The original short story that inspired the film

This piece of writing is the original short story that was submitted as my (Tommy) Personal Imaginative coursework for Year 11. Although some minor details have been changed, it remains the same basic idea through the film and is considerably faithful to the original piece.

Thirty six years previous Pip sat alone. His room was small, bleak. At six years of age, Pip’s identity was beginning to form. Some habits would carry with him until the grave. This day was a good day, however. The currently optimistic small and blonde haired boy had recently found the wonders of drawing, having kept the broken and blunted pencil from school that no one else wanted; much – he thought – like himself. This day Pip did not see stripped, colourless walls. He no longer saw shades of gray. He saw a masterpiece. His corner was his studio and for now, absence of colours would not hold him back.
Thirty six years of progression found Pip still drawing, though less optimistic. Not only had his age progressed: as had his artistic talent. What was previously a childish montage was now a myriad of vibrant colours, consisting of a broad range of Pip’s everyday observations (though only those bursting with love and squalor.) Initially a set of walls, his surroundings had transformed into a gallery and, within the hour, Pip would head to the park to await new inspiration. Much like every other day.
Thirty six years of repetition. Rather than describe every day previous, this is where the tale begins as, initially, the song remains the same. Donning a thick, snow trimmed crimson parker, despite constant, dripping sweat caused by the painful season, Pip made way to the common. While his strands of gold had only blossomed, long since passing his shoulder blades, apparently growth had not similarly favoured him; his stunted, skinny figure barely reached five foot two. To most, this skeleton of a man seemed awful strange not even considering his peculiar routine. Because of this, his stride was short and travel was slow. After a consistent seventeen minute walk, from door to seating, Pip arrived at his bench. His personal, everyday seating.
Thirty six years of the same scenery. Directly in front of him drew a rainbow-coloured children’s playground; like moths to a flame it was horded by the easily amused. Beside it the moths matured: a less exciting blue-themed swing, holding up eight hope-to-be Tarzans. There seemed to be little demand, yet it was never empty. Beside this, drawing closer to him as if each area purposely towered him, imprisoned teens boasted their ability in kicking a ball as far and as accurately as possible. Though these were really just the boys, the girls stood to the side cheering on their selected partner. Now, directly behind Pip groans and thumps were continuous. Several courts housed every adult who longed for a sense of worth and enjoyment. But this was just tennis. Finally, smaller than the playground to its right, couples and their screaming, wheeled sources of life united upon golden pits and assortment of coloured block shapes. This was the cycle of life, and Pip observed it every day.
Thirty six years but only four consisting of Robin. While Pip had not had much experience, he was sure of something: Pip loved Robin. Robin had been coming to the park for four years now and Pip had never not been fascinated by her. While he had no intention of perusing his interest, it did not matter: she was needle in a haystack; a diamond in a sea of gold. What Pip liked most, quite simply, was that Robin noticed him. It did not matter as to what her justifications were, be it his awkward appearance or his never-ending scribbles, he still loved it. Similarly he noticed her. He knew of her graceful skip, or her twirl. She was an everyday ballerina. She seemingly didn’t mind his gaze; it was like she appreciated his child-like fondness. The butterfly of a woman – with her angelic figure and her symmetric, cream face – was dictator of the strange man’s wonderful mind; his emotions and feelings, his thoughts and worries, and she never once considered the consequences. Even if it killed him, she giggled and waved; she was the sweetest of fascists.
Thirty six years of familiarity and only one day for it to change. One day of hope. Usually, the goblin-hunched outcast would head straight home and begin his daily strife – today would be different. Today his pencil would remain blunt, his weapon of choice forgotten. Enter Robin: she glowed a checkered charcoal and white waist coast concealing a puffed, crimson shirt. Beneath, black jeans clearly too small for her over proportioned body were pushed to their limits; they were quite suggestive, no doubt a lure (though Pip had not so much as considered it.) “Excuse me,” she said, sweetly perching beside our hero, though there was no need – he had followed her movement since her entrance; he knew of her coming and had already adjusted position. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she continued, “but what is it you spend so much time drawing?” His blank page held no clues. A cluster of emotions hit the poor, lonely dweller.
“You” was his somewhat belated response, in return receiving an – albeit seemingly slightly confused – warming smile in return.
Thirty six minutes later, Pip laid motionless, scarlet splattered ashtray in hand, staring at the beautiful corpse beside him. His mind drifted to the immediate past, considering the selfishness of his wrong-doings. She had been kind enough, after all, to invite him in and flatter a noticeable starved wreck with a buffet of biscuits and similarly smiled snacks. Such hospitality was appreciated, but Pip couldn’t help being brought to tears – he’d never felt so loved, ever. She had comforted, and he lunged. He’d say monster embraced him, but it was really just a little boy in a stripped, colourless room. Both then and now, he didn’t regret it – anything. He let the plastic bottle slip to the bed and outstretched his hand, groping hers beside. Their fingers entwined, he reached around the back of her head and hugged her towards him. Together they laid.