I think I've mentioned this a few times before, when I was the age that every person you have a conversation with asks you what you want to be when you grow up, I used to tell them I wanted to be a poet because nothing shuts down that line of questioning like the perceived future of a poet. Not that the reality of being a playwright is much different. I wrote a lot of poetry when I was younger and once I was comfortable enough with writing natural dialogue in plays, I started incorporating more poetic language, more heightened reality for a different theatrical effect in my work.
One of the earliest productions of my work was a piece I created with Becky Bridger that married dance and text, and the first time I realized poems and monologues share a lot in how your choice of words impacts the reader/audience. Most monologues are in the first person, mostly to avoid the "let me tell you a story about something that happened" versus an in the moment emotional moment. Here is a monologue from "AEON: an evolution of sin" written in the second person because the character needs some level of protection from the raw violence they are sharing.
As always, trigger warning for my work, please take care of yourself and don't read any further if you are triggered by domestic violence. Photo from the production of AEON at the Domino Theatre.
You ask because you have to. You know the truth, but you ask. You want to hear it from him. To hear him deny it, to tell you that you're the only one he loves. So you ask.
In one frantic moment he's shoved you against the furniture. Something hard pressing into your back. He knocks you to the floor. Your stomach muscles clench and rip at the impact of his boot. Your scalp tearing as he whips your head back by your hair. Pulled to your knees.
No.
Please.
Don't.
Just...
His knuckles smash against your jaw. Your eyesight blurs moments after his palm thrusts towards your temple. He tosses you toward the wall. Your chin grazes the plaster. Everything is silent as your skull strikes the floor. Shattered glass pierces your skin. Thick blood slides down your leg. Your cheek throbs. Your mouth is open, trying to scream, but your throat is dry. The floor shakes as he crosses the room. The door slams behind him. You lie, trembling, curled around your pain.
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