ACT I
Hours
seemed to have elapsed, even though the clocks, all of them, every damn single
one, are screaming at me, indicating that only thirteen minutes and twenty-five
seconds are missing. Staring at the
wall, I don’t think of arterial spray, I’m imagining myself back at the MOMA
and falling in love all over again. My
feet seem to sink deep within the tiled walkway that connects this living area
to the open-air freedom of the world outside.
My hips don’t want to move forward. Instead they seem to have lost that
capability, caring not for progress, which, I must now question how much was
actually made this afternoon. The
details are still foggy, all of them.
Yet pieces return as each second longer I stand awakened. The scent disturbs me. This I know.
Yet I am numb to the visions. I
feel as if cotton swabs are pressed within the ears and yet, still, the ringing
tolls of bell-like clangs continuously ring, over and over again, like the
stories told from those sufferers of tinitis.
I believe it must be something close to what I am hearing now. The intensity quivers, wavering between blare
and flat line.
I
press my hand to the clear-through door, watching the blades of uncut grass
move as if the world is no longer as fluid as I always felt it to be. It stands tall, each blade erect, moving, as
slow as a windless day could possibly induce. I’m leaning upon the door. Breath seems to stutter. I feel the skipping beats from beneath my
chest. I open the door, sliding it only
enough to slip out into this other world mere inches from where this thinly
framed glass had portioned me from. I
remove my right hand from the glass itself and notice my palm print embroidered in vivid red.
I look at the right hand, then to the left, then both arms and they are
no longer fleshy pink, but bright, bright blackish red, smeared upon me. I bend my neck downward, and notice my
clothing is also dyed…
ACT II.
“I
thought I told you to arrive at five”
{this is phil, marcus’ little brother. Nothing like him. he looks awful. What the hell is he quibbling over fourteen
minutes for.} “I apologize for making
you wait”
“Well,
so what took you so long”
{really, still, just shut up
and let’s do this thing} “traffic”
“somehow
I don’t believe you. You know you don’t
have the most trusting of eyes. And
remember, you weren’t my choice. You’re
being here is all because of Marcus”
{bet he didn’t tell you why. He thinks you’re a cad. Your own brother hates you. I want to feel sorry for you, but you make
that impossible} “ and I can’t thank him enough, I really need this, so thank
you for not fighting him over my being here, I appreciate that and I won’t let
you down.”
“I
don’t know what he told you about me. I
don’t really care. But if we’re to work
together I have to trust you. And you’re
off to a pathetic start. (a few beats
pass as he leaves the room)
{what in God’s name is he doing back there. I should just go in there. Slow down, slow down. Let’s see where this goes. I never should got caught up in this. But I do need the money. The house, the marriage, the kids.} (yelling) “you need me to come back there.”
(door
swings open. he returns) “you ready to gain my trust.”
{let’s just get on with this} “absolutely”
“ok.
Then follow me” (leading me through the door)
{a kitchen, connected to a living room. Where they heck’s he taking me. This is bordering lunacy. Could’ve been done and back home by now} (we stop in the living room, where a chair in
the center of the room is positioned. A
police officer, already worked over, is tied securely to it.) (phil pulls out a
gun. Wipes it down. Hands it to me) {oh, what the….I didn’t sign up for this}
“ok.
Show your worth. Prove you can be trusted.
Put this dog down”
{what. What. No. WTF.} “look, this is supposed to
be simple. We get in and out, crack the
safe split it up and leave. I never
agreed to off someone.”
“he’s
dead either way. You’re choosing whether
or not I leave here with one or two bodies behind. Your choice.”
{I think of Marie. Michael and Michelle. I try to think back to when we first
met. I can’t get there. I’m standing under a bridge. And the water is
not water, it’s blood and the ferry men is stopped} (I take the gun) “this is BS, you know this. I’m not a killer. Completely uncalled for.”
“we
don’t got all day. Get this show on the road.
I wanna get home and watch the voice, and I forgot to add the extra 15
minutes, and you know, it always goes over, DVR cutting it off right when it’s
good”
(A
jingling of keys is heard. A door opens
up. Racing in, a young couple each
carrying groceries and a little girl. There wasn’t any time to run and hide. They
came in the room and faced us there.
Groceries hit the floor. Something broke. Little girl screams. Policeman is violently thrashing about in the
chair. Phil unloads four shots. First the
policemen, then the kid and the father.
The mother was dropped mid scream.
I turn and unload two quick shots into Phil. He gets a last shot off. It hits me, and I fall)
{confused. Like back in school. Lunchtime. Cruel, cruel
kids. Marie, michelle, Michael.
Christmas eve. Opening presents. Cold,
like when you sit on your leg for too long, but worse. Trying to keep myself
awake. Crawling. Have to crawl…} "marie…sorry…"
Over at D'verse, I'm hosting Poetics tonight and I thought it would be interesting to try and combine Acting and Poetry, using First Person Narrative as the vehicle. Stop on by, read the article I posted, and give it a try. I'd love to see what others are able to do with this idea. See you over there.
