Sunny is mentally ill, and appears distracted, disoriented, and has a twitch and a stutter, which often breaks up the flow of her speech. Despite this, she manages to maintain an eerie sense of insight. She finds, on the ground, a charred copy of a large English textbook, and scrubs at the soot on the cover with her sleeve. She tries to read a passage but her twitch makes it difficult. Agitated, she flicks through the pages.)
SUNNY: No, no, no, no. I’m not in here. Understand? I belong, I have, I belong right here, in the, in, right here. Right here, between page three hundred sixty-two and three hundred sixty - and a half, three hundred sixty point three repeating, page, page, this page, that’s my page, right? But I’m not here. All these letters running off in all directions, like they know something I don’t, and here I am more lost than found with three hundred and sixty two pages and not a one of them more than half an ounce, half, three quarters, like they didn’t think I’d check, I’d check, I’d check?
(leafs through a few more pages)
As if she even noticed. As if she would appreciate my contribution. As if, as is, as if that nose on her face weren’t as long as a fucking telephone wire with all the pages she’s written. Three hundred sixty? Thirty days in September, that’s what I thought, that’s what she told me, and I said, why not? Rearrange the calendar, put her right on time, right on time, and it’ll all make sense in a language only we two understand, which was a sweet thought and everything but she doesn’t even know my goddamn name.
(She reads from a page)
‘Tyger, Tyger, burning bright.”
Poets. Feh.
(Turns a few more pages)
“It is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads, and cabin doors crowded with beggars of the female sex...”
Three hundred and sixty-three kinds of nonsense.
No comments:
Post a Comment