Original subtitles

- He's waiting for his date.

It's March 7th.

I saw the calendar on the wall earlier.

Did she stand him up?

I bet she did.

The lonely fuck can't catch a break.

- It's nice to see you.

- It's nice to see you too.

- Wine?

- Yes.

Yes, after a long day of work that sounds wonderful.

So how was your day?

- My day was good.

How was your day?

- Good.

Pretty typical.

So tell me something about yourself.

- Let's try something different.

Instead of me telling you all about myself

and my statistics, like the back of a fucking baseball card,

let's talk about whatever comes to mind.

You know?

Whatever we want.

Something a bit more organic.

- Like a dating experiment?

- Think of it more as defiance

from the typical first date conversation.

I don't wanna know where you work

or where you went to college.

I want to know the real you.

- Ready to order?

- We might need a couple more minutes.

- Oh, I'm ready.

- Yeah, sure.

- I'll have the chicken parm.

Extra cheese.

- I'll have the chicken parm too.

- Extra cheese?

- No, thanks.

- Anything else to drink?

- I'm good with wine.

- Me too.

- Great, I'll bring you some bread.

- Thank you.

- Thank you.

- Okay, so where were we?

- What do you think of everything?

- What?

- Look, I know this whole first date game is kinda weird,

but give it a try.

Worst case scenario,

you have a funny story to tell your friends.

- Okay.

What do you mean, everything?

- I mean everything.

Life, work, culture.

The shit hole we live in.

What's the point of everything?

- That's a pretty vague question.

Fine.

I guess you just gotta do your best, you know?

Try your hardest and push for what you want.

- Mhmm.

I'm sorry.

Was that really your answer?

- Yeah.

- That was stupid.

Look, I'm not asking you to write me a graduation speech.

I'm asking you to tell me how you really feel.

Take off that clown mask

that you have to wear for everybody else.

Give me you.

- Okay.

Everything's bullshit.

I think everything is fucking bullshit.

I'll tell you why.

I don't know you and you don't know me

but we got one thing in common.

Struggle.

We struggle our whole goddamn lives and for what?

I work a shitty job so I can merely live.

Literally so I can eat, have a bed to sleep on

and continue with my worthless existence.

We live to die.

Just killing time.

We wake up everyday and go to work.

What the fuck are we working towards, exactly?

Working so we can go home and watch TV?

Working so I can buy food to stuff my face with?

Work so I can retire one day when I'm senile?

I'm not gonna remember shit anyway.

Life is just the act of struggling.

At least for the most of us.

- Now that's a fucking answer.

- They talk for awhile.

I'm surprised how comfortable she seems with him.

Just like she gets him.

No one ever gets him, not even me.

Somehow, she does.

For two hours straight, they talk.

He doesn't ask her about his past,

she doesn't ask him about her job.

But their conversation is somehow compelling and beautiful.

Like an effortless poem

in which they take turns contributing, line from line.

"God is dead."

"God isn't dead.

"Sex is God."

"Who are we but animals trapped behind a wall?"

- What is a wall but a pediment to the human condition?

- Only the imagination could break--

- That down.

I'm going to the bathroom.

- I'll grab the check.

- I can split it with you, if you want.

- Don't be silly.

You said you're unemployed. Save your money.

- You're too sweet.

I'm back.

- So you wanna come over for some coffee or a drink?

- Yeah, sure.

- Sorry, this place is a mess.

- Oh it's okay, I don't care.

I like your place.

- Thank you.

Hey.

Hey!

- Huh?

- You want me to make you a drink?

- Oh, yeah.

Yeah, that'd be great.

- Where are you going?

- I gotta go.

- It's 3:30 in the morning.

- I'm sorry.

- You can't be serious.

Spend the night.

- No, I've gotta go.

- What's wrong?

- Just leave me the fuck alone!

- Are you fucking kidding me?

Tell me this is a joke.

- I'm sorry.

- You're late five times this month.

Do you wanna get fired?

Because I'm pretty fucking sure you wanna get fired.

