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Nothing happened, nothing ever HAPPENED in the first place. I lied, I'm sorry, I just, you just meant the world to me but I never seemed to really matter much to you until I told you I was pregnant. I thought eventually you might actually fall in love with me too. But then then the whole world went to shit and I can see now it's just responsibility keeping you here, not me. I can see how it's killing not to be able to fight and I just cant keep you here anymore. I'm so sorry John.
INT. 1942, Nighttime, a small bedroom of a run down apartment. It's raining outside the window. The room is blue-gray with paint pealing off the walls in places and even a few holes in the walls here and there. There is a small, full sized, iron frame bed against the back wall, centered on the room with an old ratty green blanket spread over it. John, a TALL, FIT, 20 year old boy WITH DARK hair gelled back like humphrey bogart; sits propped up in the bed, which is nearly too small for him,and is reading the newspaper in a white tshirt and pajama pants. SR, RACKS LINE THE SIDE OF THE ROOM WITH A MOUNTAIN OF CLOTHES HUNG AND THROWN OVER THEM. SL, lINDA, also 20 years old, is AN ABNORMALLY TALL GIRL FOr that time. She SITS AT A VANITY MIRROR IN A NIGHTGOWN REMOVING PINS FROM HER BROWN HAIR. DOWN SL, A RADIO SITS ON A SMALL TABLE, TUNED TO THE NIGHTLY NEWS. Over the radio, we hear a reporter listing the number of soldiers killed in the war that week. —
Because I think things are gonna be better this way.