Boy’s Monologue

by Freya Wilson

THE BOY’S ROOM. The Boy is crouched on his knees, rocking. He rocks to the murmured, barely audible rhythm: ‘Make it stop. Make it stop.’ His mutterings gradually fade, and when he falls silent, he raises his head, eyes wild, motionless.
In the night. This is what I saw.
A man, he says ‘Where is She.’
Stone man, he look like flintstone. Yeah. Flintstone crying sometimes. He cry in-between ‘where is she’ and ‘oncejustonce.’
I sit, not asking. I don’t want to touch him.
I want it quiet, when there’s no one to ask and nobody watches.
So I lock my eyes up and I pretend I’m falling. But he makes me watch, watch him splinter.
Then he start talking ’bout flames that will burn him when someone presses button (BEAT) BANG! BANG!
And I see them flames, making him dead and ash.
I saw this when I dream.
It was a dream, in my head in my head in my HEAD.
The more I say it, the more it is Truth.