- I apologize.

- You're lazy.

- I'm sorry, it won't happen again.

- You're damn right it won't.

If it does, I'll fire you on the spot.

- Hello?

Hey.

I'm glad you called.

How are you?

I'm good.

I'm just hanging out.

Sure, you can come over, yeah.

If a bottle of tequila counts.

Okay.

Okay, cool, cool.

I'll see you soon?

Bye.

Hey.

- What's up?

- Come in.

It's nice to see you.

- It's nice to see you too.

- So what do you wanna do?

- Drink.

And hang out.

- I'll get the bottle.

- Grab it...

and...

meet me in your bedroom.

- All right.

Hey, hey, hey.

Are you okay?

- I'm sorry.

I'm so fucked up in the head.

It's all--

- Fucked up in the head?

- I just...

I feel so empty.

You know, like,

I'm either really sad or really happy.

It's never a steady balance.

- I'm rarely happy, so,

I'm not the right person to be giving advice.

- Why are you rarely happy?

- I don't know, just forget it.

- No, tell me.

- No.

- Oh my god, will you just tell me?

- I just don't have many things to be happy about.

- Well,

what do you do for work?

- So now we're gonna ask questions?

- I can ask questions.

- That doesn't seem fair.

- Tell me.

- I work in an office.

- Cool.

- Yeah, it's great.

- You don't like it.

- No, I don't like it.

I just do the same fucking thing every day.

It's like an assembly like at a factory or something.

- Then why do you do it?

- Because it's my passion.

Why does anybody do what they don't wanna do?

It's a job, you know, I have to.

- Well,

what do you wanna do?

- That's the problem.

There's nothing that I really wanna do.

- Come here.

Tell me something about you.

- Like what?

- I don't know.

Tell me about your childhood.

- It was a pretty regular childhood.

- Your parents?

- My mom died when I was a baby.

So my dad took care of me

and my uncle.

- Are they still alive?

- No.

- Oh.

My parents are still alive

but I haven't talked to them in 10 years.

We had a pretty big falling out.

- I'm sorry.

- Don't be.

I'm sorry.

- It's okay.

The solar system,

and there are certain similarities.

- He was around seven

when he started being babysat by his uncle,

the alcoholic who was in and out of prison.

He would take him into the closet where it was dark,

so I wouldn't be present to know what happened.

As soon as he would come out into the light,

I'd be there, watching the tears go down his cheek,

hearing the whimpers come out of his mouth

and shake with him from what happened in that closet.

He was forced into that closet

every time he was babysat by his uncle.

Until one day his uncle died.

He was 10.

He didn't have to whimper or cry after that.

But he still shakes.

We both shake.

- Hey,

I have to go to work.

- Well look who showed up to work on time.

- What does the note say?

I wish I could...

Is he looking at me?

Can he hear me?

Do you fucking see me?

- Are you done?

- Yep.

- Well then clear your plate and do the dishes.

Did you break a plate?!

- Babe?

Babe, you home?

Babe, what's wrong?

Why're you crying?

- I just stopped feeling right.

- It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

- I'm broken.

Like an old toy or something.

I can't be fixed.

Do you understand?

- People like us can't be fixed.

Do you know what one broken toy

and another broken toy equals?

One normal toy, one normal person.

- No.

You'll just have two broken toys.

- That's one's opinion.

- Do you ever think

that sometimes the breathless breathe easier?

Remember our first date,

when I asked you what you thought about everything?

- Yeah.

- You were right.

It's all bullshit.

Everything is bullshit.

What's the point of the struggle?

- There's some point to it.

- What's that?

- The light.

We have it the rest of our lives.

- There is no hope for us.

- Of course there is.

I met you.

- I add to your misery.

- No you don't.

You are the best thing that's ever happened to me.

- Do you love me?

I love you.

- I love you too.

- You don't have to say it back.

- I don't have to say it back but I mean it.

I do.

- Good.

Hey.

- Huh?

- Do you miss your parents?

- Sometimes.

- I bet they really loved you.

