Blog Entry dated 13.12. 2006
Blogger: Jennifer Kowler
What would you say if the guy you had a great big crush on turned out to be a total loser? No. not a loser-a jerk! A disgusting murder-capable…I don’t know. I can’t describe it. I can’t think anymore. So here’s the story.
On the edge of town…that’s where I live on the edge of town on a street called
But why would he do that? He’s the most handsome guy in the world. You should see him without a shirt on…those abs! Ooo! And when he walks-no-strides down the street with those magnificently muscular legs…ah! I could just die watching him.
And they were happy. They were always canoodling in the park, sharing an icecream cone or lying in the grass staring at the stars. Yes, I had been watching them. They were the epitome of a perfect relationship. I would wish I was her-in his arms, in his bed. Or maybe I just wished I had something like that. maybe I wasn’t jealous of her-just jealous of what she had. But now she’s dead and the jealousy must die with her.
What about him? Is he going to be caught? Is he going to jail? Does he deserve to? It was her fault. I’m sure it was her fault! The conniving little bitch! She must have had an affair, broke his heart, poor darling! He was positively furious. I couldn’t make out what he was yelling, but it was loud, loud and painfilled painfilled-is that even a word?-Mrs Pais would kill me if she saw it. Oh! Right. This is supposed to be an essay for my creative writing paper. But I can’t write this. It’s too…too real. Too real to be believable. If I went downstairs and told Dad about it, he’d have a good laugh.
“Jennie, you’re always coming up with this sort of nonsense. Things like that never happen”
But I had proof! Oh, how could I forget, I have proof!
Of course I knew all of them inside out- my soul songs. They sang of things I was feeling. He could sense my darkness somehow. That’s why I felt so connected to him. It was freaky sometimes the way his songs reflected my innermost fears.
“…that’s when I knew that I could never have you. I knew that before you did yet I’m the one who’s stupid. And there’s this burning…”
Yes, they were my soul songs and I'm addicted to them. I’ve played this one (Motorcycle Drive By-Third Eye Blind) 16 times already and it’s still on repeat on my media player.
The tune inspired total confidence. It was like I knew him. Without so much as half a decent conversation, I knew him.
If only I…Beauty doesn’t count, it’s personality…but I didn’t have that either! I would go up to him one day and tell him. I told myself I would. I knew the words I must say…But it’s too late now. He’s gone. He ran after I did. In the opposite direction. I didn’t look back but I knew he had to run and he wasn’t running behind me.
The streets were empty that evening. Everyone was at the town’s council meeting. They hadn’t gone. What did two lovebirds have to do with waste management anyway? And I was the youngest on the block. Can you believe it? No one younger than 16 lives on
Loneliness was as much a part of me as this computer here or my mobile phone. My virtual life had always been more active. I lived one life to feed the other.
That reminds me-I haven’t eaten since lunch in school yesterday. I’ve been cooped up here in my room all night and half the day thinking of
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Location: 15,
Time: 12.8.2006,
“I need to do this,
“Am I not meaning enough? I don’t understand. How can you go from ‘You make my life beautiful. I love you’ to…to this?”
“I never said I love you”
Silence
“You did. You did and you meant it”
“Look you meant a lot to me at one time. You’ve helped me through a lot-an alcoholic dad, a superficial relationship, a divorce and all that but really
“Is there another man?”
“No, Bryan. You know me. Why would I do that to you?”
“Why? Why would you do this to me?”
Pain in his eyes. She bites her lip, struggling for control. They come rolling down. Breaking up is not as easy at it seems. Unearthly silence follows. She wants to scream. He wants to scream. They feel like fools for believing.
“What now?”
“Now what?
“I guess we could go back to being frie— ”
“We were never friends Em, It’s always been more than that, you know that!”
“We’d make better friends than lovers”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forget it. We could cut off completely if you want to”
“Is it really that easy for you?”
“You have no idea how hard this is”
“No. I don’t”
“I’m sorry. You mean a lot to me, baby, just not in that way. I can’t think of you like that. I feel like a bitch for doing this to you. But I must. I’m sorry.”
“Never be sorry for being yourself. Isn’t that what you used to say?”
She didn’t know it yet. But she was not being herself. This break up was not something she would normally do. She was disregarding everything that he had given her. Only the last week played over and over in her head. She knew she had compromised when she married
‘He should never have got his heart involved’, she thought.
