Dead Letter

Screenplay draft

FADE IN:

INT. DOWNTOWN POST OFFICE BASEMENT - 3 A.M.

Fluorescent tubes buzz and flicker over endless metal bins. FRANK MALLOY, 42, hollow cheeks and sweat-darkened collar, stands alone at a sorting table. His shoulders sag like the job has been pressing on them for decades. Dead letters slide through his fingers in a steady, pointless rhythm.

A single envelope drops from the pile. Address side up. "FRANK MALLOY, 1427 WILLOW LANE, APT 3B." No return address. Frank stares at it, then crushes it into a tight ball and drops it into the trash without a second look.

SUPERVISOR (O.S.)
Malloy! You still breathing down there?

Frank doesn't answer. He keeps sorting.

CUT TO:

INT. LAUNDROMAT ABOVE FRANK'S APARTMENT - LATER

Frank climbs the narrow stairs, boots echoing on metal. He unlocks the door to a one-room apartment that smells of mildew and cold Chinese food. A single photograph hangs crooked on the wall: young Frank in mail-carrier blues, arm around his brother TOMMY. Tommy's face is scribbled over in thick black marker.

Frank twists the cap off a bottle of cheap bourbon. He drinks straight from the neck, then slumps onto the couch. The television hisses static. He stares at the marked-out photograph until his eyes close.

EXT. POST OFFICE - MORNING

Frank checks his mailbox in the lobby. The same crumpled envelope sits inside, now smooth and waiting. He takes it, jaw tight, and walks out without opening it.

INT. FRANK'S APARTMENT - DAY

Frank sits at the kitchen table. He finally tears the envelope open. A single sheet. Precise block letters.

ELENA VARGAS (V.O.)
I was hit by the delivery truck at 11:47 p.m. Tell my daughter not to take the 6:15 bus on Thursday. Please.

Frank reads it twice. Laughs once, dry and ugly. He balls the letter and throws it in the trash.

FRANK
(muttering)
Some things are already written. Trying to change them only makes them worse.

He pours another drink.

INT. CONVENIENCE STORE - EVENING

Frank buys another bottle. The CLERK, early twenties, bored, rings him up.

CLERK
You okay, man? You look like you seen a ghost.

FRANK
Just tired.

CLERK
Everybody's tired. News says some lady got run over two blocks from here last night. Exact time they said on the radio. Crazy, right?

Frank freezes. The bottle in his hand suddenly feels heavier.

EXT. CITY STREET - NIGHT

Frank stands outside the same intersection. Police tape flutters. A DETECTIVE, late thirties, talks to a UNIFORMED OFFICER.

DETECTIVE
Time of death matches the call. Eleven forty-seven. No witnesses except the driver, who claims he never saw her.

OFFICER
Guy's a wreck. Says he thought he hit a deer.

Frank watches from the shadows, the letter's words still burning behind his eyes.

INT. FRANK'S APARTMENT - LATER

Frank spreads the letter flat again under the bare bulb. He checks the time on the wall clock. 11:47. He sinks into the chair, shoulders curling tighter than before.

FRANK
(quiet, to the empty room)
Why me?

The bourbon bottle sits untouched. The static on the television continues its low, endless murmur.

FADE OUT.