Nightcomer

ROWENA (VOICEOVER): Los Angeles looks better at night.

At night, it's beautiful.

It's the City of Angels because you can't see the demons out

there in the dark.

Do you know what it's like to be in hell?

You have an illness.

Maybe it's more of an addiction.

Something that you can't understand,

except that it's powerful and it makes you do things.

More things than I dreamt of.

Things that no one will believe are true.

But they are.

I ride up Union Station every night.

But inside, there are plenty of dark corners.

Why are these people here in the middle of the night?

Arriving or leaving?

At least they have a destination.

They know where they're going.

What's up?

Oh, you misread me.

I don't think I did.

Don't make me say it again.

Sorry.

My mistake.

ROWENA (VOICEOVER): I don't know what it was, a bad feeling?

I had to hurry, to run, just to get away.

Are you following me?

Obviously.

What for?

That should be obvious, too.

Well, if it were, I wouldn't ask the question.

What are you doing?

Are you working a territory or are you just wandering around?

Don't let the outfit confuse you.

I'm not a hooker.

I'm not confused.

I know what you are.

Answer the question.

What are you talking about?

I said I know what you are.

Don't be coy.

You're new at this, aren't you?

There's plenty to go around, so stay out of Union Station.

Plenty of what to go around?

Quite a grip.

That's all right.

There's plenty of blood to go around.

I work the trains.

Keeps bodies from piling up in my neighborhood.

No.

What?

You thinking there were no others like us around?

You're cute, so I'll cut you some slack.

But don't let me see you again.

Unless you want to party.

ROWENA (VOICEOVER): You don't think any of this is real,

do you?

That the streets could be filled with something more than night,

and there's nothing out there to see

except empty buses, a few hookers and pushers hiding

from the cops in the shadows.

[MUSIC - NICOLE GORDON, "PAINTED SAINT"]

The system mops up the tears from beneath the wooden saint.

She squeezes out her mouth and dries off the paint.

In this musty, old shack you can hear a spider crawl,

but it's the moonlight streaming through the windows that casts

its shadow down the halls.

The chapel sits upon a hill which overlooks the fields

where workers labeled for their souls

underneath the hills of those who knew

the power and the value of a shrine

light a candle on the altar, pass the chalice, sip the wine.

It leans against a cool wall upon its gilded stand.

But beneath the painted smile there's blood on its hands.

Air's heavy with confessions as she stands still in the nave

and empties a bucket into the baptismal font and mutters,

Jesus saves.

Her fingers are old and knotty, but her grip

is tight and sure, sure as the faith that brings

the cripple for the cure.

It leans against a cool wall upon its gilded stand.

But beneath the painted smile there's blood on its hands.

Blood on its hands.

Why are you shooting when I'm in the bathroom?

I turned it on to check the battery level.

But we could just do it, if you're OK with that.

How was the room upstairs?

I hope it wasn't too cold.

Just the toilet seat.

Otherwise cozy.

So when did this all start?

Wow.

No prelims?

You want some?

Um, OK.

Today is December 8, 2013.

My name is William Broner and I'm producing a documentary

called "Blood Cure."

I am speaking with Rowenna.

Rowena.

Just Rowena.

OK?

With Just Rowena.

This is the preliminary interview

prior to any field shoot to discuss her physical

and mental condition.

And for you, it's more mental than physical.

I'm not taking a position.

ROWENA (VOICEOVER): Of course not.

Well, what you said in the park

was pretty outlandish.

Well, you've already interviewed

a bunch of those people.

What do they call themselves, sanguines?

Some of them, yes.

I'm not that.

Fair enough.

You're so glib.

What do you think I'm going to tell you?

I really don't know.

If I had a preconception, would you tell me what

you thought I wanted to hear?

Not a chance.

Well, then.

How do you know Andrew?

He did some legal work on my last picture.

You were still engaged then, weren't you?

Why don't you tell me about something

that happened yesterday?

Such as what?

Anything.

What makes a normal day for you?

Normal?

I'll rephrase.

A typical day?

A day in the life?

In the life.

Is there someone out there who's

your friend, who you like?

There's Eddie.

Eddie?

Yes.

Eddie.

Coleson?

No.

Wells.

Eddie Wells.

Damn, girl!

What you want to come up on a man like that for?

You scared the bejeezus out of me.

The bejeezus?

What are you doing around here, anyway?

I'm hungry.

Yeah, well, Mickey D's still right around the corner.

Too funny, Eddie.

You worried about your cholesterol?

Oh, really too funny.

Look, I need help.

It has not been a good night.

Damn, girl.

What do you want to keep doing this shit for?

Why couldn't you just leave it alone?

We're just like you.

I'm just trying to get by.

No, you ain't.

You ain't like me.

Well, what do you want me to say?

How about the truth of it?

You need that special fix.

Ah, I guess there wasn't nothin' for me in these glad rags,

anyway.

That special fix?

What happens if you don't get it?

Nothing good.

It's not like this is something that I woke up

one morning and decided to do.

Isn't it?

How did it start?

I already told you that.

On the record, please.

Earlier this year-- May.

The 24th, to be exact.

Time of day?

Evening, night, just after 10:00.

You were attending a class.

Yes, a law class about TRIPs-- trade-related

intellectual property rights.

And the professor?

Not a professor.

The lecturer.

He asked me to stay after class and discuss my proposed paper.

Do you have a minute, he said.

Now I've got all the time in the world, time

to wander, wait for it to catch up to me, maybe kill me.

Earlier you asked me if I knew

what it was like to be in hell.

Do you know what it's like every waking

moment confused and pained?

You glide through your world thinking it must be a dream.

Can't possibly be real.