call freedom and in the end all I did was make myself a slave. Tiffany, I’m sorry I did it but I also know that will never be enough. I did love you. I did.
[Anton lets go of the notebook, it splashes into the water below, and he raises the pistol to his temple.]
[Fade back to the city. Past-Sara is in Anton’s arms as he cries knowing this is the price he has been forced to pay. He looks down at her face but only sees his own hands. He is back in the meadow, snow all around him.]
Anton (narration): There was only ever two regrets in my life, one was never saying a proper goodbye to my father. The other was not kissing her.
[Fade back to the park; Young Anton is with his father.]
Father: One more time Anton, okay? Just one more time.
[Young Anton repeats the words of the poem, it is heard softly behind Anton’s narration.]
Anton: She hasn’t left me, all the time I see new people, but always there is a single cherry blossom to remind me of the truth.
snow white/white snow by William Sowards is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
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