She should have known. She knew it would end like this. She could never love him. She knew that from the start. She was being selfish when she said yes. She wanted to get out, to start anew. He was helping her. He was good for her. But not anymore. The overwhelming feeling of ‘Someone-loves-me’ had washed away months ago. She could see the cracks now. They had nothing in common. Different lifestyles, different hobbies, different friends. Nothing clicked. Their time together was the most boringly, endless hours she had had to endure. She tried to spruce it up. Chocolate icecream, long walks hand in hand, star gazing…
Half smile. Purse lips.
“I have to go now”
He had to let her go.
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Time: 16.8.2006
Mind of Bryan Coltrane
Living on rats, letting moss grow on my toes…I can’t go on like this.
It was time to get out, escape this horrid dungeon. I remembered the words of a song I had heard ages ago.
“Wake up. It’s time, it’s time to find a better place to hide.”
Razor! I hummed it softly to myself.
Footsteps in the distance—stop humming—paws? Just paws…a stray dog.
As I stepped out of the cave, the cold wind hit my unprotected face. It felt good. It was the first time in days I felt so alive, so human.
“I’ve never felt so alone and I’ve never been so alive”
Third Eye Blind.
Inside my head, a little inbuilt MP3 sang for me.
It’s like I had a song for everything I felt, each step of the way.
I was making up for the lack of new words. What was once a natural instinct is now strange to me. I would never write again. Never again! I wrote for her. Everything for her.
“To see you when I wake up is a gift I didn’t think to be real. To know that you feel the same as I do is a…”
She never felt the same.
I continued to sing.
“You do something to me that I can’t explain. So would I be out of line if I said I miss you.”
I took out something from my wallet. The next line.
“I see your picture. I smell your skin on the empty pillow next to mine”
More like the slimy stone, actually. Too late, the next line was already ringing in my ears.
“You have only been gone ten days but already I’m wasting away.”
Forgetting myself in you. How I used to be so caught up with your life. I never lived my own. Everything had to be about you. Your clothes, your work, your favorite movie! It disgusts me now.
“I wish I was special, so fucking special. But I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here. I don’t belong here.”
Why am I here? Why am I running? What am I trying to save? What’s my life without hers? I should have stayed and soaked in her red. But I saw her run-that curly headed snoop from down the street. She saw me and she ran, so I ran too.
She used to love doing things for me. Cooking, cleaning, making the bed, taking out the garbage, answering the phone. I’ve been ungrateful.
“I never said thank you for that. Now I never have a chance. May angels lead you in”
She didn’t have to go. She didn’t have to die. She didn’t love me. She didn’t need to. She could live without me. But what about me?
“I can’t live with or without you”
I couldn’t live with her, knowing she’d never love me and I couldn’t live with the person I would be without her.
“Nothing win and nothing left to lose”
I could drown in this song. How many times had we listened to it and marveled at it’s maker.
“There are better composers than me”, I used to say
She giggles, runs her fingers through my hair.
“I love you the best.”
Maybe it was just things she heard in movies. Things two people are supposed to say to each other when they’re in love. The expected. The rusted wire used by many to perforate the silence which true love deserves.
I remember the last day we spent together. There was a most gorgeous sunset. The sky as red as her blood-no-not nearly as beautiful.
I don’t remember what she was wearing or what her last words were. But I know she suffered, the blood said so. Trickling out of ebony, into almonds, over lashes, onto porcelain. That’s the last thing I could remember-the redness of her blood.
And now I’m going to be caught, caught and punished for killing her.
I’ll plead insanity. It wasn’t me, I swear, it wasn’t me!
It was the wire that did it. The wire, the barbed wire.
________________________________________________________________________
THE END
Bow bow down to me
I shall not have this indifference
All hail but you
Why is your arrogance not abated?
Have you not seen
What became of those who
Stood against me?
Bow down to me
I shall not have this
Bow bow down to me
An adaptation of a short story by O. Henry
Characters
JOANNE- a young artist who has been in bed with pneumonia for six weeks
SUE- another artist who lives with Joanne and takes care of her
BEHRMAN- a French artist, who says he will paint a masterpiece someday
DOCTOR- the general practitioner
(The living room of a small studio-cum apartment on the third floor of a block in
NARRATOR: (facing the audience, may pace up and down the room while speaking, careful to be audible at all times) Have you ever felt like you had no reason to live? That there was no point trying? Have you ever given up the fight and closed your eyes, hoping you never have to open them again?
Then again, such a morbid thought may never have crossed your mind. But for 28 year old Joanne it was all she could think of. As she lay in bed day after day, refusing to eat, or drink or hope. You see, she used to be a vibrant young lady who loved her life. She was a painter who lived in a little district west of
(SUE and DOCTOR enter from the right. DOCTOR has a kit in his hand and a stethoscope around his shoulders. They look worried.)
