The first part of this chapter includes the original script of the film mixed into my paragraphs.
I've also used quotes from the films...
Please note that the words are not mine, with that being the work of Derek Kolstad.
The reason why I used it is to establish an environment I couldn't describe by just watching the film.
Don't worry... I wasn't that lazy and just Ctrl + C/V'd... I wrote ~1,600 words by myself, so it's not all someone else's words...
Sorry about that. Disclaimers and such.
Enjoy!
Bolded Italics: Describing Narrative or Vital Sounds
Bold: Separating Passage of Time or Stating Key Information
Italics: Thoughts
"Quoted Italics": Another language translated to English
"Quoted Text": Speech
Underlined Text: Writing
A verdant landscape of rolling hills, lush countryside, and ambient peace.
The hour hand of an old, electric clock shifts slightly, marking 6:00 AM. A soft alarm sounds. Beneath the blankets, a body shifts, a weathered hand reaching out to silence the antique. A beat... a sigh... a groan... and John Wick, early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, three-day beard, former boxer, former military, tired, beaten down, and at wit's end- sits up, staring unblinkingly out at the day. A beat... and he stands, donning a weathered robe and a pair of slippers. John stuffs his hands into his pockets...
A dirty house with no one to clean it...
He descends down the stairs, the sound of his slippers slapping against the polished wood fills the air. The living room was furnished as modern you could get, a matching modern style shelving separating the main corridor and the living room. Down the corridor, the walls overflowed with family pictures, each badly in need of dusting. They catalog a long and healthy life with his wife, the pictures presenting a time line of sorts. No children, yet sheer, unadulterated happiness, little mementos from their trips sitting behind them. In the kitchen, there was nobody making breakfast... As a matter of fact: nobody was home.
Fresh air that brings memories...
John opens the door, retrieves the newspaper, closes, and locks the door behind him, without giving the outside so much as a glance. John unceremoniously tosses the newspaper onto the table, opens a cupboard, and measures out a couple of tablespoons of Folgers Coffee into an old percolator. As it begins to bubble, John open the fridge, studies its contents for a moment or two, and then closes it, abandoning the thought of breakfast. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at the table. The newspaper is ignored. He drinks in silence for a long, dark, brooding moment, the loneliness almost unsettling.
0-0-0-0-0
It was a beautiful night, the dimly lit street setting a romantic overtone for the scene. There, an ardent couple were standing together, watching the ocean. The smell of salt filled the air as the sound of waves filled the atmosphere. The two lovers lock eyes, and soon find themselves kissing one another in a passionate competition for dominance. Suddenly...
l
Carrying a humble bouquet of yellow daisies, John slowly makes his way down the eerily empty corridor. He pauses before a picture on the wall, glancing at his reflection upon the glass. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and enters a room. John walks in to be met with the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. Standing at his wife's bedside is their family doctor, a grim look on his face as he turns to address him.
"Mr. Wick... You already know that your wife is on life support... But there's the fact that her health has been rapidly degrading over the past week or so..." John slowly approaches the figure lying in bed: surrounded by machinery, accompanied by the soft sounds of technology. He removes the wilted daisies from the vase, tosses them in the trash, and replaces them with fresh ones. He pulls over a chair, reaches out, and takes her hand. She is in a comatose state, her breathing synthetic...
Too many machines... So many wires, tubes, and monitors.
The doctor walks over, placing a hand on John's shoulder. John lowers his head, and nods. With a bit of effort, he stands, staring down at her for a long moment, never once releasing his grip, and leans over to kiss her on the forehead. He holds her hand for a long moment in heavy silence. The doctor turns off the machine, the sound of the heart rate monitor now the only noise in the room. He couldn't help but try to keep his wife with him as he hugged her, the gradual slowing of the heart rate monitor counting the last seconds of her life. Once the doctor had left the room, the heart rate monitor flat lines, the sound piercing his ears...
0-0-0-0-0
John is now sitting on his bed, his wife's bracelet in his hand. The bracelet was silver, five silver daisies spread apart evenly across the chain. It was a gift to her on their anniversary, the only item of worth left that had her favorite flower on it. He puts it down on his nightstand, the silence finally getting to him as he walked away.
It is eight o' clock...
John gets into his 1969 Mustang GT, a muscle car that his wife gave to him. He backs out of his garage, and drives out of the driveway as the house is finally empty of life. It was the day of his wife's funeral service, the last chance for him to say goodbye properly...
l
The casket is being lowered into the ground, the priest praying for her departure. The attendees huddle together with black umbrellas, the rain hitting against the canopy like bullets. A final amen is said, as everyone except John heads for their cars, their heads hung low in mourning. John stands there as the crew covers her coffin in dirt, the next couple of minutes watching her leave his sight. John now heads to his car, only to be met with an old friend of his. He was in the assassination business with him, but he knew that Wick had left it behind. They exchange greetings, and the only words that his friend says other than that is:
"My condolences."
l
John is standing by his window as the last of his guest leave, whispered goodbyes and condolences eventually disappearing along with them. He takes another sip of his bourbon before the door bell rings, the delivery service standing outside waiting for him. He answers the door and signs the form, taking in the kennel that laid at his doorstep. He slides it onto the table, the note on top of it wearing a large daisy on it's back. John slowly opens it as he reads the letter, the tears that once again welled in his eyes threatened to spill as he did.
