Sheer Gall Of You Walker Monologue

I used to be proud of who I was. I used to be free, but I’ve fallen, slowly stripped bare of all I was and could have been. I resent them, those who gruesomely ripped me from my haven and shackled me beneath their feet. I resent the world for abandoning me in this hell, leaving me to suffer. I resent who I have become, a puppet, used only for their entertainment. The devil only grows within me, plaguing my mind during the sleepless nights. Feeding images into my mind. Images of their blood splattered across the walls of their beloved blue and red (tent). My teeth sinking into the fatty flesh of their neck. The horror painted on their faces as I gleefully avenge the loss of my sanity. And I detest myself. I loathe the satisfaction that I feel fantasising about their murder. I fear myself, and what I have become under their control. I yearn for the days I spent in my

You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self—your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it, a kind of godliness. Though it’s odd, you’re never more alive than when you’re almost dead. You recognize what’s valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what’s best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go into the mountains and do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is

I could feel the breeze skim through my hair as my loose shirt caught the brisk air behind me. This was my sanctuary, the feeling was bliss. I made my way home, bracing myself for the approaching argument I was about to have with my mother. That feeling of pleasure left my body as quickly as it arrived. I stepped into the front door, and closed it behind me as quietly as I could, maybe she wouldn't notice I was late home. But before I could even take the first few steps inside, I heard mum coming from the kitchen,

My mind was going one thousand miles per hour, those words haunting my head. Hot tears flowed down my face as the words sunk in. I slumped in my seat feeling exhausted and too cold for this warm house. My father’s arms reached for me, trying to comfort me. He wouldn’t understand the mental loss that was turning into physical pain. My chest heaved for air, trying to get this drowning feeling out of these thoughts that envelope me bringing a soft cloak of anxiety. “Not again, please.”

I hold the paper in my hands. It’s crumpling under my grip, but in it I get to live in the footsteps of others. My old dress is wrinkled and torn much like the paper, but I can’t spare the money on a new one. As much as I try to focus on the crinkled piece of paper with scrawly handwriting, I can’t. I just can’t. Tears run down my face and I wipe them away. It has been awhile since I have cried, so long in fact that I was afraid that there was something wrong with me. I push myself up from the old oak I sit at the base of. There’s no use in dwelling in what I can’t change. I fold the paper back in my dress pocket and walk into the field. I used to think there was beauty in the way that the grass grows in the street; standing low next to the

I was sat on the marble floor of our house next to a big pile of glass that used to be an ornate vase, hoping that my mom hadn't heard the crash. But judging by the sound of quick clacking coming closer every second, I was fresh out of luck. “ALICIA MANON JANE WHAT DID YOU DO?” Her bright blue stilettos that she wore all the time” because they were a ladies shoe” blocked my vision. I looked up and saw the rage that marred her usually gorgeous face. “You’re so useless I swear, ‘m not sure why god decided to curse me with such a burden lIke you” Even at my young age, I could probably recite this speech by heart. I was always “useless” or “good for nothing” sometimes, I even got the occasional“I hate you and I wish that I never had you”, but those were reserved for specIal occasions when no one else is around. She harshly grabbed my arms and forcIbly pulled me up from my position on the floor, I remember feeling her long blood red nails dig into my flesh. She led me upstairs to my room and before she locked me In my room yelled, “ Maybe In here you’ll learn how not to be such a burden to

A wave of emotions came flooding at me: confusion, anger, sadness, relief. I had the urge to cry, but I held back the tears and let my eyes burn. I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed that I let myself be consumed by the illness; although I know now, this was not my fault. Mostly, I felt a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. So badly, I wanted someone to help me end this misery. I wanted to escape the death grip the eating disorder had on my mind and body. Jill had answered my silent call for help. The light beneath the door crack became brighter and brighter. Although, Jill insisted that it would be a long road, she said it would be worth it. She was

I was consumed by my own anger: the fear of being all alone, that I wasn’t able to control the beast in me. Because of this, I had missed the last words my mother said, her last days and her last smile. I was selfish, and as much as it pains me to admit, my ego was greater than anything that was happening in the house.