SUE: Let’s be realistic about this, doctor. What are her chances?
DOCTOR: It’s not looking very good. She has a one in ten chance of survival. Pneumonia is deadly, dear. Two deaths this week and four more in critical condition. The weather is only becoming worse.
SUE: Is there anything we can do?
DOCTOR: Keep her warm and keep her spirits up. Don’t let her think of this as the end.
SUE: But she has resigned to her fate. She has no hope left. She has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well.
DOCTOR: That’s not a good sign. Has she anything on her mind?
SUE: She-she wanted to paint the
DOCTOR: Paint- bosh! Has she anything worth it on her mind. A man, perhaps?
SUE: Is a man worth-but no doctor; there is nothing of the kind.
Well, it is the weakness then. I will do everything science can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession, I subtract 50 per cent from the curative powers of medicines. If you get her to talk about the latest fashion-the clock sleeves in style this winter, I will promise you a one in five chance for her, instead of one in ten.
SUE: I’ll try doctor.
DOCTOR: I better get going then. Good day.
(SUE walks the DOCTOR to the door on the left and returns to the chair by the fire and starts weeping profusely)
CURTAIN
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SCENE II
(A bedroom. The bed is placed horizontally in the centre of the stage. A bowl of broth with a long spoon, a tall glass of water and a jug lie on a small table in front of the bed. There’s a small Dutch window on the wall close to the head of the bed. JOANNE lies on the bed with a thick blanket wrapped around her body. She seems to be staring out of the window. SUE has her canvas set up on the right and she is busy with her easel.)
NARRATOR: Ah! Here she is. Too weak to move, Joanne has been lying in bed for the past 6 weeks. Last Friday she refused to eat her lunch. Now, she won’t even sip wine. She just lies in bed staring out of that window all day long. What’s she looking at anyway? (walks to the window and looks out) there’s just a brick wall here. Nothing interesting. There’s an old, old ivy vine creeping up the wall. But it’s all gnarled and withered. The cold autumn winds have stricken the leaves of the vine until it’s skeleton branches cling almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. What could she get from staring at it so intently? Let’s find out.
JOANNE: Twelve, (pause) eleven, (pause) ten, nine
SUE: (leaves her work and rushes to JOANNE’s bedside) What is it dear?
JOANNE: Eight, seven, six. They’re falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But it’s easy now. There goes another one. There’re only five left now.
SUE: (looking out of the window) Five what, dear?
JOANNE: Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go too. I’ve known that for three years. Didn’t the doctor tell you?
SUE: (Angrily) Oh, I never heard of such nonsense! What have old ivy leaves got to do with you getting well? And you used to love that vine so…You’re being ridiculous, Joan. Don’t be a goosey! Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances of getting well real soon are-well let’s see exactly what he said- he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that’s almost as good a chance as we have in
JOANNE: You need not get anymore wine. There goes another. No, I don’t want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then, I’ll go too.
SUE: Joan dear, will you promise me to keep your eyes closed and not look out of the window until I am done working? I must hand these drawings in by tomorrow. I need the light or I would draw the shade down.
JOANNE: Couldn’t you draw in another room?
SUE: I’d rather be here with you. Besides, I don’t want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves.
JOANNE: Tell me when you finish because I want to see the last one fall. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor tired leaves.
SUE: Try to sleep. I must call Behrman up to model for me. I need an old hermit miner. I’ll not be gone a minute. Don’t try to move till I come back. (Exit right)
CURTAIN
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SCENE III
(A dark room full of old painting material, dusty bottles, and other miscellaneous items. The bed is covered with rags. A wooden chair lies on its side next to an empty canvas set up on the left corner. A man is fiddling with a glass on the mantelpiece. He looks old and weary with a long beard and dirty clothes. )
NARRATOR: This is the ground floor of the same building where Joanne and Sue live. The man who lives here is more than 60 years old. He was an artist for forty years but he was a failure in art. Yet Mr Behrman never gives up. You see that empty canvas in the corner. It’s been like that for the past twenty years waiting for the first stroke of his masterpiece. Meanwhile he earns a living by serving as a model to young artists who could not pay the price of a professional. This fierce old man would scoff at softness in anyone. He drinks gin to the excess and regards himself a sort of guardian to the two young artists in the studio above.
(Doorbell rings. Mr BEHRMAN looks up from his glass, trudges to the door and opens it)
BEHRMAN: Oh! Susie! Come in. come inside. It’s awful cold, yes? Come in. (turns the chair to the upright position and invites SUE to be seated)
SUE: Thank you. How have you been, Mr Behrman?
