Monologues for the Soul

[Zeth Zatachi]

Background Info:Elizabeth is being interviewed by two police officers. She has just confessed to murdering 6 girls.

You want to know, I suppose, what turns a nice little girl like me into a cold blooded murderer. You want the truth? You want to know why I did it? Why I killed all those girls? It's because I like it. I don't expect you to understand what it's like. You have no idea. To hold someone's life in your hands. To be in control.

There's always that moment of acknowledgement between a killer and their victim. That instant when she realizes your power, and she looks at you and you look at her, and she pleads with her eyes. She begs for mercy, for her life. And you have a split second to decide: To save her, well that's great. You could give her her life back, give her back to her family and friends, the people that love her. But to kill her... That's something different. To remove her from this earth, to take away the thing that most value above all: Her life. Now that's real power. None of these girls deserved their lives. Look at them! The musician, the actor, the writer, the dancer, the artist, the model. None of them appreciated what they had. They were the best. And that meant nothing to them. I've never been the best. Always smart, but never the smartest. Pretty, but never the prettiest. Talented, but never the most talented. But despite all this, I always thought I was special. I thought there was something inside me, lurking within, that would make me great. I've never been content with the idea of simply living my life, dieing, and being forgotten. That's just not me. I want to be remembered for my achievements. And I will be, won't I? sure, you're disgusted by what I've done. You're horrified, you think I'm a monster. But I can guarantee that you're not going to go home to your boring lives and just forget me. Oh no. I'm willing to bet I'll be on your mind for quite some time.

I used to think I could find other ways to be recognized. I wanted to be famous for a while. But then I realized how stupid that is. People would want to be me, without really knowing what that means. Then I thought of being a lawyer... Me! I thought, 'if I save lives, people will worship me.' But I realized, not long ago now, not long before I killed for the first time, that saving people isn't enough. I could save the lives of one hundred people, and they would be grateful, and so would their families and friends. But what about everyone else? They'd see me on the news and think, 'Huh. That's nice.' Then change the channel to something else. But what if I killed just one person . and not just kill them, brutally murder them. With my bare hands, staring them right in the eye. Not for revenge, not for personal gain, because I like killing. People would pay attention then. The whole world would stop, with me in the center. Everyone looking at me.

And I know what you're all thinking. I can see the looks on your faces. You think I'm just an attention seeking little kid, but I'm not. I just want someone to notice me. All my life I've stayed in the background. There's always been that one student who gets better marks than me, That one teacher who makes me feel stupid, that one friend who always shuts me down, that one parent who's not interested, that one sibling who overshadows my achievements with theirs. And nobody even cares. I just want you to think. And don't act like this doesn't apply to you, sergeant, cause it does. You're just the sort to do it. You've done it to me... Next time you're going to put someone down, point out their faults, make them feel stupid, be-little them, think about me, then think about them, and what they could do to you. How much would you respect them if they had their hands around your neck, and they had the choice: To release their grip on your throat, or to just keep pressing. Think about it.

[Zeth Zatachi]

EXPLICIT CONTENT

Background Info: Juliet (as in Romeo and Juliet) talks into the night, wondering where Romeo is, and why it matters so much.

Juliet: Romeo, Romeo,
Where the hell art thou?

Have you stopped along the way
To play at your stupid battle games?

Or have you changed your mind,
And decided not to come
Thinking me too 'easy' and thus insincere:
What perversion of thought is this?
Because I say what it is I want,
Direct and forthright,
You judge my desire false?
While the one who dallies,
Says no to mean yes,
You deem true and take her
Seriously?
Or perhaps you think to be 'easy' is to be unchaste:
If so, you misjudge
Yourself!
Because I want you (I want you)
Does in no way mean
I am a woman who wants every man.
Do you think of yourself so poorly?
Can you not accept that it is you who–
That one look of yours makes me wet
One touch sends a fire through every nerve
That it is you, standing there
In your tights so tight
And your shirt
Carelessly open,
Your chest–

Oh Romeo, Romeo,
Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
'Tis true you asked the same last night
When you came
And I bid you go
–For you had come so ill-prepared!

I bid you go to the Friar–
Not for a marriage,
'Tis but a farce:
We say there will be no sex
Until there is marriage
Meaning until there is love;
But if we marry at first sight,
Then 'tis surely not a token of love
But a license for sex.
(Indeed, my mother's talk to me
Of marriage
Was as awkward as a first broaching
Of the subject of sex!)
And what need have we of a license–
Better use can we make of a sheath!
(The Friar, do you forget, is also a pharmacist!)

