A Monologue by Sofia Sotelo
I lie on my bathroom floor, a pile of bones and nothing more. This emptiness has claimed a residence inside of me forever ago. The moonlight from the window reflects the wetness staining my cheeks as I wait for the noise downstairs, as loud as an arena, to fade. Once the loudness is gone, I wait before sneaking down to the kitchen. The quarrel in my head grows louder the longer I stand in front of the fridge, the chill air seeping out and into my bones. I close the door and drag myself to the couch as I try to resist the temptation. The receipt of all my sins and mistakes stares back at me as I gaze through the window.
My reaction to the dark has always reminded me of things I can’t control. I don’t yet know who I am, between childhood and adulthood. My own shadow frightens me. The flickers of memory begin, and it is as if I am in a museum in which I know every exhibit. I rotate the memories around for a while as if in a trance before snapping back to myself. I sit in silence for a moment before my brain captures me once again and I drown in things I thought I had forgotten. Everything is so loud. The darkness is too harsh for my sensitive soul. I wish I could be petty like everyone else; I’m so tired of being the big person. I hate being my own lawyer, judge, and executioner. I am a slave to my own mind. I haunt my own body. ‘There’s gotta be some kind of syndrome for this’ I giggle to myself. I should really workshop my comedy routine.