I heard a feminine voice call out to me as I blazed out the front door. "Good morning Amber! Oh, where are you--" I cut her off with a sharp slam. I couldn't look back. With each step towards my car, I inhale painful sobs of air. I feel as if I don't know who I am, as if I was that 18 year old girl hearing the news of his death for the first time. I couldn't think of the name that belongs to me, or any one else but my father. Any face my subconscious offers had the resonance of a total stranger, then was replaced with the haunting image of

things I'm trying to scream out for all to hear. I have flickers of hope when I write. Hope that maybe one day my mind will drag me to this computer to type about how much I changed. How I love myself now and all my insecurities have faded into a dark abyss. But that isn't the case, is it? When I write, or type, it's always the same. The same meaning but only with different words. The same call for help but with a different tone. Every time I tell you nothing is wrong something is, but why would you care? I'm fine. Right? I'm okay. Nothing can hurt me if I don't let it, right? But it can and it will. It will drag me so far down you won't be able to hear my screams, you won't be able to hear my pleas for help. But maybe that's for the best. Because I'm sorry but I don't want to let you in. I don't want to let anyone in. I want to suffer until I explode and just dissipate. Because I don't want you to worry. I want to be alright, and I will be. One day soon, or maybe not so soon. I'm lost in such a vast ocean of thoughts. It's like my vocal cords are my bucket but I have hundreds of gallons to remove. One measly bucket is enough. But writing? It holds thousands of gallons of my unspoken

I would shut my eyes because I knew what was coming. And before I shut my eyes, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist hit me first, or which blow sent me to my knees because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They were closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I

I saw a form of your mind and body which no one would like to picture. The simplest of words were hard to utter, considering what I witnessed. Every night, you went out the back door, acting like we don’t see you, leaving me to the responsibility of the lives of others in the house

I haven’t slept in weeks, the thought of mom’s death has been creeping in more and more lately. Ever since that night things have never been the same and I find myself enraged at the world around me. Dad made Autumn stop dancing, the thought of her dancing reminded him of how mom had loved dancing and how it had caused her death. Little did he know she never stopped, she trained in secret, and I supported her along the way. Autumn was the only one who was there for me after mom died. We became closer to each other, our own support systems in a sense. That was until she left me to be with Sylvia. I was alone, and when I needed her most she left me. I still had my girlfriend Claire, but we were growing apart. When she left too, what life I had left finally shattered. Leaving me to deal with the impact in solitude.

As I helplessly watch my fifteen year old roommate fall to pieces in front of me, I feel everything around me slow to a crawl. Blood pounds my ear drums, I feel the color drain from my cheeks, and my feet take me forward as if they have a mind of their own. I fall to my knees and suddenly everything speeds up again – the pounding in my ear drums intensifies, my hands are trembling but I manage to grasp the side of the bed in an attempt to bring myself close to her. Her face is buried into her sheet. Muffled screaming escapes her as I whisper gentle reassurances in her ear, hoping with everything I have that she can hear me. I know she doesn’t. Even if she does, she can’t make sense of it right now. She’s stuck somewhere else, somewhere she revisits every day of her life and every time she closes her eyes to sleep.

Scuttling innocently through the twisting corridors I bore the same expression; head down, shoulders hunched, avoiding any eye contact - my desperate attempts to deter the despot for one day at least. Despite my efforts, there was no escape, as seemingly within the second of having that naively optimistic thought, a cruel, callous voice demanded I surrender my broach. Fear spiked, as it always did, but with it came something else, an alien emotion ... Looking back now, I see that it must have been the cumulative effect of months of torment that brought me to the realisation that at this point I had reached the nadir of my life. Deriding cackles pierced my ears and this time I recognised the emotion, fury. It burned through my veins, along with the memories of the past to form a feeling of overwhelming power. I met the daggers that would usually invoke terror, and calmly, I said “No.”