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A monologue from the play by Chisa Hutchinson
Veronika (late thirties, African American)
Veronika, a home care nurse, is having difficulty coping with her latest charge, who’s dying of cancer. Here, she prays.
Okay, God. What kind of sh*t is this you’re trying to pull? Are you testing me to see just how much I can take before I get back in bed with the Devil?
Or is this a legit mission you want me to accept?
I mean it’s not like you give signs like you used to . . . burning bushes and whatnot? That’s unmistakable sh*t.
But what do I have to go on? I’m willing to do your will. Know that. Even if it means budgeting for the rest of my life, turning down twenty-seven million . . .
you know what, I’m not even gonna say that out loud any more. It’s just . . . it’s cruel.
If your will is that I say no to all that, it’s cruel, but . . . it’s done. Just please: let me know. I’ll admit, “Thou shalt not kill” . . . that’s pretty clear.
But not too long before that mandate, you were commanding your disciples to take out their own fam, so clearly there’s a gray area.
Is that where I am right now? The gray area? Is the gray area supposed to feel like an episode of the Twilight Zone?
Look, I know you probably get this a lot, but as this really is a matter of life or death, I don’t think one little sign is too much to ask. God…?
(Silence. Punctuated by a wicked loud fart. It surprises Veronika even though it came from her. Yup. One of those.)
Really? Don’t tell me that’s it! How am I even supposed to interpret that? You know what? Forget it. Forget I asked.
I’m just gonna . . . I’m just gonna spray some . . . spray some spray sh*t and keep moving and all will be revealed.
I have faith. I do. Watch how faithful I am . . .
(Over all this, Veronika has retrieved a can of aerosol from somewhere and is spraying to cover up the fart.)
I’m just gonna keep on doing what I was doing until you show me I should be doing otherwise. I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna scrub the f*** out of this tub, for starters.
And I’m gonna rinse it when I’m done scrubbing, and when I’m done rinsing, I may just scrub it again if it’ll keep me
from putting that old spider-b*tch in a choke-hold and giving her what she’s been asking for . . .
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