John,
I'm sorry I cant be there for you. You still need something. Someone to love. So start with this, because the card doesn't count. I love you John. This illness has loomed over us for a long time, and now that I have found my peace... Find yours. Until that day...
Your best friend,
Ellen.
Inside the kennel sat a eight week old beagle, which John carefully took out of the kennel. On it's neck laid a collar, after checking it's tag he couldn't help but chuckle to himself as tears rolled down his check.
Of course it's Daisy.
Reading the note was something that he needed, a burden in his heart lifted by reassuring words from his wife. Now he had a pet beagle, the dog being well trained for it's age as it licked his face. The chuckle now turned into a laugh, a mix of joy and sadness confined within it.
"Come on girl, let's go." It was about time they go to bed, so he used a spare towel to create a makeshift bed for Daisy, as she compliantly laid in her bed. They exchanged looks as John turned off the lamp beside his bed. The soft snoring of the puppy soothed him as he began to sleep, the new hope of tomorrow filling within him.
0-0-0-0-0
Mid-Afternoon
At an abandoned airfield, the Mustang roars down the open stretch of landing strip as Daisy stands at the open window, tongue wagging in the air. John is in his element: calm, cool, and collected behind the wheel of his car... almost as if it is a natural extension of himself. He deftly shifts gears, reaching speeds in excess of 120 miles per hour before hitting a long patch of gravel, shifting, spinning the wheel, and skidding. He remains in full control, the wheels skimming over the coarse earth. Daisy barks in panic as John slams his foot into the accelerator. John goes full speed towards the heavy machinery, flooding his mind with adrenaline. The thoughts of his wife were threatening to return, and he needed none of it... Once he was a couple meters away, he slammed on the brakes, the car stopping an inch from the machines.
Burnt Rubber and Burnt-Out Men...
0-0-0-0-0
1 Week Later...
John pulls into his garage, with groceries and dog food in his trunk. There was an off feeling about the house, the sound of breaking pottery and glass muffled by the door. Instantly John knew someone was robbing his house, so he grabbed the gun in his glove compartment and opened the door slowly.
First thing first, find the robbers or my valuables...
Inside were men speaking in Russian.
"Son of a bitch... There's nothing here."
Another crash fills the house, the shards of broken pots and vases now visible. The corridor was empty, but he could see through the shelving as three figures pushed overturned furnishings and dropped them. He knew they were looking for something, and he was about to give them their last sight.
*Gunshots*
Two well placed shots found their way and planted themselves into the chest of the invaders, killing them instantly. The last man looked around for the origin of the bullets, but couldn't as John flipped the man over. John tended to use Judo when he did hand to hand combat, the man now pinned with his own arms and disarmed. He was fluent in Russia, and wasn't afraid to interrogate him in said language.
"Who are you? What were you looking for?"
"Fuck you bitch whore-"
The interrogation so far didn't look like it was going well. The Russian figuratively and literally spat profanities at John, but John seemed unwavering. He gave him another question, but knew that he was the kind of person to not respond to interrogation.
"Are you going to talk?"
Now he was getting impatient as the man tried to escape the hold. Sadly, his flailing legs tightened the grip, causing him to choke out his next words.
"NEV-"
A clean elbow to his nose, which hindered his breathing further. The man started to cry out in pain as he finally collapsed under the pressure.
"YES! I'LL TALK!"
He told him that they were looking for his stash of gold coins and take anything of worth. He also noted that the house was empty, and the living room looked like a tornado had hit it. The man begged that he let him go, and so John did. He could've lived, but the man blew his chance as he picked up his friend's bat and swung.
"Die bit-"
John shot him in the head, the blood splattering across his wall. In the distance, he heard wheels skidding across the road, but ignored it. He sat himself up and called up his cleaners. When they arrived, he paid them three gold coins and decided to feed Daisy. He unloaded his groceries and opened up the dog food, pouring some into her dog bowl. He called out for her, but she didn't respond. A second call. No answer. At this point John is worried, and searches the house.
She's nowhere to be found...
The realization clicks in his head as he looks outside. There sat tire treads in the road in front of his house, his front door open. How had he not noticed this? That was his last thought as a bat cracked across his head...
These chapters are going to be split between perspectives...
They'll be marked by their respective letterings:
JW = John Wick
FF = Familiar of Zero
NP = Narrative Perspective
That's all!
Ciao!