intern play
I rewrote the Grace monologue.
Comments are welcome, especially if you read the original monologue which is towards the top of the page here.
GRACE is alone on stage.
GRACE: I don’t have a gravestone. Where I am buried, there is no marker reminding the world that I once lived, no place where any one can go to mourn. I suppose the trees are my grave markers. But they tell nothing.
My burial place is not one lovingly selected by my family. There is no place for anyone to leave flowers. No one is supposed to find me at all. That’s the way he wanted it.
I didn’t know him, the man who killed me. I don’t know if he knew me. He might have been my neighbor. Could have been a worker in my office building. Or maybe he never saw me before in his life. I don’t know. No one may ever know.
I was three blocks from home when he grabbed me from behind. Three blocks. It was a well-lit street. I was walking with purpose. My head was up. My hair wasn’t in a ponytail. But he grabbed me and hit me with something. Something heavy and cold. I didn’t have time to scream, or grab my mace, or use the self-defense techniques I learned in college. He came at me from behind, and within seconds I had been struck into unconsciousness and thrown in the trunk of a car. He left no trace.
I only got a look at his face once. Just for a second, when he opened the trunk. Right before my eyes filled with blood from my head, I saw him. White male. Green eyes. Brown hair. Heavy eyebrows. Thin lips. He killed me. He killed me. Find him. Make him tell you where I’m buried. Put me in my rightful grave.
He killed me with a knife. Here to here and here to here. (indicates throat and gut) He killed me and buried me in this forest. He didn’t take anything from me. This is the part I do not understand. My coat and shoes are by that tree. My purse is right over there where he left it. Credit cards, jewelry, I had two hundred and twenty bucks on me and they’re all still in there. He didn’t undress me or rape me. He didn’t cut off any body parts. All he took was my life.
I was always careful. I always buckled my seatbelt. I never ran with scissors. I didn’t smoke. But none of that matters now. He took my life from me.
That was four years ago. I have yet to be found. I was almost found, once, almost a year after I died. There were two girls. They were about the same age I had been when it happened. They must have been lost. They passed within a few yards of me. They couldn’t have known I was here. A grave with no gravestone has no voice. There was no engraving to let them know that here lies Grace, born 1984 died 2005. Here lies “a beloved daughter, a cherished friend.” They couldn’t have known that I was lost too.
Thanks for reading.
Comments are welcome, especially if you read the original monologue which is towards the top of the page here.
GRACE is alone on stage.
GRACE: I don’t have a gravestone. Where I am buried, there is no marker reminding the world that I once lived, no place where any one can go to mourn. I suppose the trees are my grave markers. But they tell nothing.
My burial place is not one lovingly selected by my family. There is no place for anyone to leave flowers. No one is supposed to find me at all. That’s the way he wanted it.
I didn’t know him, the man who killed me. I don’t know if he knew me. He might have been my neighbor. Could have been a worker in my office building. Or maybe he never saw me before in his life. I don’t know. No one may ever know.
I was three blocks from home when he grabbed me from behind. Three blocks. It was a well-lit street. I was walking with purpose. My head was up. My hair wasn’t in a ponytail. But he grabbed me and hit me with something. Something heavy and cold. I didn’t have time to scream, or grab my mace, or use the self-defense techniques I learned in college. He came at me from behind, and within seconds I had been struck into unconsciousness and thrown in the trunk of a car. He left no trace.
I only got a look at his face once. Just for a second, when he opened the trunk. Right before my eyes filled with blood from my head, I saw him. White male. Green eyes. Brown hair. Heavy eyebrows. Thin lips. He killed me. He killed me. Find him. Make him tell you where I’m buried. Put me in my rightful grave.
He killed me with a knife. Here to here and here to here. (indicates throat and gut) He killed me and buried me in this forest. He didn’t take anything from me. This is the part I do not understand. My coat and shoes are by that tree. My purse is right over there where he left it. Credit cards, jewelry, I had two hundred and twenty bucks on me and they’re all still in there. He didn’t undress me or rape me. He didn’t cut off any body parts. All he took was my life.
I was always careful. I always buckled my seatbelt. I never ran with scissors. I didn’t smoke. But none of that matters now. He took my life from me.
That was four years ago. I have yet to be found. I was almost found, once, almost a year after I died. There were two girls. They were about the same age I had been when it happened. They must have been lost. They passed within a few yards of me. They couldn’t have known I was here. A grave with no gravestone has no voice. There was no engraving to let them know that here lies Grace, born 1984 died 2005. Here lies “a beloved daughter, a cherished friend.” They couldn’t have known that I was lost too.
Thanks for reading.