Dramatic Monologue
I wandered slowly into the sun room, sliding my fingers over mantelpieces and collapsing with a big sigh, face down onto a conveniently placed floral couch. My mother looked up from her sewing with an amused smile, her short black hair shining in the misty sunlight drifting lazily through a permanently open window. A few overly ambitious green vines had already crept onto the sill and nature’s presence leaned in like a curious gardener. Mum mildly commented that a bit of dusting usually helps to alleviate her boredom and a muffled groan escaped from the pillow in which I had buried my face, immediately followed by a spluttering cough and my concession that perhaps the room was a little dusty. I picked up a tissue and the antique, simply-carved
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I gave her a look. In silent protest against her judgement, I threw away the tissue and pushed my face back into the pillow.
“You know when I was your age in…”
She stubbornly continued over the loudly groaning couch, her accent becoming more pronounced with nostalgia. The familiar “first time I killed a goose” story went on longer every time she told it.
“…rain washing the blood all down the driveway…”
I made a louder, pointed groan in her direction. She stopped mid-sentence, gave me an exasperated look, and went off on a different …show more content…
No horror, no sadness. Not even a mild bitterness at her misfortune. She told me horrifying stories: bodies cleared away from the streets; unfortunate landmine victims; the severe consequences of famine and disease; detailed descriptions of gruesome injuries; children marching, saluting enthusiastically to their red-robed leaders under the yellow star; the boat crammed with coughing throats and calloused hands; blood washed away by the rains. She talked about things I had only ever heard about from the kind of tragic monologues that hot-shot actors won Oscars for and only shed real tears for at the podium. But unlike the performers’ melodramatic shouts of magniloquent misdirected emotion and the onion tears I associated with this kind of language, she seemed perfectly comfortable with relating her worst experiences as if recounting the events of a recently-watched Midsomer Murders episode. She had never talked about the
I gave her a look. In silent protest against her judgement, I threw away the tissue and pushed my face back into the pillow.
“You know when I was your age in…”
She stubbornly continued over the loudly groaning couch, her accent becoming more pronounced with nostalgia. The familiar “first time I killed a goose” story went on longer every time she told it.
“…rain washing the blood all down the driveway…”
I made a louder, pointed groan in her direction. She stopped mid-sentence, gave me an exasperated look, and went off on a different …show more content…
No horror, no sadness. Not even a mild bitterness at her misfortune. She told me horrifying stories: bodies cleared away from the streets; unfortunate landmine victims; the severe consequences of famine and disease; detailed descriptions of gruesome injuries; children marching, saluting enthusiastically to their red-robed leaders under the yellow star; the boat crammed with coughing throats and calloused hands; blood washed away by the rains. She talked about things I had only ever heard about from the kind of tragic monologues that hot-shot actors won Oscars for and only shed real tears for at the podium. But unlike the performers’ melodramatic shouts of magniloquent misdirected emotion and the onion tears I associated with this kind of language, she seemed perfectly comfortable with relating her worst experiences as if recounting the events of a recently-watched Midsomer Murders episode. She had never talked about the