A monologue from the play by Penelope Skinner
ALICE (twenty five)
I didn’t vanish. I moved schools. And three weeks in, Damon found out where I was and sent the photos to a guy in my new class.
You’d be amazed how predictable people can be in their reactions to things. By the third school I was almost ready for it.
I tried to get away. Go to university. But it never stopped. Men’s eyes. Following me wherever I went. And not just the looks.
The little comments. ‘Alright sexy’. ‘Morning sweetheart’.
It was like being surrounded by a pack of animals!
And eventually it got to the point where every time a
van beeped its horn at me
or a builder whistled or
or the checkout guy told me I’ve got nice eyes
I wanted to f***ing scream at every single man who said any tiny thing only I couldn’t because I’m weak. I couldn’t because I knew from experience that if you piss men off
(Amy covers her face with her hands)
If you piss them off and you’re a girl
you’re going to get hurt.