BEHRMAN: (sitting on the bed) I’m vell. How’s de Jonzy? The doctor came today?
SUE: (shaking her head) The doctor says she’s getting worse. She won’t eat or drink and today she nearly scared me sick talking about those leaves.
BEHRMAN: Leaves? Vat leaves?
SUE: You known that ivy vine which grows up the neighbours wall? It’s a withered old thing. Almost dried out. She says she will die the moment the last leaf from the vine falls.
BEHRMAN: Vass! Is dere people in de world mid der foolishness to die because leaves dey drop off from a confounded vine!? I haf not heard of such a thing.
SUE: She is very ill and weak and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. I came to ask if you would pose as a hermit for me. I need to finish the painting by the evening and send it to the editor.
BEHRMAN: No, I vill not bose a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her? Ach, dot poor little Miss Yonsy!
SUE: Very well, Mr Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn’t. But I think you are a horrid old-old flibbertigibbet!
BEHRMAN: You are just like a woman. Who said I vill not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half and hour I haf been trying to tell you dot I am ready to bose. Gott! Dis is not any base in which one so goot as Miss Yonsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill paint a masterpiece, and ve shall go away. Gott! Yes.
(Grabs his coat from the bed and leads SUE out of the house)
CURTAIN
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SCENE IV
(JOANNE’s bedroom. The old canvas is replaced with a new blank one. The side table is empty. The window has the shade drawn. Yet JOANNE lies on her bed and stares at it.)
NARRATOR: It has been a stormy night. The wind was more violent than the thunder. The rain hasn’t yet abated. It still drizzles as the sun rises warming the wet world. When Joanne awoke, she saw that the shade was drawn across the window and she was anxious to have it drawn. There were just three ivy leaves clinging onto the vine last night. Do you think they’ve survived? Will Joanne survive if they don’t?
(SUE enters with a tray of food.)
SUE: Good Morning, Joan. How are you feeling today?
JOANNE: (still staring intently at the window) Pull in up. I want to see.
(SUE wearily walks to the window and pulls up the shade)
JOANNE: (sigh) Just one, Sue. It’s the last leaf. I thought it would surely fall during the bight. I hear the wind. It will fall today and I shall die at the same time.
SUE: Dear, dear! Don’t Jo—think of me, if you won’t think of yourself. What would I do?
(Silence. SUE seats herself on the chair and watches JOANNE as she watches the last leaf)
NARRATOR: The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to the earth were loosed.
The day wore on. At twilight the north wind swept past the window as the rain relentlessly beat down. But the tiny green leaf with its neatly serrated edges refused to let go. It seemed to know that a feeble life depended on it. The last leaf was determined to stay alive and this made Joanne hopeful.
JOANNE: Sue, Sudie!
SUE: (rushing to the bed) What is it, dear?
JOANNE: I’ve been a bad girl, Sudie. Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I’ve been. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me some broth now and some milk with a little port in it.
(SUE brings the bowl of broth and feeds JOANNE slowly with the ladel. After a few spoonfuls)
JOANNE: Susie, someday I hope to paint the
SUE: (smiles) Of course you will dear. (Doorbell rings) That must be the doctor. (Exit left and returns with DOCTOR)
DOCTOR: Hello, Joanne. How are we doing today. Hungry, I see? (walks to the bed and checks temperature and pulse. To SUE) Much better. There’s been a big improvement since last night. I see you’ve been taking good care of her. She’s out of danger. A few days of good nursing should do the job. Nothing to worry about.
SUE: Thank you doctor.
DOCTOR: Now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is-some kind of artist, I believe. Pneumonia too. He is an old man, too weak and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to hospital today to make it more comfortable.
SUE: But he was perfectly alright when I met him yesterday. When did this happen doctor?
DOCTOR: He was out all night painting his masterpiece he says. Crazy fellow if you ask me, going out on such a dreadful night to paint—
JOANNE: He’s always talking of painting a masterpiece. Poor man. He was out all night, was he? Did he complete it?
DOCTOR: I believe so.
JOANNE: Sue, why don’t you go down with the doctor and pay your respect to dear old Mr Behrman. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. And if you do get to see his masterpiece—
SUE: Joan, there’s something I have to tell you.
JOANNE: What is it dear? Is something wrong?
SUE: I found Mr Behrman in the early hours of the morning. He was wet through and through. His shoes and clothing were icy cold. I called the doctor immediately. And I found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green yellow colours mixed on it, and –look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall didn’t you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, its Behrmans masterpiece –he painted it there the night the last leaf fell.
CURTAIN
THE END
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