A monologue I did for a 250 word assignment at uni (although I did go slightly over the word limit). I needed to put some stage directions, but the word limit was too small so I left it.

 It would be interesting to work it out into a full play script and make it Sarah Kane-y or something, buuut I think I’m going to shape it into some kind of short story. We’ll see!

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Monologue, by Emma Jayne Kitchener.

He would smile, knowingly… Whenever I would walk into the room, he would smile, offer me a seat and ask me how I was doing. Some days I would laugh – stare him right in the eye and laugh. Other days I would flop into the chair across from his desk, and silently trace my scars with a gentle hand. ‘How am I doing?’ I would ask. ‘How do you think I’m fucking doing?’ When I said that, he would lean over his papers, fingers locked under his chin, and ask me again: ‘so, how are you doing?’ …and then I would tell him. Every single detail of my fucking week… Like what time I went to sleep (3:45am on Monday, 9pm on Tuesday and 7:33am Wednesday), the guy that offered me a seat on the tube and spent the duration of the journey looking down my top, and the new breakfast cereal I tried and didn’t like.

I’ve seen his family. Not personally, obviously, but I’ve seen the photo frame on the desk. The one he now hides in his drawer. Nothing but a typical family unit. A girl, I’d say about 10 years old, holding onto his hand like he’s her possession. Ha… And a boy, a few years younger than his skinny sister, gripping onto the hip of his mother… His wife. She’s plain. It made me sick to look at her. She seemed to know about me looking at this photo, and gave me her most pretentious, plain smile.

And now when I give him that look – the look that conveys only part of the want and urge I have for him – he simply shrugs it off and says, ‘I’m your doctor.’

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