A cathedral. A standing testament to the architectural prowess of an age gone by. The door slams open, yet Partridge continues to read his book, his eyes not moving up to the door, he neither moves nor flinches. Footsteps echo down the hall. Preston stops alone in front of his partner. Partridge speaks.


PARTRIDGE: You always knew. You just couldn’t bring yourself to admit it.

With the tip of his gun, Preston raises the book, THE POETRY OF YEATS

PARTRIDGE: Ever had the pleasure of reading such a book? Fascinating, really…

PRESTON In a tone that conveys little to no emotion: Have you lost your mind.

PARTRIDGE Reads: Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams…

PARTRIDGE looks up

PARTRIDGE: I assume you dream, Preston?


PRESTON: You’ve got to come with me. This is all… Intolerable. Going back on everything you were taught. Everything you were raised for…

PARTRIDGE looks only back at him.

PARTRIDGE: How can you be immune to it, John? Immune to the basics of humanity… Of feeling. Of caring…

Preston places a gloved hand to his forehead, rubbing his temples, before he sighs. His response is almost mechanical.

PRESTON: Errol. You have to come with me… I’ll… I’ll see what I can do, to see that they go easy on you. He eyes the book momentarily

PARTRIDGE: We both know, John… They never go easy on anybody. For anything.

There is a steady silence as the two men regard each other in the dim light

PRESTON (Finally): Then I’m sorry.

PARTRIDGE shakes his head with a small chuckle

PARTRIDGE: No. You’re not. You don’t even know the meaning. It’s just a vestigial word for a feeling you’ve never felt. One you never will feel, Preston.

PRESTON is silent

PARTRIDGE: Don’t you see, Preston? It’s gone- Everything that makes us what we are- traded away…

PRESTON: I am what I am. There is no war- no murder…

PARTRIDGE regards PRESTON’S eyes for a moment

PARTRIDGE: What is it that you think we do?

PRESTON: You’re wrong. You’ve been with me; you’ve seen how it can be… Jealousy and rage. Anger. Hate… They attack with such a zealous rage… All over a few songs. A few paintings. We offer what’s left of the world nothing but a safe, healthy life. And yet all they can do is fight. And run. All for a chance to feel…

Slowly. Silently. Partridge nods

PARTRIDGE: It’s a heavy, heavy cost…

His hand falls to a gun in his lap.

PARTRIDGE: I pay it gladly…

PRESTON pulls his own gun up in line with PARTRIDGE’S eyes. PARTRIDGE keeps his hand on his gun, they stare each other down for a moment.

PRESTON: Don’t do this.

PARTRIDGE raises the book to cover his face, moving his thumb to cock his gun.

PRESTON fires. The book drops, his former partner and only friend crumples on the bench he’s on. PRESTON, as emotionless as he apparently is, shakes slightly from a chill shooting up his back. He holsters his gun, picking up the book. He reads without a hint of emotion


When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

PRESTON drops the book with an unsatisfactory ‘hmph’ following it. He makes sure to step on top of the book as he leaves. Before exiting, he looks over his shoulder at his partner’s corpse, unmoving. Lifeless

PRESTON: …You fool.

EXIT