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CYRUS S1.2C2: The Room is Stockholm

[1967.]


{The room Cyrus was kept in had 1 window. It was wide with no curtains. So Cyrus gazed out of it. He'd sometimes look at the architectural design in the corners of the windows. This facility had just recently gone aboard of the human-impact resistant windows trend. Waiting for Detective Pitts to return.}






[2017.]


CURTIS: Here's the old basketball Cyrus and I shared, haha. You could see where he -- I don't know what it was, but he would always peel off the rubber a little bit.


LIZ: ... Why didn't you tell me... his father was shot on the front porch?


CURTIS: ...


LIZ: And he was there?


{Tears and a weak core. The more Liz questioned, the more unstable she became.}


LIZ: He watched it... happen.


CURTIS: ... Cyrus didn't talk about it much. But I knew.


LIZ: Why didn't you tell me!?--


CURTIS: DON'T--... If Cyrus were here, maybe you could have asked him.


{The look Curtis gave Liz in this moment; judgement of blame. Liz could not respond. Curtis left Liz standing there frozen in her guilt. Stepping past Liz and all you could hear was the underattachments of the carpet as he stepped past Liz and out of the room with his cellphone now in his eyes. Liz did not turn to watch him leave. All she could see was her faults visually through the veil of tears in her eyes.}


CURTIS: Hello?.. Yeah... Hello? Can you hear me? Sully?


{Liz listened as Curtis's voice began to become the coordinating sound with her inner pain as he spoke on the phone in the hallway. Then whispering...}


CURTIS: Yeah, she's here now. You really gotta learn how to start texting, man. This isn't 1982 anymore... I know, I know, had to have been a great year-- but yeah, she's here now. Are you on your way?.. Okay can you come and get her? Pick her up? Take her home?


{Liz walked a few steps, scoured the room once again, and then sat on Cyrus's sports blanket on his mattress filled with different types of sports equipment. Even in this daunting time, Cyrus brought an upchucking of hard uncontainable shots of air from the nose of Liz. So severe, her face exploded.}


LIZ: ... ahahaha... Ahahahaha.



CURTIS: ... okay, sounds awesome. See you then... okay... okay... gotcha... Okay, bye.


{Curtis returned to Cyrus's room and leaned against the doorway.}


LIZ: Did Cy' ever really grow up? Ahahaha.


{Curtis smiles.}


CURTIS: ... No. No not at all... hey I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's not your fault. Cyrus was an adult, and he made his own decisions. I'm just...--


LIZ: Sad. Upset. I know... me too.





[1967.]



*Bump, bump, bump*


{Detective Pitts had returned with chair in one hand, and coffee in the other. Cyrus turned to slightly see Pitts grapple with a gallop that looked natural enough to appeal an alpha status. Cyrus followed every movement he made.}


CYRUS: Welcome back.


DETECTIVE PITTS: ... Okay... you ready to start answering some questions?


CYRUS: Only if you're prepared to not receive any answers.


DETECTIVE PITTS: ... Haha. Funny. I think you'll figure out what's best for you-- don'tchu think?


{Cyrus shrugs.}


DETECTIVE PITTS: How did you know the mother and the child in the picture?


{Pitts sat his coffee on the ground next to him and licked the excess coffee from the brim of his top lip then leaned back over the back of the chair as he sat with the spinal support of the chair facing Cyrus directly. Cyrus now deliberately showing agitation.}


CYRUS: Wha-- I do not know them! I have explained this to you. What are we doing here?


DETECTIVE PITTS: So you are confirming it was indeed "Your Partner"? Ahuh, and where's "Your Partner"?


CYRUS: WHAT "PARTNER"!?


DETECTIVE PITTS: ... I think you better watch your tone in here.


{Pitts spotted a nurse walking past as a curly haired red headed woman peered through the window of the door to Cyrus's room. Then, she continued on.}


DETECTIVE PITTS: You know, black hair, about 6'1"? Ruggish looks? Tries to look all pretty like a woman?


CYRUS: I honestly have--...


{Just then in this moment, it hit Cyrus. But it couldn't be... no way in hell this could be. But then again, how many serial killers did he know fit that description? Worth a try, right?}


CYRUS: ... You... you mean... mid length hair, with too much gel?


{Pitts shrugs aggressively.}


DETECTIVE PITTS: I'm not a beutician.


CYRUS: I mean but--

DETECTIVE PITTS: He definitely wears a lot of hair gel.--

CYRUS: Yeah, I figured.--


DETECTIVE PITTS: Yeah, yeah. Works as a mechanic-- well, used to work as a mechanic down at the auto shop.


CYRUS: (No fucking way.) What is-- what is the name of this "auto shop"?


{Pitts takes out his notepad he had stored away in his coat pocket that he would conveniently pull thoughts from and write down thoughts and notes from questions he asked. Cyrus noticed he wasn't the "greatest detective". His strategies seemed off-putting, and he made a ton of assumptions.

He flipped through the poorly manufactured yellow pages with thin blue lines horizontal, and a thin red vertical line down the left-hand starters side of each page. He paused to read what he had.}


DETECTIVE PITTS: "Henry's Auto Parts". That ring any bells to you?


CYRUS: (It has to be him.) And... and. The eyes. What color are his eyes?


{Cyrus could distinctively remember the color of those eyes. How could he ever forget them. If they were the same color, it had to be "him".


The questioner realized he was finally getting somewhere towards productivity. So he ignored his irritation.}


DETECTIVE PITTS: His eyes were... "Gray"?


CYRUS: ...


DETECTIVE PITTS: ... Do you remember him now? His name is... "IGOR HANNICK".


CYRUS: I will remember him even more when you tell me where he is.

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