Okay so here is a little back story before we begin.
I’m currently doing a monologue from the play ‘4.48 Psychosis’ by Sarah Kane in my Theater Studies A-Level. One day I was pretty bored and feeling kinda creative so I decided to try and write a story with influences of Sarah Kane. I promised myself that whatever I put down I would keep, no editing, basically verbal diarrhea on a page.
This is an extract from what is now a nearly 6-page-long story.
I felt happier without the pills, the fragments of suppression. Yeah, so what if I occasionally cried, screamed, felt shit, at least I felt something. At least I felt human. At least I felt something. At least I didn’t feel the numbing existential realisation that death is the only true release.
It’s a weird feeling, wanting to die, wanting it to end. Being so self-aware that you’d rather you weren’t aware at all. It gets to you, it turns your insides and makes your emotions conflict. The idea of death makes you feel alive. You realise that you have the ultimate power. You realise that, on the brink, just before the fall, everyone is wrapped around your little finger. They obey to your command. Who would have thought that death could cause so much living?
Who would have thought death caused life?
Who would think about death?
What kind of fucked up person would ever even think about destroying life?
What kind of sicko is so selfish and irrational that they don’t give a fuck for anyone else’s emotions, anyone else’s feelings or lives? What makes my life more important than theirs? The people I love, they would hurt too, just like me.
I’ll tell you who would think about that.
I think about that. I think about it all the time.
We’ve all had the feeling, the feeling that we want the world to open beneath us and to drag us down to a place where no-one can hear us cry and everyone just forgets, maybe for a day or two. But imagine having that feeling 24/7. Imagine feeling that you aren’t good enough for anyone. It isn’t nice.
So yeah, hope that wasn’t too depressing.