The Unmentioned

(All lines of dialogue below taken from Scene 3, pg. 7-15.)

Play Analysis:

When I first chose and memorized the monologue, I’d never read Shepard’s play before so I didn’t know the context of my words and actions. But after completing the play and learning more about my motivations, I have a much clearer picture of my role.

Sure, the revelation that I’d killed my actress wife was shocking at first. But one can’t rely on the element of surprise, alone, and expect to tell a compelling story every time. So I’ve tried to dig a little deeper.

It turns out that I didn’t kill my wife after all. At least, not in the dagger-in-the-back, heart-stopped-beating sense. When I say, “So I killed her,” what I mean is that I destroyed her life. I beat her and betrayed her and broke her spirit so many times that her mind finally burnt out and all traces of vitality left her. She knows it, too. She knows that she’s missing something important, some piece of who she was, and she also knows that I’m as good as dead, too.

It kills me, to know what I did to her. That’s why I have that creeping feeling that I’m “lost” without her. I hurt her so bad that she can’t ever go back to being with me. Hell, she doesn’t even remember me now, she’s already moved on and has plans to marry my brother.

In the end, I guess I knew I could never have her back, so I let her go. I let her go and slipped out of her life forever. Sad, I know. Saddest part is that I think I knew all along she wasn’t cheating on me. I went on and on about all the little things she did that made me suspicious, but it would have been obvious to anyone who knew her that she wasn’t the kind of woman that cheats. Anyone but me. I always let my jealousy get the best of me, and this time it cost me everything.

Monologue Analysis:

“I’m no dummy.”

(There’s an image right there, for me. Every time I say this line I imagine one of those wooden, featureless dolls that artists use to study the general shape and contours of the body while it’s in different poses. I’ve never used one, but I’ve seen them. I think it must be a hard life, forced to contort into several thousand shapes and let some schmutz with a pencil study and record every detail. They say the human body is the most perfect work of art on this planet, though, so I guess it only makes sense.)

“Woman starts dressin’ more and more skimpy every time she goes out.”

(No particular image, but I do get a strong feeling associated with this line. It just irritates me, I guess, and saddens me a bit. Too many women in too little clothing nowadays, it’s a shame. And it keeps getting worse every year. They start younger and younger.)

“Starts puttin’ on more and more smells. Oils. … Every morning. Smell would wake me up.”

(Conjures up an image of a woman rubbing oils on herself. Especially her legs. She’s bare but modestly cloaked by the comforter on her bed. I always see her from behind and a little to the side, her back turned to me, but not completely. Blonde-brown hair that’s tied back and some dark makeup or bruises around her eyes. The room is well lit, nearly everything’s white, including the walls, the furniture, etc.)

“I’d watch her oiling herself while I pretended to be asleep. She was in a dream, the way she did it. Like she was imagining someone else touching her.”

(Same image of the woman, but everything looks a little softer. I get a feeling in my gut like a knot that I can’t undo. Feel a little angry and guilty at the same time.)

“Some actor-jerk.”

(I see a photo of a man, but I can’t make out the details of his appearance. Big red stain on the photo. I want to rip it in half, but I can’t, or don’t.)

“Right to my face. She laughs. Kept puttin’ ‘em on. Every mornin’. Puttin’ ‘em back on. … I’m helpin’ her out, right? Helpin’ her memorize the damn lines so she can run off every morning and say ‘em to some other guy.”

(An image of the same woman from before, with the guy from the photo. I can see him clearly this time, though all I really notice is that he’s wearing a really nice black suit. Woman has her arms hooked around his neck. She’s wearing a real thin, silky dress that makes it seem like she’s not really wearing anything at all. Her back is to me again, fully this time, and her hair is let down. Don’t really see too much else. They’re standing together in a spotlight in total darkness, just a few feet away. The feeling of guilt dies down a little, and the anger gets a bit stronger, like scales tipped in favor of one side and not the other.)

“’Pretend.’ That’s what she said. ‘Just pretend.’ I know what they were doing! I know damn well what they were doin’!”

(Same image as last time, but the couple is farther off, so I can’t really make out what they’re doing. Anger grows even more. I’m burning, seething, and the guilt practically disappears for the moment.)

“You shoulda seen the way she started to walk and talk. I couldn’t believe it. Changed her hair and everything. She was unrecognizable. I didn’t even know who I was with anymore.”

(Close-ups of different parts of woman’s body. She’s facing me, now, and the guy is nowhere around as far as I can tell. She’s got a big, curly, blonde wig on and lots of garish makeup, looks like a clown or a whore. Or perhaps a clown whore.)

“That’s why she wanted to become an actress in the first place. So she could get away from me. I knew what she was up to even if she didn’t. She was tryin’ to hide it from me but she wasn’t that good an actress. So I killed her.”

(The woman and I are alone, now, in a white void. Nothing but plain white as far as the eye can see. A little disorienting, as there’s no way to make out the floor, or the ceiling, or the walls—if there are any. Woman is just standing there staring at me through her clown eyes. I blink, and she’s gone.)

“But now… Why now? Why am I missing her now? Why not then? When she was there? Why am I afraid I’m gonna lose her when she’s already gone? And this fear—this fear swarms through me—floods my whole body till there’s nothing left. Nothing left of me. And then it turns—It turns to a fear for my whole life. Like my whole life is lost from losing her. Gone. That I’ll die like this. Lost. Just lost.”

(At first I’m seeing the inside of my body, like I’m looking at a mirror that simultaneously acts as an x-ray. I see my veins coursing back and forth, intertwined with bones and muscle and organs. A little point of hot, white light sparks to life somewhere in my chest and engulfs everything in that area. It spreads and burns me up until there aren’t even ashes left, and now it’s like I’m watching myself die from somewhere outside my own body. I watch as I melt into the big white flame and then everything fades to black. Only thing I have left is the guilt, and it’s intense; consumes me entirely. The scale breaks, shatters.)