I bet they'd be so proud of you.

Wish they could've seen the person you've become.

Do you think they'd recognize you?

I wonder if they would.

I wonder.

- Again?

- What do you mean, again?

- I mean, you said you would take a break.

- It's not like I drank the whole bottle.

- Well congratulations for not drinking

the whole fucking bottle!

- I don't have to explain myself to you!

- You're an alcoholic!

Is that what you wanna be?

Huh?

A lowlife who just drinks and fucks?

- Get off of me!

Look what you did!

Look at what the fuck you did!

- I didn't do that, all right?

You were drunk and you fell.

- Get off!

- Get away from me!

- Do you want me to cut you?

- Christine, don't you fucking dare!

Hello?

Hello?

Christine, is that you?

- This man.

This poor, sick, insane man.

I think he loved her more than anything in the world.

She is a miracle to him.

His freedom from the tragedy, which is his life.

He was her freedom from the mundane,

from the lifeless,

from the abysm she had been in for years.

They found each other

and with that, lost themselves.

Do you love me?

- Darwin Barnes?

- Yeah?

- You're under arrest for the murder

of Christine Meredith Thompson.

You have the right to remain silent.

- What?

- Anything you say--

- What do you mean, Christine is dead?

Are you listening to me?

- You have a right to an attorney.

- What the fuck is going on?!

- If you can't afford an attorney,

one will be appointed to you by the state.

- Hello, Darwin.

I'm John Crowley, one of the lead detectives.

- Is Christine all right?

- She's dead.

Why don't we talk about how she died?

Darwin?

Darwin?

- What?

- Just talk to me.

How did she die?

- I don't know.

I don't know.

- She was found like his next to a dumpster.

The murder weapon was with her and it was a steak knife.

- She was found with a steak knife?

- That's right.

Your blood was found stained on the apartment rug.

You guys have a fight that turned physical?

- No, I couldn't have been my blood.

It had to be her blood.

She was drunk and she fell.

- That was two nights ago.

What about you?

Were you drunk?

- No.

Not during the fight,

but after she stormed out, I started drinking.

- That fight involved this knife.

So you recognize the knife?

- She grabbed it when we were having a fight, yeah.

- So she felt she needed it for protection form you.

- No, she was drunk, all right?

It sounds more dramatic than it was.

- We have a neighbor saying that she yelled out and I quote,

"Get the fuck away from me."

- No, that's what I said.

- Oh, that's what you said.

- Yes, she was belligerently drunk and she had a knife.

I yelled for her to get away from me.

- Let's start from the beginning.

Can you explain how your relationship with her began?

Darwin?

Darwin, come on.

Let's start at the beginning.

- I met her at the grocery store.

She was looking at the cereal and she asked for help.

She couldn't reach the Cheerios on the top shelf.

We just kinda started talking.

We had a lot of things in common.

She was broken, like me.

- Broken?

- Once you're broken you can't be fixed.

People like us, we can't be fixed.

We just live our lives until we die

and then we can finally feel some relief.

We can finally breathe.

- What do you know about her past, Darwin?

Did she tell you anything?

- No, not really.

She said it was fucked up but she don't wanna talk about it.

- She didn't tell you anything.

Where she's from.

What her relationship with her family's like.

- No, not really.

I assumed she was just repressing her memory, you know?

She would've told me when she was ready.

- Do you even know her last name?

- No.

No, I guess I don't.

- Let me tell you something.

This broken girl that you describe

doesn't seem so broken to me.

Seems she's actually a very normal young woman.

She graduated from a good college.

She had loving parents.

She was raised in a good neighborhood.

According to her place of employment,

she's just a happy-go-lucky person.

- That's bullshit.

- That's bullshit?

- Yeah, she was an alcoholic mess.

There's no way she held a job.

- Oh yeah?

You didn't even know she had a job, did you?

Maybe that was just another thing that she repressed

and wasn't ready to tell you.

- Where? Huh?

Where'd she work?

- What's it to you?

She didn't want to tell you.

Maybe she thought you were dangerous.

