EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
waa wha waa?
ME. I'm 17. Doesn't your sheet
tell you that?
EMPTY CHAIR.
Mwa waa whawha waa mwawhawaawaa wwa hawhawaawa wawhawaawah wamamhaa?
ME. That's what they tell me.
EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
mwa whawha
whaa whaa
wahawaawah?
ME. I yawn a lot. I'm dizzy,
sometimes.
EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
mwa whawha
wamamhaa wa
wama-mhaa?
ME. Yes, it's almost constant.
EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
wahwa whaa
wahwa mwa
wha'a whaa
whaa?
ME. There are highs. There are
highs, but they don't last, and they make the lows worse.
EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
mwa wamamhaa
whawha?
ME. No.
EMPTY CHAIR. Wahawaawah
mwa whaa
mwa?
ME. I'd rather not talk about
it.
EMPTY CHAIR. Wa
wahwa wamamhaa
wha'a whaa
wa whaa
wahwa?
ME. No. Not really.
EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
mwa wahwa
mwa whaa
whaa.
ME. Yes.
EMPTY CHAIR. Mwa
mwa wahwa
mwa whaa
whaa?
ME. Look,
if you don't ask me a real question, I'm going to puke.
EMPTY CHAIR. wamamhaa,
wa mwa
wa mwa
wahwa mwa
wahwa wa
mwawhawaaw?
ME.
Why I am depressed? Birds and butterflies.
EMPTY CHAIR. Whawha?
ME. B-I-R-D-S AND
B-U-T-T-E-R-F-L-I-E-S. Did you know, maybe a hundred years ago,
passenger pigeons would flock in the billions, from sea to sea. They
would blot out the sky. But to us, they were just meat. And we
couldn't stop killing them until they were dead. The whole species.
Dead. And butterflies—I don't want to talk about it with you—the
whole world is dying.
EMPTY CHAIR. .
. .
ME. My father died and became a
tree and he doesn't talk to me anymore. I don't know what to do when
someone you love makes you their toy. My mother is a terrible cook.
We eat what we should burn and burn what we should eat. She wants me
to save her. I can't even save myself.
EMPTY CHAIR. .
. .
ME. ...And always, there's this
hum on the other side of everything, this dark whisper that crawls in
through the gaps. Something is watching me all the time. I can't tell
if it's God or something darker. I just want it to STOP! Whatever it
is, it's got me, and it's pulling me down. It's killing me and I
can't breathe!
EMPTY CHAIR. .
. .
ME. You asked me about coping
skills? I've had all of coping I can stand. I don't want to cope.
I want it to STOP! Or I'll stop it myself.
EMPTY CHAIR. .
. .
ME. Why are you looking at me
like that? It's a fucking metaphor, OK? Ask me a real question! And
stop looking down at your notepad when you can't remember my name!
