Rule Followers
Paweł Grajnert
INT. 1975, CATHOLIC SCHOOL HALLWAY – DAY
The American flag hangs at regular intervals between crucifixes above every door down a long, dimly lit hallway lined with classroom doors.
Distant, muffled male voice in a seeps through a closed door.
A door BURSTS open. TIM (12), uniformed in navy slacks and a white collared shirt, tie, erupts from the classroom, his breath short, his face flushed. He breaks into a run.
He runs past a statue of a soldier saluting. “To the fallen...” reads a plaque with a list of names screwed to the base of the statue.
SISTER MARGARET (50s), a strict, skeletal figure in a black habit, materializes from nowhere.
SISTER MARGARET
(whispering harshly)
Shh. Stop. No running in the halls.
The boy freezes, gulping air. He looks down the hallway—his destination is a closed door at the far end from where a woman’s laugh starts after a man’s murmuring voice stops.
SISTER MARGARET (CONT’D)
Go back.
The boy hesitates.
SISTER MARGARET (CONT’D)
Now.
He turns reluctantly and shuffles back to the open classroom door. He steps inside, then immediately steps back out.
SISTER MARGARET (CONT’D)
(tilting her head)
Didn’t you forget something?
The boy blinks, confused.
SISTER MARGARET (CONT’D)
The door.
Realization dawns. The boy reaches back and shuts the classroom door quietly.
He turns and begins his journey down the hallway again, this time walking carefully. His shoes SCUFF the linoleum floor.
With each step, the faint sound of an INTERMITTENT HIGH-PITCHED LAUGH grows more distinct, curling out from beneath the door at the end of the hall.
SISTER MARGARET (CONT’D)
(whispering after him)
Quietly.
He nods but keeps moving. The laughter crackles, then dies. That low murmur takes its place again, punctuated by the slow drag of a cigarette being inhaled.
The boy reaches the door. A moment of hesitation. He grabs the handle and pulls.
A thick CLOUD OF SMOKE rolls out, swallowing him for a moment before thinning.
INT. 1975 CATHOLIC SCHOOL TEACHER’S LOUNGE - CONT
Three figures sit around a worn wooden table:
MRS. REEVES (60s), a woman with a permanent smirk, exhaling smoke as she clutches a cigarette between painted nails.
MR. BROWN (40s), a round man in a brown suit, holding a smoldering cigarette, his eyes glinting with amusement.
MR. FRANKS (50s), skeletal and aloof, sits behind a newspaper, barely acknowledging the intrusion.
The boy swallows, trying to speak.
MR. BROWN
I think someone needs to knock.
The boy fumbles, glances back at the open door.
MRS. REEVES
(firmly)
Don’t say a word. Start over again, mister.
The boy hesitates, then closes the door. He stands outside. A beat. Then, he KNOCKS.
A pause.
MR. BROWN
(calling out)
Come in.
The boy opens the door, steps inside.
BOY
(flatly)
The substitute... I think he stopped breathing. I think he’s dead.
Silence. Cigarette smoke coils in the air. Mr. Franks lowers the newspaper.
MR. FRANKS
Already?
Tim shrugs.
Mr. Franks stands and leaves the room followed by Mr. Brown and Mrs. Reeves.
MR. BROWN
I’ll call for an ambulance.
MRS. REEVES (O.S.)
It’s only been a few days.
The three teachers leave Tim alone in the lounge.
Tim spots a pack of cigarettes on the table. He listens to sounds of the teachers reacting down the hall.
A door opens in the hall.
SISTER MARGARET (O.S.)
What happened?
MRS. REEVES (O.S.)
Sub’s dead.
Tim walks over to the table, takes two cigarettes out of the pack.
SISTER MARGARET (O.S.)
Already?
MR. FRANKS (O.S.)
Enough time for these cretins to kill another good person.
Tim hides the cigarettes neatly into the folds of his tie and smiles.
SISTER MARGARET (O.S.)
What are we going to tell parents?
MR. FRANKS (O.S.)
What have you mutants done this time?
FADE TO BLACK.
Paweł Grajnert
Paweł Grajnert is a writer, filmmaker and visual artist working in Poland and the US.