- No, she'd never think that.

- Maybe she thought she shouldn't tell you

because you made her fear for your life.

- That's not true.

- Not true?

Not true?

Let me tell you something that is true.

- My master,

my puppeteer,

my everything.

I'm nothing.

His every word floats from his lips into the air

and hangs there, balanced by what is and what isn't.

His eyes dart this way and that way,

as if in constant search for an answer

that doesn't exist.

His breath uneven, like with his future.

Who is he but a small boy who plays with blocks,

building the house he would never reside in?

A young man who would conjure up a world

that would be but a sweet rivalry.

An adult who would have his happiness shatter

into a million pieces on the living room floor.

God save this poor man.

God save the dream which is his happiness.

God save the shade in which he creates.

May they find peace and solace.

- Wait a second, your favorite instrument isn't the guitar?

What's wrong with you?

- No, I like the piano.

- Oh my God.

- What's wrong with the piano?

- You are such a dork.

- Whatever.

Maybe I'm too sophisticated for you.

- Okay.

- Bed time.

- What?

- You put away your toys and brush your teeth?

- Yes, sir.

- Okay.

Lights out!

- What?

- Shower time.

- How many days have we been locked in this cage?

He wants to do it.

I can tell.

He asks himself every day if he should do it.

He's not used to being trapped.

Although, in some ways he always was.

His weeps aren't solely for his sorrows

but for the loss of her, his freedom.

He's delusional.

Unaware of the truth.

- Hey.

Hey.

Your lawyer is here.

- Hello, Darwin.

- What the hell is going on?

- It doesn't look good.

- What do you mean, it doesn't look good?

- Your bail is way too high.

- Get the money.

- How?

The only way would be to go through some

unconventional methods that could end up hurting both of us.

- I don't care, I need to get out of here.

I need to get out of here and figure out some answers.

- Answers for what?

- For who killed her.

- There's too much evidence stacked against you.

- Peter, I didn't do it.

I didn't kill her.

- Look,

let's see what I can do.

Do you believe in God, son?

- Excuse me,

who the hell are you?

- I'm Darwin.

- Well Darwin, you're not supposed to be in this property.

- I live here.

- No you don't.

- Yes I do.

- No you don't.

You're not supposed to be in here, nobody is.

- Are you fucking crazy? I live here!

- I'm not crazy.

I'm the property manager and your name is not on the list.

Look at the mail.

"Christine Thompson."

You don't look like a Christine Thompson to me.

- Fuck what the mail says, all right?

I fucking live here!

- Look, let me tell you something, you little fuck!

You don't live here and you need to get out of here now!

- Fine.

- Can I ask you a personal question?

- You haven't done that already?

- Fine, nevermind.

- No, no, tell me.

- Nope, forget it.

- Come on, shoot.

- Okay.

- Do you believe in God?

- Uh.

I don't know.

I don't know.

What about you?

- Believe in God?

No.

No, I do not believe in God.

- Well I sure hope there is one,

because if this is it, this is horrible.

- This is it.

This is all there will ever be.

What?

- Nothing.

There's worse things than cheap Italian dinners with you.

Yeah.

- How do you think you'll die?

I want my happy life to have a beautiful ending.

Is that so much to ask?

To have some sort of beauty in my life,

even if it's at the very end of it.

Now it doesn't.

Never has.

You can't choose the life of beauty and grace.

Of fortune

and glory.

Don't you see?

Don't you see the situation most of us are left in?

We are the abandoned.

We aren't the repressed,

or the poor or even the lower class.

We are the forsaken.

We are the shadow of those who live the light.

I'll forever be

left in the dark,

looking on to those lucky few

who live their life in contentment

and dignity.

All we can do is pray there is more.

Pray that after death we will finally be in the light.

- Excuse me.

- What's up?

- I picked up a girl here a few months ago

that bought some stuff from you.

Can you tell me what?

- I don't know what the fuck you talking about.

But if you wanna buy something,

you need to move the fuck around.

- Look, man, I'm not a police officer, okay?

