Gilly Macmillan - The Perfect Girl

This is a film script I wrote to tell the story of what happened to me, my mum, and my dad, before we met you, and I hope you will read it.

Please read it.

Love from Lucas

ACT I

INT. PRIVATE HOSPITAL ROOM. VERY WELL APPOINTED. NIGHT.

A woman, JULIA, in her early thirties, but looking much older due to her condition, lies completely still in a hospital bed. She was clearly beautiful once, and there are traces of this in her fine, symmetrical features and long, dark hair which spreads out over the pillow, framing her face.

We might see a vase of flowers, and just one or two get-well cards around the side of the room, which is immaculately clean, extremely well appointed and brightly lit. JULIA is getting the finest medical care available.

Beside her bed sits her son, LUCAS, 10 years old, who is holding one of her hands in both of his. He is a lovely, wide-eyed, dark-haired little boy. Mostly, his head hangs low, though at times he looks up and pulls her hand carefully to rest on his cheek, and when he does that we might see a tear fall. As her voice-over (V.O.) begins he raises his head to look at her, and adjusts her hair on the pillow so that it looks nice.

When JULIA speaks her voice is warm. She sounds like somebody who you would like to have as a friend.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

This is not how I would have liked to meet you. I would have liked to have been on my feet, with my hair brushed, and at least a little bit of make-up on. And I would have preferred not to be wearing a nightie. If you had come to our house, I would have invited you in and offered you a cup of tea and a biscuit, or maybe even a fresh muffin if Lucas and I had been baking that day. We could have chatted in the sunlight at my kitchen table, and it would have been nice.

The camera is travelling around the bed so we see JULIA’s frailty, her pale skin and the stillness of her body. She’s not breathing independently.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

The end isn’t far away now, as you can probably see, and a big part of me is desperately grateful to have Lucas here with me, because I never want to have to leave him; but I will admit that there’s another part of me that’s relieved that it’s nearly over, because what I can’t stand any longer, is watching Lucas watching me die. It’s been a brutal, lingering process, in spite of my efforts to hasten it. But we’re nearly in the closing stages. I’ve already had one massive heart attack you see, and I’m about to have another, which will be fatal.

We see a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order pinned to the end of JULIA’s bed.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

Is that a heartless thing to do? Lucas wept when they explained what the DNR order meant, and he screamed at the doctors. But it’s necessary, so that things don’t drag on, and so that my boy doesn’t suffer more than he needs to. You see, I had an idea that in spite of my best efforts to leave him cleanly, my lovely, intuitive boy might find an excuse to come home from school early on the day I did it, that he might beg for me to be saved, whatever state I was in.

INT. CHRIS AND JULIA’S BEDROOM. DAY. A FEW HOURS EARLIER.

JULIA lies on her bed in a sumptuous, tasteful and beautiful bedroom. She’s already unconscious. Beside her lie multiple bottles of pills, all empty. One of her hands is loosely draped over a bottle of water. An envelope is on her chest. ‘To whom it may concern’ is written on the front of it. We hear frantic knocking on the bedroom door.

LUCAS (O.O.S.)

Mum? Mum! Mummy! Are you in there? Mum!

We hear the sound of the door being kicked in an increasingly frenzied way, and then a different kind of thudding, as if somebody is throwing their entire body weight against it. After that, silence.

LUCAS (O.O.S.) (CONT’D)

Yes, hello, ambulance, please, yes, and fire brigade. Please come quickly. It’s my mum.

INT. PRIVATE HOSPITAL ROOM. VERY WELL APPOINTED. NIGHT.

We find JULIA and LUCAS in exactly the same positions as before. We also see a younger CHRIS standing on the other side of the door, looking through it, at JULIA and LUCAS. He has the palm of his hand on the glass. He looks full of despair.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

That’s my husband Chris. He’s as distraught as our son at this moment. He wants to be with me too, but he’s allowing our child time to say goodbye in his own way.

The camera has made a full circle of the room now, and we see JULIA’s monitoring machines, slowly beeping. One of the readings seems to falter, before settling back into a steady rhythm again, and LUCAS stares at it, alarmed. He gestures to CHRIS, who calls a NURSE. She bustles in, checks things, then lays a hand on LUCAS’s shoulder to reassure him. He sits back down and now CHRIS sits behind him. It’s a vigil.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

No, don’t worry. It’s not quite time yet. There are a few more moments, and while I have them, I want to tell you my story. It’s the story of Chris, and me, of our life, and the baby we had together, who we named Lucas. And I’m going to start the story when Chris was just fifteen years old.

INT. A YOUNG MAN’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

A teenage CHRIS is sitting at a desk surrounded by books and papers, and he’s working in longhand on a pad of A4 paper, writing furiously, only pausing to check facts in a textbook, or cross-reference some notes. We might see that the room is quite dark apart from a single lamp illuminating his desk. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, but it’s broken. The room isn’t quite squalid, but it’s not comfortable either. We might see that a clock on CHRIS’s desk shows that it’s past midnight.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

Christopher Kennedy was an only child, in a family where he had a mum and a dad, but where crack cocaine was sometimes the third, and always the most unpredictable, parent in the house.

We hear violent shouting coming from outside the room, and the unmistakable sound of somebody being struck. CHRIS winces, but keeps working, he’s used to this. Seconds later, a door slams and the sobbing we hear is a hopeless, defeated sound, like the whimpers of a beaten dog. Then we hear CHRIS’S MOTHER call to him.

CHRIS’S MOTHER (O.O.S.)

Christopher darling, come and help me. Please, come and help me.

CHRIS pauses to listen, we see various emotions working across his face, and at first he puts his pen down and appears to be about to get up, but then his expression changes to one of resolve. He reaches for a pair of headphones, which he puts on before resuming his work. With him, we hear piano music soaring, and the sobbing is drowned out. CHRIS’s expression changes to one of calm focus.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

Chris knew, from a very young age, that the only person who could help him get anywhere was himself. So he became self-reliant, and he put in hours of work.

INT. THE WILLS MEMORIAL BUILDING, BRISTOL UNIVERSITY. DAY.

CHRIS is attending a graduation ceremony. We hear his name called and see him walking up on to the podium to collect his graduation certificate. The large audience applauds.

DYING JULIA (V.O.)

Chris’s hard work paid off. He graduated with a first class degree in computer science from Bristol University, at age 19, one of the youngest ever to do so. And after that, he kept his head down, and things continued to go well for him.

INT. CHRIS’S OFFICE IN THE COMPUTER SCIENCE DEPARTMENT AT BRISTOL UNIVERSITY. NIGHT.

We might see city lights sparkling outside, through a small, high window. It’s a poky space, with a desk and a very plain student-type sofa crammed into it.