Mona Bronwyn ➤ 2 ➤ WIP

DISTRICT'S GRAVEYARD — MORNING
Gray. That's what the sky is this morning. It's gray, with a bright undertone that (if you stared at it for too long) might make your eyes burn, and your mind wonder if you were staring at the sun, rather than just a dusty gray scope of cloudy nothingness. The cold is also bone chilling, the kind of cold where your breath floats away in white, nebulous puffs. Like cigarette smoke, or the steam a hot shower leaves in a bathroom. Dew licks the long, unshaven blades of grass, glossing the entire scene over with a fresh sense of cleanliness. Ironically. This is still a graveyard, for Christ's sake.

Four people are making their way up a hill. Young. Tired. Sleep still crusted in their eyes. A boy and a girl have their arms tightly linked, and they're skipping playfully over the miscellaneous tombstones and freshly patted down graves. The girl is laughing, hard, while the boy is concentrating on where he places his steps, a small smile on his face. Another boy has his hands in his pockets. He walks right behind them, but his pace is quicker, as if each footstep has a purpose or a destination. One last girl lags behind them all, a cigarette dangling between her index and middle finger. She has bags under her eyes, and her hair is a disheveled mess. The hill is clearly wearing her down.

Still some distance away, an open grave sits at the peak of the hill. A crooked tombstone, saying "Dearly beloved daughter, sister, friend...", is placed at one end. To the side, a mound of fresh dirt is crumbling. The open grave is about four to five feet deep, and six to seven feet wide, clearly still in the process of being dug. At the bottom of the pit, a girl lies down with her hands solemnly clasped over her heart. She's wearing a weathered leather jacket, and a pair of jeans with holes in them. She looks like she's sleeping, as most corpses do. Dead, anyone would probably guess at first glance. Cold, and dead, and forgotten, and dead dead dead. Except for the mysterious way her chest rises and falls.

CALEB: Oy, is this the wrong hill?
LYSANDER: Why do you say that?
CALEB: I don't know. We've been walking ages. Feels like we've skipped it.
DELTA: You're literally skipping, so maybe that's why.
CALEB: Don't be such a drag, Del.
DELTA:*With an air of offense* I'll have you know -
LYSANDER: I know this is the right hill.
Caleb and India's skip dribbles away, until they're walking behind Lysander, instead.
CALEB: Would be pretty terrible if it weren't.
INDIA: Your optimism never ceases to amaze me.
CALEB: I'm just pointing out some possibilities, sue me!
DELTA: Oh, gladly.
India and Lysander share soft laughter, while Caleb turns his head to roll his eyes at Del. After a few silent yards, they reach the top of the hill. Del pauses to place her hands on her knees, bending over, breathing heavily.
DELTA: God, where's that little bastard?
CALEB: One cigarette too many, Del? You're destroying your lungs, you know.
DELTA: Oh, shut up.
LYSANDER: Come on, keep it moving.
CALEB: *stands up straight, chest puffed, two fingers raised above his brow in mock salute* Ay, ay captain!
LYSANDER: You're such a pain in the ass, sometimes.
INDIA: I think this is it!
The others walk over to where India stands, in front of the open grave. Lysander reaches her first, Delta last. Their heads peer over the opening, eyes all staring at the still body.
INDIA: Is she sleeping? Why isn't she moving?
CALEB: *holding a fistful of moist dirt from the mound of soil* Hey, dare me to throw some in?
INDIA: Oh, stop it.
LYSANDER: *face notably softer at the sight of this girl, as if seeing her washed away all the cold that bit at his body* She isn't moving because she's in character.
THE GIRL: And you're breaking it.
CALEB: *throwing up the fistful of dirt into the air, so it sprinkles down on all of them like confetti, he leaves both his arms up in a V-shape, victorious* She lives! It's a miracle!
DELTA: Caleb, you got it all over my clothes!
CALEB: Sorry, princess.
THE GIRL: Ughhhhhhh.
INDIA: You really had me, there, Mona, you really looked dead -
LYSANDER: *smiling* Come on, quit playing hermit for a while. Isn't a week enough?
MONA: *at the sound of Lysander's voice, she peeks one eye open, her face scrunched up playfully* No.
LYSANDER: Let me get you out of there -
MONA: No.
LYSANDER: - it's just not your time yet, Mona, whether you like it or not.
MONA: *dramatically, she flops her forearm over her forehead, pressing her free hand into her chest; in a voice as exaggerated as her movements...* Don't make me face the world, yet! It's too soon, Lysander, I can't handle the humiliation. *She raises up her palm, as if to stop him from saying anything else that would damage her pride, but he kneels down next to the opening and grabs her open hand, hoisting her up in one swift movement. His hands are warm, she notices.*
LYSANDER: Oh, stop being dramatic.
MONA: It's what actors do. Not that I've done much good acting, lately, anyway, but -
LYSANDER: Shut up, will you?
MONA: I'm not good at that either.
They both smile at each other. It feels warm.
INDIA: Mona, really, it wasn't as bad as you think it was. Besides, we're all our own worst critics. You're no exception.
MONA: *her voice more serious than it was a few moments before; a bit miserable* Yeah, but you're also my biggest fan. Everything you're ever going to say to me about my performance will be sweet - even your criticism. It sickens me.
INDIA: *laughing* I'm a fan for a reason.
MONA: You have bad taste.
INDIA: Oh, come on! It wasn't a big deal -
MONA: I laughed on stage.
INDIA: So? We all make minor mistakes?
MONA: But, it was in the middle of my death scene!
DELTA: The audience seemed to like it.
MONA: They were laughing at me.
DELTA: Yeah, I know.
MONA: Ugh. *assuming a dramatic air, again; cue long, wistful sigh* The stage is just... no longer my forté. I need to have more time to practice being dead. Or, you know, actually being dead...
Mona attempts to crawl back into the shallow grave, but Lysander wraps a firm arm around her waist, making it impossible for her to budge.
LYSANDER: Oh, no you don't. I refuse to listen to any of this. Mona, you're a great actress. You know it, we all know it.
CALEB: And, besides, we all miss you at rehearsals. No one else appreciates my sense of humor like you do.
MONA: God, Caleb, it was your joke that popped into my stupid head that made me laugh last week. You're my downfall!
CALEB: See? Literally no one else laughs at my jokes except you!
LYSANDER: Mona, I just really don't see how lying down in graves and skipping practice and... and acting like a goddamned vampire for a week is gonna help you with anything.
MONA: Easy for you to say, Prince Charming. All you ever have to do to get into character is skip through a field of fucking daisies and eat little pink cakes and go cloud watching.
CALEB: That's... that's actually not so far off.
LYSANDER: Please, just come home.
These are rehearsed lines that Lysander utters. Lines from a scene these two have ran over and over again, on different stages, under different circumstances. Like any good actor, they both know how it ends. She takes his hands (she does), he brings her fingers up to his lips for a gentle kiss (he does), she rolls her eyes (she does), and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, fingers still entwined (he does), and they walk home.

