Not even worth a Penny. - A dramatic monologue based on a troubled 15-year-old.

Not even worth a Penny

An extract from the short play by Isabel Hendy.

It is a Monday afternoon. Penny is a 15-year-old schoolgirl. She sits on the floor in her room, against her desk. She stares downwards at the floor and plucks an elastic band from her wrist.

Penny: I would have Maths now. Mr Elliott would be clicking his fingers in front of my face, and raising his voice, doing his utmost for me to actually finish the first remarkably complex question that floats on the whiteboard. I am glad I am not there, in that lifeless, insipid classroom. But then again, here is no better. And yes, I do often miss lessons. Sometimes whole days of school.  Not worth my time. I just walk home. I like walking. Surprisingly, it's one of the things I do like, it gives me time to cleanse the deep, dark and vicious thoughts in my soul. 

[Penny fumbles for a glass bottle under her desk. She grabs hold of it, unscrews the lid and takes two, long gulps. She hides the bottle back under her desk. Her voice now sounds empty and emotionless.]

Oh, Father. Where art thou on this fine afternoon? Evidently not here. At the pub perhaps? Again. Well, at least you've got something right. Mum told me you don't work anymore, well that was predictable. You can't even communicate with your daughter; let alone hold down a job.

What's my name Daddy? Do you remember? Well, it's Penelopé, and my body and mind is deteriorating just as fast as yours. I lose my mind every day. Just like you do when you finally come home. Just when you place that cold, forbidding glass to your broken lips that no longer speak words of love and affection, letting the alcoholic liquid flood through you like poison. I get it though, Father, it numbs you. Numbs you from feeling and reality. That's how I feel too.

I refuse to converse or make contact with people from now on. They all lack humanity. Just like Mother and Father, they all possess a deficiency in tolerance, understanding and compassion. I have constructed two-and-a-half locks on my bedroom door, so I hope these lesser beings can grasp the idea that; a) no my bedroom is not a communal coffee club, where you can just walk in and expect me to talk or even look at you, and b) if you have got anything to offer me, no I actually don't need your help. So thanks for offering. Oh wait... you didn't. I was just imagining that people actually valued my presence on this planet.

[Continues to pluck elastic band from wrist. This time, she plucks harder so it leaves marks on her wrist. Her voice is starting to sound softer and more relaxed than previously.] 

So there's this girl. She's kind of, intriguing. I know I said I refuse to communicate with human beings, but this girl isn't human. And besides, I don't think I've ever actually spoke to her. Okay, maybe once, when I asked to borrow a pen. But there seems to be an ominously recurring event here... she doesn't notice me, no one does! Oh how I long to talk to her, not anyone else by the way, no I don't want to talk to my Mother or especially not my Father. I don't want anyone in my life. Apart from her. That girl.
And I know what you're thinking. No, I don't fancy her, or think she's attractive. I'm not attracted to girls. But her...

[Retrieves the bottle and takes a few more gulps and returns it. Her voice starts to sound angry.] 

If she doesn't talk to me what does she expect me to do?  I don't know why she wants to hurt me. Just like everyone else. Well maybe I want to hurt someone, so they feel how I feel. It's just so unfair. I don't want to cry anymore, and taste the bitterness of my tears, I don't want to drink anymore, and feel the toxin soak up my anxiety. I don't want to eat anymore, and feel as if my body is making poor use of the nourishment that I've been given. I am a poor use to this world. But soon... someone will feel like me too.