Dying Monologue

The horn has already sounded and I’m still running. I can feel my blood pulsing in my ears. The sounds of useless advice feels the air. I continue to run. I come across a cave and ran into it. I gasp in shock and as I walk into a lab filled with mindless people editing videos. A film crew rushes at me and says, “If you were able to be in Divergent, which character would you be?” I shake my head in confusion. I attempt to back up slowly, but they grab me and place me in front of a computer and yell, “Edit!” The slam the headphones on my head and everything becomes a blur.

I don’t like to reminisce on the event, yet when iris plastered all over the papers, 25 years after the incident, I can’t help but remember the affair. Even though I have tried to move on, it will always be a part of my past. A dark, grim, part of it that haunts me up to this day.

Thornton Wilder, a Wisconsin native, is the writer of the Pulitzer Prize winner play Our Town. In Our Town, Wilder tells the story of a town in Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, and the daily lives of the inhabitants. In the play, the author uses minimal props and scenery as well as including a main character known as the Stage Manager that has the ability to break the fourth wall, allowing him to talk to the audience. This factor of talking to the audience is a major component of making the public a part of the town. Throughout the play, there are many instances in which the Stage Manager uses various cues as well as dialogues to incorporate the audience and develop an intimate relationship to create a true sense of “our town”.

Hello Robyn! I've read about running, it is not simple at all, I thought running is just left foot, right foot, breath. But actually, it's science!

At seventeen, I don’t really think about death. Obviously I know that people die and it’s tragic and heartbreaking, but I think I have made myself numb to the idea of death. I have known loss and I have felt the pain of the death of a loved one. My brother Michael died when he was twelve, and I have felt his loss everyday since. But I was so young at the time, only two years old. I have grown up knowing that pain, so I feel like I am almost used to it. However, that didn’t prepare me for Sydney’s death.

Gone Too Soon…. Why? Why, did you have to go? You left me for no reason, but it wasn’t your fault there wasn’t any chance to revive you, but to let you go….

My life was flashing before my eyes, I was realizing what was happening death was coming. Cold and stillness filled the room while the feeling of death started to overtake my body it was a different feeling but it had to come. My limbs felt heavy and I thought real slow everything was slowing down. Just then something odd happened like nothing I ever thought some sound came into the room an annoying buzzing creature.

Surrounded by crowds of people sharing the same thought; are we really getting home today? Pepsi is too anxious. Vomiting all over himself and his new uniform. Sunshine lays into him, cussing and screaming. Laughter erupts! Growing rowdier as Doc yells “No matter what don’t stop us now, I’ll fix him”. Close knit groups of friends are scattered around having vivid discussions of the first thing they are going to do when they’re finally off. Grady chimes in on a conversation with his deep southern accent trying to imitate his favorite musician, DJ Screw saying “Man shiiitttt first thing I’m going to do is grab me a bottle, some shrimp, and sit my ass in the tub”. Craw Daddy can’t help but tease Grady, by reminding him to lay off the alcohol

Staring out into the crowd, lights scorching my face as I recited the big monologue that led to my inevitable suicide, time stopped, and I finally realized that I love what I do, and I wouldn’t have made it here without him. He pushed me harder and harder, each time making it more difficult to meet his expectations for greatness, but I know he did it to make me a better performer, and I appreciate that every day. When I’m stuck in that pit of problems, whether it is about my inner obstacles or life in general that wraps its soul crushing tentacle binding me internally, he is there to free me from my internal shackles. With his guidance, I broke out of my shell and literally found a voice of my own.

“Sweetie? Where are you going?” I heard my mother’s faint voice call out from the kitchen. I was standing at the front door, halfway through opening it when I heard her voice. It was Oli’s, my best friend’s, birthday and her, Angelo, and Dante, were going to Las Vegas to spend her special weekend.

Before and After Free at first, then next taken away Walking to school everyday, to seeing deaths everyday Bedchamber, to Gas Chambers To getting pinched by parents, to seeing parents getting lynched To see my dad at a workstation, to dying of starvation To reading a script for a play, to being whipped by the gateway To go see a train, to being in pain From learning about the ice age, to knowing about a new bone age To helping people, to needing help Food tasted like freshly dropped snow Wet, with no flavor Hungry like a horse without his hay Smoke in the air can’t breath out my airway But towards the end dreams came true in the dark even though my spirit never withdrew from my heart

Waiting in Vain There’s no reason to be scared, so you said All pains and emotions will soon be dead. You will forget me and the things we had Oh, tell me why I’m missing you so bad?

The day had arrived. Feelings of excitement and dread rolled around in her stomach at the thought of seeing her friends and family again. She remembered the feelings of helplessness at watching her mother speak to Dr. Faas.

The humming was increasing in intensity when the first tentative wave of the fog arrived at our camp like I imagined the Angel of Death appeared as it rolled through Egypt. Actually, it looked exactly like what the special effects department dreamed up in the movie The Ten Commandments, a malicious flowing black fog looking for a victim. The tip of the first wave descended on us and all the mystery of the morning was explained in one horrifying second.

One week. One week since the death. 7 days since the stoning. 168 hours since the lottery. 10080 hours since she died. ‘Died’, like it was natural. We don’t say her name, but when ‘she’ comes up, we all pretend it was a tragedy and how she’s in a better place now. No one seems to miss her. Not the husband, not the boy that lost his mother, and sometimes, not me.