Reply To: Purple Rain – Previous Script

#1243
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    Father’s hand.

    ..and he stares at it.

    The WHISTLE is LOUDER!

    His heart is pounding in his ears. He
    squeezes them shut, looks up…

    The gun.

    He bolts to his feet, paces back and
    forth in a panic! The train is HOWLING!
    A rope in the corner of the room, his
    face, the gun…

    He sits dully, gazes at the rope as if
    in a trance. The TRAIN is ROARING past
    the house, it’s HORN BLASTING. The
    rope, the gun, and his body dangling
    from the rafters in the night breeze–

    PRINCE
    (screaming)
    Noooooo!!

    He lurches to his feet, cuts through the
    basement like a madman. He grabs a
    stick and starts SLASHING things
    crazily, moving through the room
    swinging his stick wildly again and
    again.

    He’s lost to himself now, deep in the
    pit of an unknown terror, expurgating a
    horror that has been festering in him
    for years. He flings his stick at the
    wall, upends shelves and bureaus,
    trampling old memories that have lain
    dormant for years.

    Drawer after drawer is flung against the
    wall, their contents smashing and
    scattering about. He opens a large,
    oaken chest and flips over. Thick three
    inch piles of yellowed paper fall out.
    He snaps through the rubber bands
    holding them together and flings the