Dark Night


monica_icon.gif wf_monica_icon.gif

Scene Title Dark Night
Synopsis Pressures of all kinds.
Date December 31, 2018

Monica's Apartment

The cell isn't big enough for her to lie down flat in. Or stand up straight. One wall is covered top to bottom with tally marks— Monica tracking the days she's been here. She can see the sun through a small window. It also lets rain in. And snow. Tonight, it lets her count stars. More visible now than New York has been able to see in a long time.

She loses count. She starts again.

Sometimes I don't really know myself

Devil on my back, pray for me, need help

The apartment is too big for just her. There's something about the quiet, open space that makes her feel more alone than anywhere else. The sound of her steps through the living room echoes. She wraps her wrist— the non-cybernetic one— as she approaches the punching bag hanging in the middle of the room. The furniture has all been pushed out to the walls. Used to be only now and then, now she leaves it that way all the time.

Often, she uses this time to practice technique. Not tonight. Tonight, she punches the bag. Again and again.

Angel in the front tryna guide my steps

Who do you call when you need some help?

She never answered their questions. Never broke. But now that they've all but forgotten about her, now is when she thinks of what she would give up to get out of here. She doesn't even have to glance at the tally marks to know that it's been too long— anything useful she knew isn't valuable anymore. They know it and she knows it. Curled up on the floor of her cell, she cries silently into the floor. But it occurs to her that they aren't even bothering to watch her anymore and lets herself sob against the cement.

Who do you call when you by yourself?

Who do you call when you feel down low?

Her fists slam into the bag, harder and faster as she tries to find some sort of catharsis in it. By the time her left arm brings the whole thing down, she hasn't found anything but sweat and anger. She walks over to where it landed, pounding her heel into the leather until it splits and sand spills across her marble floor.

She's shaking when she stands back up.

I just wanna scream, I just wanna explode

I, I just wanna let go

Drained, she looks out the window, out at the stars. She doesn't count this time, she barely even registers what she's looking at.

I just wanna let go

There's a drink clutched in her hand, fingers stained by bloody knuckles. She looks out over her balcony, looking out at the stars. There are more visible now than she remembers ever seeing in the New York night sky before the war. She pushes away the urge to count them, turning her attention to the grounds below. She'll count the people instead.

I just wanna let go

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