A Script for The First Stroke

[SCENE START]

**INT. HIGH SCHOOL CORRIDOR - DAY**

SOUND of a locker door squeaking open

SAM (17), weary, stares into the void of his locker. The inside is beige, institutional. A faint, dark STAIN mars the bottom corner. The air is stale, smelling of disinfectant and gym socks.

He traces a finger along the cold, scuffed metal. His expression is numb. The low hum of fluorescent lights overhead is a constant irritant.

A jaunty, off-key WHISTLE approaches.

CASEY (17), all kinetic energy and easy confidence, rounds the corner. His backpack is slung so low it’s a tripping hazard. He leans against the adjacent locker, blocking the path. A smirk is already in place.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Morning, sunshine. You look like you're contemplating the futility of existence again. New Tuesday, new existential crisis?

Sam gestures vaguely at the stain inside his locker, his voice flat.

<center>SAM</center>

> Just admiring the craftsmanship. Remarkable, isn't it? The sheer tenacity of filth.

Casey peers in, scrunching his nose.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Right. Well, try to keep it together. Henderson's got a pop quiz planned for first period. War of 1812. Bet you're thrilled.

Sam lets out a short, mirthless laugh.

<center>SAM</center>

> Thrilled doesn't cover it. My soul is doing a little jig of joy.

He SLAMS his locker shut. The sound echoes, sharp and final, in the emptying corridor. He hates this predictability.

Outside the hallway windows, autumn leaves are plastered like wet paper to the damp pavement. Dying, changing.

<center>CASEY</center>

> You're in one of your moods. What's the damage this time? Did your favourite band break up?

Sam starts walking. Casey falls into step beside him.

<center>SAM</center>

> (muttering)

> Worse. I think *I* broke up. With... everything.

Casey stops dead. Sam almost bumps into him.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Whoa. Deep. What are we talking here? Renouncing processed foods? Giving up caffeine? Let's not be rash.

Sam nudges him forward.

<center>SAM</center>

> Not that kind of deep. I mean, the whole routine. The expectations. The path. It just feels… wrong.

He runs a hand through his hair. The school feels stifling, too warm.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Wrong how? Like, you're secretly a prince of a forgotten kingdom? Or more like, you realised you'd rather herd goats than do calculus?

<center>SAM</center>

> (voice drops)

> More like… I'm living someone else's script. And I keep waiting for the director to yell 'cut,' but they never do. And I'm just… acting out the same scene every single day.

He kicks at a scuff on the polished linoleum floor. They arrive at the history classroom door. MR. HENDERSON (50s, tired) is already at his desk.

Casey gestures for Sam to go in first, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

<center>CASEY</center>

> So, what's the plan, then, Method Actor? Audition for a new role? Burn down the theatre?

Sam pauses, his hand on the cold metal door handle. A strange, electric spark ignites behind his eyes.

<center>SAM</center>

> Maybe both.

He pushes the door open and walks in.

**INT. HISTORY CLASSROOM - CONTINUOUS**

The room smells of stale coffee and marker pens. Sam slides into his seat at the back, by a window streaked with dried rain. It blurs the view of a dying oak tree outside.

He watches a single, rust-colored leaf detach, twirling slowly, effortlessly, to the wet grass below.

He pulls out a notebook. His gaze drifts across the room to JESSE (17), captain of the football team, laughing easily with a friend. Jesse thrives here. He fits.

Sam reaches into his backpack. A crinkling sound. He pulls out a crumpled, colorful FLYER.

CLOSE ON THE FLYER

It reads: "AUTUMN ARTS COLLECTIVE." Underneath, in a thick, confident font: "OPEN MIC NIGHT. Poetry. Music. Anything. **Just Show Up.**"

The words feel like a dare.

Mr. Henderson DRONES ON in the background about a treaty. Sam hides the flyer under his arm, scribbling aimlessly in his notebook.

**INT. CAFETERIA - LUNCH**

The NOISE is a cacophony of chatter and clattering trays. Sam picks at a soggy sandwich. Casey sits opposite him, mid-anecdote.

<center>CASEY</center>

> --and then he said, "The British weren't just fighting for land, they were fighting for… *honour*!"

> (mimicking Henderson)

> Honour. Really? In a war about beaver pelts?

<center>SAM</center>

> (weak chuckle)

> Some honour. Probably just wanted warmer hats.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Exactly! So, about your whole 'break up with everything' thing. You actually gonna do anything about it, or is this just another deep thought that ends with you re-watching that documentary about competitive knitting?

