Working Dialogue to Movie

I've envisioned this corresponding with scenes, so the narrative won't be too descriptive. This is all narrative, running through the guy's head.

The main character is an assassin whose job is to make deaths look like accidents. I've imagined the hit to be Caucasian, a business man in a suit. Enjoy, and comment.

Awake. Eyes open. Vision blurry. Ringing in my ears drowning out the sounds of yelling. Can see people running.

I'm lying on my stomach. Head hurts, sharp pains in my right arm and chest. Eyes jerk around room sporadically. There's holes in the wall, large ones. I can see outside. A bright blue sky, the roofs of buildings. I'm up high.

Ears still ringing. Shift to my side. Vision clearing. There's a thick layer of dust falling on the floor, disturbed by the previously detonated bomb. There are still people.

Gun. Pistol. It's silver. Some memory that made it over form the explosion tells me that it has ten rounds left in it. I shift my shoulders and legs to inch my way closer to it. Ow. Pain. Reach arm out, slap palm down on grip. Four fingers close, one rests on trigger.

Stand up. More pain. The gun is by my side, tight in my grip.

Figures this would happen. Figures that he;d leave the room for a "bathroom break" and the bomb would go off prematurely. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

There he is. Standing, right in front of me; his eyes, frightened, darting around the room, but knowing that someone here was meant to kill him- he just doesn't know who. Better do it now.

Where do shoot him? this whole thing was supposed to look like an accident- set it to those parameters. No headshot, that'll make it look like an assassination. Not the heart.

Lung's good. [Muffled bang] Shoulder too? Eh, sure. [Slightly louder bang] Eight rounds left. I've gotta get outta here. Hearing returning. Shouts getting louder. [Walks over to large hole in wall] Everything's speeding up.

[Looks down] Twelve stories. This isn't going to be pretty. [Shouting from stairwell, gunfire] Sh-t, that was quick. Never knew these Middle Eastern policemen to be much for punctuality. [Looks down] There's a nice little stack of hay.

Why didn't I pack a parachute?

[Steps over edge, and falls, in slow motion]

I could have anything else. Why couldn't I have wanted a normal job as a kid, a freaking pediatrician or vet or astronaut? Hell, being the president would be a safer job than this. Being an assassin's not really something you plan your life for. Not for some. Some just... fall into it.

[His body makes impact with the ground. The screen goes blank]

For many, their first job is rarely their first kill. I was twenty. [A shot of him, lounging on a couch] A slacker. Freshly fired, freshly dumped, and a stagnant stench of alcohol and weed hanging about the apartment.

I remember everything. Dressing all in black, ripping the price tag off of the gun. Going to the address.

His name was Herman Walters. He was my boss.

[CU of a dead face, bullet hole through forehead]

He had fired me. Because of him, Monica had left me.

I was never good at anything, and never felt compelled enough to try. But that night- I covered up the evidence, so meticulously, so methodically- it felt right. It felt good. I was good at something. There was a strange adrenaline rush, but my body wasn't moving on its own. This was me.

[Overhead shot of him laying in bed, trembling. Slowly zooms towards eyes]

I remember laying awake that night, trembling beneath the covers, body jerking at ever siren. I was terrified- but there wasn't any guilt. Even though all that terror and panic of the first night, no guilt got through.

I had told myself, over and over again, on the way to his house- "He deserves this. The bastard deserves this. It's population control. Do it. Do it."

I hadn't expected myself to believe it.