INT. Psychologist’s Office
The Office is as professional as its owner, DR. CLIPSON, sitting in his leather wingback chair, can make it. There is a bookcase full of psychological texts, looking brand new in their slip-covers, and soothing landscapes in plain frames that will not distract his patients. Overhead, flourescent lighting makes sure that none of his clients can hide from their emotions. Behind Dr. Clipson is a wall covered in diplomas, awards, and news articles to assure the patient of Dr. Clipson’s abilities, and to assuage any worries concerning his hourly rate.
This hour’s client is TOM SANFORD who, despite his easy smile, exudes a nervousness noted in the rubbing of the arm of his chair, one less ostentatious and comfortable than Dr. Clipson’s own. Dr. Clipson, graying hair and subdued tie in perfect place, sits with a sympathetic crinkle to his eyes and an understanding tilt to his head. Only the crossing and un-crossing of his legs hints at his impatience.
DR. CLIPSON
You’re quiet today.
TOM
(Laughs unconvincingly)
I’m quiet every day.
DR. CLIPSON
More so today.
TOM
(Laughs more forcibly)
What can I say, I’m a quiet guy.
DR. CLIPSON
Well, what should we talk about today? Your mother?
CUT AWAY
INT Bedroom Morning
Early morning sunlight illuminates a bed with rumpled, floral sheets twisted along the bottom of it. A wan woman’s pain-wracked eyes lie below a sweat-drenched forehead—made so by the effort of living. Grasping fingers reach out.
WOMAN
(Voice breaking)
Come to mama.
CUT INTO Psychologist’s Office
TOM
(Closing eyes and shaking head)
No.
DR. CLIPSON
How about your father?
CUT AWAY
INT. Child’s Bedroom Night
Discarded clothes lie amidst orderly stuffed animals. An un-made bed is hard against a wall with chipped paint. A young boy in worn clothing is grasped by the back of his shirt as a MAN stops him from leaving the room. The man’s eyes are hard, glinting in anger as he brings up a leather strap and repeatedly strikes the boy, blows landing wherever the strap happens to fall. Sweat runs down the man’s face showing the exertion of the whipping.
MAN
(Words punctuated by boy’s cries)
Have…to…listen!
CUT INTO Psychologist’s Office
TOM
(Nearly shouts)
DR. CLIPSON
(Considers a moment)
I know. Let’s talk about Private McDonald.
CUT AWAY
EXT. Dirt Road Mid-Afternoon
A coltish young man in army fatigues with a name patch saying, “Private McDonald,” looks rapidly around a dusty dirt road, his gaze lingering on piles of rubble nearby before moving on. Nodding his head, his helmet slips down a bit before he forces it back up. His sparse mustache is covered in beads of sweat as he steps forward. The moment his boot touches the ground, there is a second of terrible knowledge in his eyes before the ground erupts underneath his foot in a gout of earth. PRIVATE MCDONALD falls to the ground holding the bloody stump of his leg.
PRIVATE MCDONALD
(Screaming)
God!
CUT INTO Psychologist’s Office
TOM
(Gulping)
No.
DR. CLIPSON
Then what do you want to talk about?
TOM
(Hesitatingly)
What about sweat?
DR. CLIPSON
Sweat?
TOM
You know, perspiration.
DR. CLIPSON
(Peevish)
I know what sweat is. What did you want to talk about it for?
TOM
I don’t know. It’s something I seem to notice a lot.
DR. CLIPSON
What do you mean by “notice a lot?”
TOM
Well, it’s like it’s always there.
DR. CLIPSON
What do you mean by “always there?”
TOM
(Annoyed)
Are you feeling all doctorish today or something? You just keep repeating what I’m saying, but turn it into a question.
DR. CLIPSON
(Amused)
I am a doctor you know.
TOM
Yeah, but you don’t have to be all doctorish.
DR. CLIPSON
(Chuckles)
All right. You were saying?
TOM
I was saying, that I seem to notice sweat. Not your, it’s a hot day or went ten miles on a treadmill type of sweat, but something more.
CUT AWAY
INT. Bedroom Morning
Wan WOMAN on a mattress. Focus closer and closer until only sweat-drenched forehead can be seen.
CUT AWAY
INT. Child’s Bedroom Night
Man with a leather strap raised in the air. Focus closer and closer until only the trails of sweat down the side of the man’s face can be seen.
CUT AWAY
EXT. Dirt Road Mid-Afternoon
Private McDonald caught right in the middle of stepping forward. Focus closer and closer until only the beads of sweat among the mustache hairs can be seen.
CUT AWAY
INT. Psychologist’s Office
DR. CLIPSON
(Concerned)
Where were you just now?
TOM
(Confused)
I’m sorry?
DR. CLIPSON
You just left for a few minutes. Were you thinking of specific instances where you noticed sweat?
Tom looks uncomfortable
DR. CLIPSON (cont’d)
What were you thinking of?
Tom starts to look upset
DR. CLIPSON (cont’d)
(Leaning forward)
Tom? What were you just thinking about, Tom? Tell me? (Says insistently)
TOM
(His voice getting louder as he goes along the list)
What do you want to hear? That I saw my mother right before she died, or my father as he beat me, or Mac just before he lost his damn leg. Is that what you want to hear?
DR. CLIPSON
(Leans back)
Yes, I do.
TOM
(Flops back in exhaustion)
Fine, I saw all that, and I saw…sweat. Dying sweat on a forehead, rage sweat coming down a face, scared sweat above a lip. You know what I think?
DR. CLIPSON
Hmmm?
TOM
None of them ever cried. Not one time. What if…what if their sweat were actually tears their body forced out of them when they couldn’t let themselves cry?
DR. CLIPSON
Why do you think that?
TOM
Because I wake up in the middle of the night and I should be crying from my nightmares—my memories—but all there is, is sweat, cold sweat.