Script for an Internal Dialogue

Ella de Burca

FADE IN to DRESSING ROOM. Half-lit. Sparse. Make-up and items of clothing scattered around. Billowing fear and rage, -flat iron force. The performance is due now, people are waiting with their watching-hats on. Menagerie minds foaming at the mouth. She cannot speak to them, though she has made many failed attempts. (P.O.V) Self-seen as the self-cast poor companion, quirky ideals, -trading on eccentricities to pay for food and fanfare. The alms lightly peppered with condescension and pity. It was, after all, her choice to become this object of ridicule. And now she’s fair game. She used to be the smart one. No other artists present, there are, no, other, artists, present. The drought has made their noses hard and their lips tight. But not so dry so as to forge solidarity. And anyway, she is not their rainmaker. Her ego has always been solitary. DOLLY IN. CLOSE UP. She once had wolves' teeth But they disavowed her mouth As she begged for scraps under the table. Now the moon howls alone. Beat. She think-sinks deeper into the think-hole. EXTREME CLOSE UP. SPEAKING OFF CAMERA – You prefer the idea of me, over the reality. Ears echo a mixture of internet dial-up and TV fuzz. LOUDER. Trembling, stretching to hear her breath over the reverb, hands become creatures escaping her arms. Disgusted tornado. Skin itching, melting lava. Eyes dart from wall to wall. – Snap out of it! A loud bell with every exhale, the clapper smashing against her head with every gong. Strobing. Beat. JUMPCUT

Part of you. Gravity. Keep it together graven gravel. Scratching ears, scratching in her ears. A hole being dug over a blanket covering your head. Little many arms inning, to know more. More of you. No more. Skin lava. Snap her face. Snap the wall. Difference? Numb. – (Whispering) Let go. Silence. – (Louder, more determined) Let go of me. Lines. Beat. Nothing. – (With vigour) Let. – Go. – Let! – Go! – Let Go! – Let Go! Let Go! Her hands twitch electric blue centipedes every syllable fingers spasm shock currents. WIPE – (Medusa.) LLLLLLLEET GOOOOOOO!! LET GOOOO! Rage contorts her body As she imagines ripping your fucking head off. Lewd lung secretions, Forced through the gravel Cracks throbs sobs no stop Like green bile, it must out. She throws every insult she has but the stillness only aggravates her more. She howls for the sorrow in it. To her the ground could almost be someone to look up to. Frame of mind. She wishes she could ground so well. Display dismay. Beat. Holding, Holding. Heaving heavily, obliging, pulsating organ accordion. No control of her vocals As she catches her breath. Brown bagging. Her hands red and the wall pales and then she pales. If she keeps going she might just… Bird stars. And. – (A bit calmer.) Snap out of it. – Snap out of it. Snap out of it. – Snap out of it. ISOLATE. FADE OUT.