Postcard from the edge

GCSE Coursework coming up folks, a dramatic monologue. Well a boring drivel - but hey I can do pretentious...

* A girl, about 18, sits in the corner of a bright bedroom *

School was the same, the same as usual. I sat and people talked, occaisionally to me but when I don't reply the questions cease. They're fed up of me I know it, that's why I can't tell them - not all of them, not all of it. I wouldn't expect them to understand, they've not been through the same as me, I've seen enough to kill.

I do get up every morning though, I don't sleep. I was deprived of that basic need months ago, but I lie in bed for hours. They complain how tired they are, but they have nothing on my inpenetratable tiredness.

My grades are good enough, not as good as they used to be but still good - apparantly. I'm not sure how since I've the attention span of a three-year-old and I'm usually totally oblivious to what's going on around me, not that I'm complaining.

I write a lot, I write poetry and short stories and I keep a journal into which I write every thought, every bout of tears and every slip-up, of which there are many.
Saw a boy I used to know today, a boy who knew me. But he left long ago, not that I blame him - maybe he thought I liked having my heart stamped on, maybe he thought that was why people seem to do it to me so often.

* Fade to black *

* The girl sits with red eyes on a beach, it is midday and drizzling*

I went to see him today, just like he asked, just as I should have. I'm not sure why I booked the appointment, talking just seems to make me worse, not that I can get much worse.
He said I was angry, said how sad it was for a girl of my age to be so angry, well - that made me angry, being called angry. I'm not angry anyway, not as much as I am sad, anyway.

I didn't say much, I never do. It's easier to let him smile his pitying smile at me and tell me how I'm feeling. I told him about my poetry and he recited a quote, 'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance'. I feigned indifference but actually, I kinda liked it.

The appointment triggered me off of course, I knew it would, I did it again. Made a terrible mess all over my pink top, but I felt better afterwards. Not so lonely while it was in my hand, not so alone.

I have a headache, I think I'll take some asprin, washed down with something to make me sleep, for a while.

* Fade to black *

* The girl sits in the corner of a bare white room, dressed in a grey gown, pale-faced *

They found me. Lying there in that disgusting state. I didn't want to be found, I wrote poems for them all to read. I only wanted the headache to end, the pain to end, the end.

* The girl sits on a sunny beach surrounded by friends *

It ended, of course. They still don't know. Anything. But I do, I know an awful lot more than I thought I did.
I talk now, too.