I just need some information on her.

- Look, I know you not a cop.

I don't deal too many girls.

- That's bullshit, I saw you sell to her a few weeks ago.

- It's not bullshit.

I haven't did a deal with a girl in at least a year or two.

- Really?

- Really.

- All right.

You said you know I wasn't a cop.

- What?

- You said you knew that I wasn't a cop.

How?

- Seriously, lay off the drugs for awhile, man.

- How many drinks have you had today?

- A few drinks.

- A few drinks?

The whole fucking bottle is gone.

- Okay.

I'll take a break.

Hey!

You don't know shit, all right?

- That's because you never fucking tell me shit!

I've told you everything about my life

and you're a fucking mystery!

Besides how your uncle raped you.

- Fuck you!

- Look, you can try and switch perspectives

as much as you want.

But you are Darwin,

the unemployed bum with a fucked up history.

And that's all you're every going to be.

- Shut up!

- Look, you're not me.

Okay?

You're not fucking me.

Are you listening?

You're not fucking me!

Fuck you! Fuck you!

Fuck you!

Fuck you!

- And so everyday he cries.

Yelling things into the air.

We are opposites, him and I.

He lost in fantasy,

I stuck in reality.

Both of us experiencing the same experience

from a different perspective.

If only I could fantasize.

If only I could escape.

- Let's go.

- So,

what do you want to do with the body?

Do you have a relative to come pick it up?

- I don't know.

I don't have anyone.

- Okay, fine.

We'll burry you here.

Sign this.

Great.

Now, about your last meal.

Do you want anything in particular?

- I want chicken parmesan, extra cheese.

- I think we can accommodate that.

Do you believe in God?

- No.

- Yeah?

Oh yeah, absolutely.

No.

No.

The whole thing was a setup.

Of course.

Oh, he's gonna get convicted.

Yeah.

What?!

- This fucking thing was a setup?!

What're you talking about?

- Did you fucking killer?

I have no idea.

- Who fucking killed her?!

- Who?

- Christine!

Who fucking killed her?

Did you fucking kill her?

- Yes.

I did.

What the fuck are you talking about?

- Eat.

It's getting cold.

You ever read anything by Dostoyevsky?

Yeah.

I'm not a huge reader but I am a huge fan of his work.

Now, he wrote this book,

"The Idiot," it's called.

There's this character in it.

Myshkin, or something like that.

Anyways, he said that capital punishment

is worse than the crime committed.

His reasoning was that if you were stabbed or shot

you suffered from physical pain

and were distracted by it.

As if physical pain distracted from the act of dying itself.

One wouldn't be spiritually tortured

but physically.

Now he also said,

there are a lot of times when one hopes to escape.

If a coldblooded killer is chasing you with a knife,

you have a chance, even if it is a small one, to escape.

But there is no escaping a death penalty.

Take a soldier out,

sit him facing a canon

and fire it at him,

he'll still have hope.

But you read a sentence of certain death

over that same soldier

and he will go out of his mind.

I think I agree with that.

Don't you?

- I'm not sure.

- Now,

I'm gonna ask you what I've asked everyone

who I have ever shared a last meal with.

Why did you kill her?

Why did you take this young woman's wife?

- I didn't take her life.

She took mine.

- The day has come.

The clock has ran out.

The clock isn't really a clock, is it?

But an hourglass,

the grains of sand fall, one by one,

into the void that will someday consume us all.

Look at him.

He still denies the truth.

Still lost in the fantasy.

- Darwin Thomas Barnes,

you have been sentenced to death

for the murder of Christine Meredith Thompson.

May God have mercy on your soul.

- For what seems like hours, he runs.

Never stopping, never looking back.

He heads into something new.

Something with hope.

He heads into the light.

He stands still,

shivering in the cold,

I lay on the ground.

Gazing up at the vast length of God that is upon us.

Only he never escaped the prison.

I finally broke that wall and imagined the whole thing.

As for my puppeteer,

my master,

my everything,

sometimes the breathless breathe easier.