(They do).

DISTRICT'S GRAVEYARD — MORNING
Gray. That's what the sky is this morning. It's gray, with a bright undertone that (if you stared at it for too long) might make your eyes burn, and your mind wonder if you were staring at the sun, rather than just a dusty gray scope of cloudy nothingness. The cold is also bone chilling, the kind of cold where your breath floats away in white, nebulous puffs. Like cigarette smoke, or the steam a hot shower leaves in a bathroom. Dew licks the long, unshaven blades of grass, glossing the entire scene over with a fresh sense of cleanliness. Ironically. This is still a graveyard, for Christ's sake.

Four people are making their way up a hill. Young. Tired. Sleep still crusted in their eyes. A boy and a girl have their arms tightly linked, and they're skipping playfully over the miscellaneous tombstones and freshly patted down graves. The girl is laughing, hard, while the boy is concentrating on where he places his steps, a small smile on his face. Another boy has his hands in his pockets. He walks right behind them, but his pace is quicker, as if each footstep has a purpose or a destination. One last girl lags behind them all, a cigarette dangling between her index and middle finger. She has bags under her eyes, and her hair is a disheveled mess. The hill is clearly wearing her down.

Still some distance away, an open grave sits at the peak of the hill. A crooked tombstone, saying "Dearly beloved daughter, sister, friend...", is placed at one end. To the side, a mound of fresh dirt is crumbling. The open grave is about four to five feet deep, and six to seven feet wide, clearly still in the process of being dug. At the bottom of the pit, a girl lies down with her hands solemnly clasped over her heart. She's wearing a weathered leather jacket, and a pair of jeans with holes in them. She looks like she's sleeping, as most corpses do. Dead, anyone would probably guess at first glance. Cold, and dead, and forgotten, and dead dead dead. Except for the mysterious way her chest rises and falls.