Yes, I bid you go
But only to return–
Return, Romeo, come–
Part thy close curtain, love-perfuming night,
As I will soon mine own unclasp,
let fall,
To offer sweetest heavens
To my love, my Romeo, come–
Steal upon catpaws silent in the night
Follow my purr, come,
Leap into my arms!
Let us kiss once for every star in the sky
A thousand times our lips shall meet!
Let me feel your body
Move sleek along mine
Let me touch you, Romeo, here and here
('Tis true, as spoken, strangers' love is boldest!)
Flutter your fingers upon my breast,
Play with me love, at tug and nip
'Till my body stiffens in arched pleasure!
Come, let me surround you
Let me suck at the moon's liquid
'Till you clench and howl!
Then lick me love,
Seek my treasure with your teasing tongue
Nibble the pearl in folds of oyster,

My hands tearing at your head,
'Till I am gasping in wild heat,
Come, now, thrust your hard desire
reach deep in to me love–
Let me feel your panting breath–
Come night, loving black-silked night,
Come take me, wake me,
Make me cry out
For more!
Come, Romeo, come
Come,
Oh,
Come!

Nurse laughs to see me so–
(Though mother would faint,
Still confusing innocence with ignorance)
Young love, she mutters, fanning my face;
But I protest, 'tis not love,
Not of ones so young,
Nor of ones just met–
Let us be clear:
Yours was an artful come-on
(‘Let lips do what hands do’)
For a classic pick-up–
'Tis young lust, I tell her true:
I want sex
With a desire pure as the lace on my bodice;
She clucks to hear me talk so,
And I would persist–
But what's in a name?
That which we call making love
By any other name
Feels as good.

[Zeth Zatachi]

HANNIBAL: I think we can all agree that the highest praise is due to those who have fought their way to greatness from obscurity—who have pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps—clothed themselves in power, and proven themselves worthy of that authority. I entered Spain with only a handful of men, fought bravely, proved myself a leader, and eventually—as a result of my exploits—was honored with the supreme command. I conquered the Celtiberians, subdued Western Gaul, crossed the Alps, overran the valley of the Po, sacked town after town, made myself master of the plains, approached the bulwarks of the capital, and in one day slew such a host that their finger-rings were measured by bushels, and the rivers were bridged by their bodies. Unlike Alexander here, I never pretended to be a god, never related visions of my mother—I made no secret of the fact that I was mere flesh and blood. My rivals were the most capable generals in the world, commanding the best soldiers in the world. I never warred with Medes or Assyrians, who fly before they are pursued and yield the victory to anyone with the courage to take it. Alexander, on the other hand, in increasing and extending the dominion he inherited from his father, was merely following the path set out for him by Fortune. This “fabled conqueror” no sooner crushed his puny adversaries in the victories of Issus and Arbela, than he forsook the traditions of his country and lived the life of a Persian, accepting the worship of his subjects, handing his friends over to the executioner, or even assassinating them at his own table! I always respected the freedom of my country—never attempted to subjugate her for my own personal glory. I answered when she called. And when the enemy with their huge armament invaded Libya, I laid aside the privileges of my office and submitted to my sentence without a murmur. Yet Alexander would call me a barbarian because I’m unskilled in Greek culture—because I couldn’t recite Homer. I admit, I never enjoyed the advantages of Aristotle's instruction like he did. I had to make due with such qualities as were mine by nature. And it is on these grounds that I claim pre-eminence. I do not deny that my rival has all the luster that attaches to the wearing of a diadem, and I’ve been told that, for Macedonians, such things have charms. But I refuse to believe this constitutes a higher claim than the courage and genius of one who owed nothing to Fortune, and everything to his own resolution.

[Zeth Zatachi]

Herschel is an awkward sixteen-year old, coming out of his shyness and talking to the collegiate girlfriend of his neighbor.

Herschel: Oh, not just the subways. I love buses too, you know? And my favorites are, well, you won't laugh? The Trolleys. They are very beautiful. There's a trolley graveyard about two blocks from here. I was thinking, like maybe Randy would like to see that, you know? I could go see the engine any time. The trolley graveyard is well, like, I guess, beautiful, you know? Really. They're just there, like old creatures everyone's forgotten, some of them rusted out, and some of them on their sides, and one, the old thirty-two, is like standing straight up as though sayin', like, I'm going to stand here and be myself, no matter what. I talk to them. Oh, I shouldn't have said that. Don't tell my mother, please? It's, you know, like people who go to castles and look for for, well, like, knights in shining armor, you know? That past was beautiful and somehow, like, pure. The same is true of the trolleys. I follow the old thirty-two route all the time. It leads right to the graveyard where the thirty-two is buried, you know? It's like, well, fate. The tracks are half covered with filth and pitch, new pitch like the city pours on. It oozes in the summer and people walk on it, but you can see the tracks and you see like it's true like ld things last, good things last, like you know? The trolleys are all filthy and half covered and rusted out and laughed at and even though they're not much use to anybody and kind of ugly like, by most standards, they're like, they're well, I guess, beautiful, you know?