God I Hate ClichesMature

This was a monologue designed to recreate the feelings of Sin City in a playscript.

  

Vincent:          And so it had come, just as I had been expecting. The night had crept up like a noiseless assassin on a silent night, stalking his prey and only revealing himself when the time had come. Except that I had known about this evening, I had agreed to it, hell I'd planned most of it. I had no idea where I would be going and yet I was strangely comfortable with that. The unknown has never scared me; I find the things we know are far more terrifying. The unknown is fresh, exciting and keeps us on our toes. The familiar is all too real. But riding on this comfort were feelings of dread that the past would reveal itself again. I knew who I was meeting; I'd seen him before, in the club where the fake, and smog like smoke had swirled around him like a demon in the mist. He commanded the music and those who danced to it. His power surged around him. How could I not notice this form amongst the dregs of society in this hellhole?

Now don't get me wrong this place wasn't Hell itself, more like a poor imitation, The Box, as it was known to these deposits of life was after all, their only outlet. And thank god that I had decided to go that evening, the alcohol was cheap, almost as cheap as the bar staff, but he stood there like an angelic demon. In one instance commanding the space around him and in another sharing the love he bore to all. I introduced myself and the rest as they say is history. God I hate clichés.

So I'm standing in my hall, my hair swept across my face, my shirt freshly pressed, the jeans tighter than humanly possible, two sprays to the neck and my nose ignites with the strength of my aftershave. I feel my body light up and I prepare to meet this demonic angel.

            The air outside is fresh, moist. The suns setting and the birds are singing a melody like those found in jazz bars. The tune is sporadic yet it's still compelling. And as I walk from the house past a takeaway the smell of soy sauce fills my nose and I'm thrown back to a restaurant in the Chinatown district. There's me, and him, a table with condiments and crackers, and him, bad music in the background, cheap chopsticks on the table, and him. The one person who nearly destroyed me, he was a shit. And I mean a real fucking shit. The thought of his voice as I say this now brings the bile from my stomach into my mouth, the sound of a thousand nails tearing down the blackboard, enough to drain the blood from my ears. He's part of the knowing, I know what he can do to me, just the power he had over me is enough to stop me in my tracks. The way he said my name as though he had said a thousand lies; Vincent. He could say it over and over again, and inside I would cry while my hands covered his mouth and held him close, my unspoken words forgiving all his atrocities. And I swore to myself this would not happen again, never again. I am stronger now, I have moved on from there. The clichés come flooding out when I think of what happened and how I have changed; ‘what doesn't kill you makes you stronger,' ‘time will heal,' God I hate clichés.

             I force myself back into the present evening, I find myself on the floor bent over double taking in long drags of the fresh air, ignoring the stinging smell of soy sauce. I stand up and walk over to the roadside, I hail a cab, he stinks of the city, but its just a ride so I let him take me to the town centre. I still don't understand why I trust this guy, I don't even know his name, and to me he's just a nameless creature. The cab pulls up to the curb and I toss a twenty to the driver, thank him for his time and walk away before I offer advice he doesn't wanna hear. As I stand on the sidewalk, I can smell a clean-cut crisp smell, like spring morning. And I know, even before I turn around that its him, he's standing over 10 feet away and I can smell him and sense him. I turn to face him, the air around me stops, the sounds of traffic cease, he draws complete focus from anything around him. And there he stands, like an angel in the night. The bright lights of the city blur and fade into darkness, and I try to check him out, I begin at the ground, I feel my body lurch with excitement even before I begin, my legs trembling, my lips physically quivering, beads of sweat forming on my brow and I cant hold it any longer, I look straight at his face. The connection is made and it's impossible to pull away, my heart stops beating, I can't move, im stuck to the spot, he's actually frozen me on the spot. (smiling) God I hate clichés, but there is no other way to describe this feeling. His face is that of an angel and a devil in one, the surface beauty is supreme and the soul that lies beneath the skin is devilish and demands to be explored, with a jaw line that could cut diamonds, and perfect shoulder length hair. His piercing blue eyes have shot through my own and at the same time stopped my brain from functioning. I close my eyes to regain control and he's there in front of me, I can feel his breath as he speaks. I gain enough strength to process what he asks. ‘Err, Vincent' I say.  He speaks with cut glass diction; the sound is like honey in my ears. He turns to guide me to our restaurant and as he does I manage to ask what his name his. He flicks his hair back, turns his head to me and says ‘Gabriel!'

God I hate clichés.

The End

0 comments about this work Feed