CALEB: Oy, is this the wrong hill?
LYSANDER: Why do you say that?
CALEB: I don't know. We've been walking ages. Feels like we've skipped it.
DELTA: You're literally skipping, so maybe that's why.
CALEB: Don't be such a drag, Del.
DELTA:*With an air of offense* I'll have you know -
LYSANDER: I know this is the right hill.
Caleb and India's skip dribbles away, until they're walking behind Lysander, instead.
CALEB: Would be pretty terrible if it weren't.
INDIA: Your optimism never ceases to amaze me.
CALEB: I'm just pointing out some possibilities, sue me!
DELTA: Oh, gladly.
India and Lysander share soft laughter, while Caleb turns his head to roll his eyes at Del. After a few silent yards, they reach the top of the hill. Del pauses to place her hands on her knees, bending over, breathing heavily.
DELTA: God, where's that little bastard?
CALEB: One cigarette too many, Del? You're destroying your lungs, you know.
DELTA: Oh, shut up.
LYSANDER: Come on, keep it moving.
CALEB: *stands up straight, chest puffed, two fingers raised above his brow in mock salute* Ay, ay captain!
LYSANDER: You're such a pain in the ass, sometimes.
INDIA: I think this is it!
The others walk over to where India stands, in front of the open grave. Lysander reaches her first, Delta last. Their heads peer over the opening, eyes all staring at the still body.
INDIA: Is she sleeping? Why isn't she moving?
CALEB: *holding a fistful of moist dirt from the mound of soil* Hey, dare me to throw some in?
INDIA: Oh, stop it.
LYSANDER: *face notably softer at the sight of this girl, as if seeing her washed away all the cold that bit at his body* She isn't moving because she's in character.
THE GIRL: And you're breaking it.
CALEB: *throwing up the fistful of dirt into the air, so it sprinkles down on all of them like confetti, he leaves both his arms up in a V-shape, victorious* She lives! It's a miracle!
DELTA: Caleb, you got it all over my clothes!
CALEB: Sorry, princess.
THE GIRL: Ughhhhhhh.
INDIA: You really had me, there, Mona, you really looked dead -
LYSANDER: *smiling* Come on, quit playing hermit for a while. Isn't a week enough?
MONA: *at the sound of Lysander's voice, she peeks one eye open, her face scrunched up playfully* No.
LYSANDER: Let me get you out of there -
MONA: No.
LYSANDER: - it's just not your time yet, Mona, whether you like it or not.
MONA: *dramatically, she flops her forearm over her forehead, pressing her free hand into her chest; in a voice as exaggerated as her movements...* Don't make me face the world, yet! It's too soon, Lysander, I can't handle the humiliation. *She raises up her palm, as if to stop him from saying anything else that would damage her pride, but he kneels down next to the opening and grabs her open hand, hoisting her up in one swift movement. His hands are warm, she notices.*
LYSANDER: Oh, stop being dramatic.
MONA: It's what actors do. Not that I've done much good acting, lately, anyway, but -
LYSANDER: Shut up, will you?
MONA: I'm not good at that either.
They both smile at each other. It feels warm.
INDIA: Mona, really, it wasn't as bad as you think it was. Besides, we're all our own worst critics. You're no exception.
MONA: *her voice more serious than it was a few moments before; a bit miserable* Yeah, but you're also my biggest fan. Everything you're ever going to say to me about my performance will be sweet - even your criticism. It sickens me.
INDIA: *laughing* I'm a fan for a reason.
MONA: You have bad taste.
INDIA: Oh, come on! It wasn't a big deal -
MONA: I laughed on stage.
INDIA: So? We all make minor mistakes?
MONA: But, it was in the middle of my death scene!
DELTA: The audience seemed to like it.
MONA: They were laughing at me.
DELTA: Yeah, I know.
MONA: Ugh. *assuming a dramatic air, again; cue long, wistful sigh* The stage is just... no longer my forté. I need to have more time to practice being dead. Or, you know, actually being dead...
Mona attempts to crawl back into the shallow grave, but Lysander wraps a firm arm around her waist, making it impossible for her to budge.
LYSANDER: Oh, no you don't. I refuse to listen to any of this. Mona, you're a great actress. You know it, we all know it.
CALEB: And, besides, we all miss you at rehearsals. No one else appreciates my sense of humor like you do.
MONA: God, Caleb, it was your joke that popped into my stupid head that made me laugh last week. You're my downfall!
CALEB: See? Literally no one else laughs at my jokes except you!
LYSANDER: Mona, I just really don't see how lying down in graves and skipping practice and... and acting like a goddamned vampire for a week is gonna help you with anything.
MONA: Easy for you to say, Prince Charming. All you ever have to do to get into character is skip through a field of fucking daisies and eat little pink cakes and go cloud watching.
CALEB: That's... that's actually not so far off.
LYSANDER: Please, just come home.
These are rehearsed lines that Lysander utters. Lines from a scene these two have ran over and over again, on different stages, under different circumstances. Like any good actor, they both know how it ends. She takes his hands (she does), he brings her fingers up to his lips for a gentle kiss (he does), she rolls her eyes (she does), and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, fingers still entwined (he does), and they walk home.

(They do).