Sam pushes his plate away. His stomach clenches.

<center>SAM</center>

> Maybe I am. There's this… open mic thing. Friday night. At the old warehouse place.

Casey chokes on a bite of his apple. He coughs, eyes wide.

<center>CASEY</center>

> The warehouse? Seriously? That place is crawling with art school dropouts and people who wear too much patchouli. You, Sam? You're going to… recite poetry?

<center>SAM</center>

> (defensive)

> I don't know what I'm going to do. Maybe I'll just go. See what it's like.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Yeah, 'just listen.'

> (a beat)

> This is either going to be epic, or epically embarrassing. I'm in.

Sam looks up, genuinely surprised.

<center>SAM</center>

> You're in? I thought you'd mock me mercilessly.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Oh, I will. But I'm also not going to let you face that kind of cultural shock alone. Someone's gotta document the unraveling.

**INT. ART CLASSROOM - LATER**

The room smells of turpentine and lavender. Sam stares at a blank white canvas on an easel. It feels vast, demanding.

MS. DAVISON (40s), paint on her smock, peers over his shoulder.

<center>MS. DAVISON</center>

> Having trouble, Sam?

<center>SAM</center>

> Just… too much white. Too many possibilities. Or not enough.

<center>MS. DAVISON</center>

> (a knowing hum)

> Sometimes, the blankness is the hardest part. It demands something, doesn't it? A decision. A first stroke.

She moves on. The words hang in the air. *A first stroke.*

Sam picks up a thick piece of CHARCOAL. The black dust coats his fingertips. He presses it to the canvas.

He draws a single, jagged, broken line, slashing across the white. Then another, intersecting it. And more. A tangled, chaotic mess of sharp angles. It’s not pretty. It's a disruption.

**MONTAGE**

- INT. SAM'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Rain PATTERS against the window. Sam sits at his desk, staring at a blank journal. He scribbles a line, hates it, CRUMPLES the page violently. Throws it at a growing pile on the floor.

- EXT. WAREHOUSE DISTRICT - LATE AFTERNOON

The sky is a bruised, purple-grey. Sam walks down a street lined with crumbling brick factories. Graffiti covers every surface, a chaotic tapestry of defiance. This is a different world.

He finds the warehouse. A single, brightly lit entrance glows in the twilight. Muffled SOUNDS—an acoustic guitar, a passionate voice, laughter—drift out.

He stands across the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The cold autumn air bites at his skin.

He could turn back. Go home. Let the idea die. The thought is unbearable. It feels like surrender.

He takes a deep breath, the damp air filling his lungs. His heart HAMMERS against his ribs.

He crosses the street. Stands before the heavy metal door.

Now or never.

He pushes the door. It groans open.

**INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT**

He steps inside.

It’s a shock to the senses. A wave of humid, cloying warmth. The smell of sweat, old wood, stale beer, and strong coffee.

The room is a chaotic jumble of mismatched chairs and standing bodies, cast in dim, colored lights.

On a makeshift stage at the far end, a GIRL WITH PURPLE HAIR recites poetry into a microphone under a single, harsh spotlight. Her voice is like broken glass.

<center>GIRL WITH PURPLE HAIR</center>

> ...the concrete sighs, and the rust weeps orange tears for a future that never arrived...

For a second, every eye is on Sam, the newcomer silhouetted in the doorway. Then they turn back to the stage. He feels clumsy, an intruder.

He spots Casey leaning against a brick wall, nursing a paper cup. Casey sees him, grins wide, and gives a slow, encouraging thumbs-up.

The girl finishes her poem. Enthusiastic APPLAUSE, a few whistles.

A wiry HOST with a long beard and a denim jacket steps into the light.

<center>HOST</center>

> Beautiful stuff! Alright, who's next? Don't be shy, folks! The mic is open, the stage is yours. Come on up, step into the light!

The room holds its breath. The Host gestures to the empty, waiting stage.

Sam's heart POUNDS in his ears. His palms are slick with sweat. He has nothing prepared. No poem, no song. Just a raw, terrifying urge.

He feels Casey’s eyes on him. He feels the curious gaze of strangers.

He takes one hesitant step forward.

Then another.

The spotlight on the stage is a blinding white sun. He can feel its heat from here. His throat is desert-dry.

He keeps walking, moving through the crowd, a wave of nervous, electric energy coursing through him.

He knows, with absolute certainty, that whatever happens next, nothing will ever be the same.

CLOSE ON SAM'S FACE

Terrified. Determined. He doesn't look away from the light.

[SCENE END]