we pull her as she enters the room, then tilt down with her as she hesitantly sits on the edge of the bed.
framed against a moonlit window from the shoulders up.
still worked up.
standing in the office doorway. we pull her into the room. she stops abruptly, looking past the camera, and wrinkles her nose.
she takes a step forward. we hear the crunch of glass underfoot. she looks down at the floor.
she looks up from the floor toward the back door.
she crosses slowly to the desk, staring at the rotted fish. she looks up from the desk.
stooping down to pick up the hammer. at eye level as she stoops down is the combination dial to the safe. the dial has been battered by the hammer. abby looks from the hammer to the floor under the desk chair.
staring.
she seems to be falling slowly backwards. the camera falls with her, keeping her in close shot. her head hits a pillow. we pull back slowly to reveal that she is lying on the bed in her apartment, staring across the room. she lies motionless on the bad, her eyes wide.
she slumps back onto the bed. one hand gropes down out of frame and comes up holding an illuminated alarm clock. she looks at it, drops it back to the floor.
staring at the window, paralyzed--almost in a trance. quiet except for the chinking of glass.
breathing heavily, almost hysterical. she looks down at the floor.
she reaches down and pulls off one of her shoes. she throws it at the ceiling bulb.
staring at the wall. we hear a second crack.
she turns and hobbles toward the door of apartment. the muffled thumping continues, as in her dream.
she shifts the gun slightly and fires.
leaning against the facing wall. she lowers the gun. she slides down the wall to finally rest seated on the floor. she brushes a drop of sweat from her eye.
a pause. after a moment, her voice comes out half-choked:
staring at the door. we hear the laughter subside, to leave the sound of labored breathing. finally: