I'm not sure of the rules to this public blog so forgive me if I am doing something wrong, I'm working on two screenplays and this is the start of one of them.

FADE IN:
INT. BEDROOM - MORNING
SOUND of a clock radio alarm buzzing repeatedly.
CLOSE-UP of a AMY HARRIS, 25, beautiful, tall, thin and athletic, laying in bed, just waking, she opens her eyes, they are stunning, bright blue.
Amy grimaces and stretch, moans softly. Next to her, JAK ROBERTSON, 36, slightly feminine in features but pleasant looking enough, tall with just a slight pauch, is sleeping in fetal postion facing away from her.
Amy reaches over and slaps the alarm off, Jak stirs. Amy moves towards Jak, spoons him.
AMY
(whispering)
Wake up baby.
CUT TO Jak in bed, same position, but alone, his eyes open.
The clock radio alarm is still buzzing repeatedly. Jak starts to turn to look next to him, but before he has completely turned, he realizes Amy is not there. He looks at the ceiling, dejected, he reaches over and slaps the alarm off.
INT. HALLWAY - MINUTES LATER
Jak groggily lumbers from the bedroom, hair askew, holding a towel, wearing pj bottoms. Rubbing his eyes with his free hand, he slowly walks past the bathroom door, dropping the towel as he passes.
INT. STUDY - SAME SCENE
Jak walks to a desk with a PC, unorganized correspondance, bills all over it, 7-11 coffee cups, cell phone, house phone, big mess. Jak leans over the desk and clicks on the mouse to get the PC screen going, opens to his email, where he checks his in-box to see no new messages. He sighs, puts his head down.
Jak sits own and starts to compose a message, it says "Amy, another day, and you're still dead. Every day I do this. Why? I know it's crazy, I can't help it though. Does anyone else write to you, I wonder. Will gmail some day notice nothing ever goes out from your address and close the account? Everything still hurts like hell and I can't even imagine not wanting it to hurt. If I stop hurting, then I'll really have lost you. I miss you."
Jak hits send, checks his sent mail, we see emails to Amy every day.
INT. BATHROOM - MINUTES LATER
Standing in the shower, Jak turns on a water-proof ipod and selects a song, it is 'Fidelty' by Regina Spector.
JAK (V.O.)
My name is Jak Robertson and this is my story. The word story just doesn't seem like a good enough word to me for what I'm about to describe actually. I'd rather use something like epic of biblical proportions or the extraordinary tale of a man's journey through love and hate, good and evil blah blah - you get the picture - but really, that's all it is, a story. Just a story. My story. Everybody has a story. I guess that's what all our lives are, thousands of little stories, one after another. Most are mundane like "I got up in the morning, showered, went to work, traffic sucked". Some are slightly more interesting, like "there was a guy at 7-11 and he shouted at the dude behind the counter because they were out of toilet paper and the dude behind the counter told him to f**k off and get out, then the guy asked to talk to his manager and the dude told him he owned the joint, then the customer called him a stupid towel-head and stormed out", Yeah, there are funny stories, sad stories, tragic stories, a lot of boring stories, and thats what all our lives amount to, just a string of stories making up one big story. Sometimes I wonder if the sum of all these stories means anything, that maybe all of our stories essentially should just be, "he was born, he lived, and he died". I don't like to think about it that way. A million years from now when the planet earth will have probably run it's course and no longer is even a memory, will any of our stories matter? Probably not, but I like to think that they will somehow. I don't know how or in what way but my story is all I have so it's important to me. Maybe there's a moral to this story, maybe by telling it, I'll give something to someone else that changes their story somehow. Maybe something good will come of my story, I don't know. All I know is, this is the story of one of the 41 years in my big story and I want to tell it.