I take theatre classes at Stages Theatre Company conservatory and for the New Theatre Workshop class we were to write a monologue. The monologue that we wrote was an eviction monologue in which we would "evict" somebody from our lives. The monologue that I wrote was very well recieved when I performed it for them. Here it is (and remember that it is purely fictitious):
It used to be great . . . playing in the sandbox with the little toy soldiers and playing video games
at midnight . . . and then you end up like this . . . how dare you . . . how dare you come to me and
tell me that I owe you anything? You’re sick. And after all of this you come to me and tell me,
flat-out, that its my fault. How the hell is it my fault that you pop some pills . . . or snort some
lines, or - or stick a needle in your arm? Huh? Its not! But obviously you seem to think it is.
(faint laugh) Without me you’re nothing. Do you know how many times I’ve bailed you out . . .
or kept your little secret--hundreds of times . . . literally countless . . . like the night you got so
high that you went unconscious and almost into a coma . . . I kept your parents away . . . I kept
everyone away, and I kept you safe, which was a mistake I’ll always regret. I won’t be your little
drug whore anymore. All of your twisted midnight activities and your demented perceptions of
reality are gonna be uncovered. I can’t believe this . . . I’m a smart person, and God only knows
why I didn’t figure you out before. But guess what . . . you’re an your own now, and no one’s
gonna catch you when you fall from a cliff, and you’re gonna crash and burn. And I want you to
know something else too; that I’ve never really cared about your pain . . . not for a single second did I
ever feel a twinge of true sadness for you . . . I mean, why should I? You never cared about what you
put me through! I mean, who would when their veins are filled with heroine? I can’t even look at
your face. If I ever see your frail and pathetic body sitting on a pile of garbage while begging for
money on the street . . . I’ll spit in your face and walk past you with my head held high! So go
back to your assorted powders . . . but don’t come to me begging for help, because if you do, I’ll
slam the door in your face, only hoping that it hits you!
©2001 Taylor Young
