SKINNY
CHARACTERS
COLLEEN – 24, female.
UNA – 49, female.
SETTING
The play takes place in the present day in Colleen’s room.
SET
Colleen’s drab room. The only features are an undressed bed with a duffel bag at the foot of it and a large, curtained window.
Lights up. Colleen is at the window dressed in clothes that look slept in, her hair sloppily tied up, a pair of binoculars hanging at her neck. She occasionally moves the curtain to peer outside.
COLLEEN
I’ve been invested in dog watching for the past few days. Bird watching is overdone. Birds are pests. They’re loud, they’re up too early, and they’ve got no practical use. Dogs are dumb and loyal and they’ll love you no matter what. See? A college girl carrying a shaky Boston Terrier; an Australian Shepherd with blue eyes and a pink nose like a four-legged baby; a white-head Labrador aging as slowly as it trots down the sidewalk. And a… a mutt. Little bit of Husky, maybe some German Shepherd, maybe some wolf.
Colleen leaves the window, sits on the bed.
COLLEEN
The bed isn’t ideal. Less lumpy than any mattress I got stuck with before. But still not great. Max’s old bed is probably comfier but Aunty’ll never let me into his room. Ah well. Options are limited when your ex doesn’t feel interested enough to be a part of your issues and all of your former friends are too toxic and frozen in a different life. (looking directly at audience) Hello. I don’t have many people to talk to these days. But you’ll listen. Right? A diary? Maybe not a diary. I’m not fourteen anymore. But… someone to confide in? Well, either way…
Colleen puts the binoculars aside and lies back on the bed, fingers interlaced on her chest like a corpse on display in a casket.
Una enters with a tray holding a simple breakfast, laying it on the floor next to Colleen. She opens the curtains and exits.
COLLEEN (to audience)
Aunty Una is in and out and I’m mostly in. She seems okay with me being here, maybe for a few weeks, maybe more. She doesn’t seem to like my hermit lifestyle but it’s growing on me.
Colleen lights a cigarette. Una enters with an ashtray out and places it at the foot of the bed. She exits. Colleen uses the breakfast tray to ash.
COLLEEN
Doesn’t like that I smoke inside either. But the walls are yellow anyways and the window jams. Sue me. The house has been empty for forever. I know she needs the company. She’s alone enough.
Una enters with a small shelf and places it in the room.
COLLEEN (to Una)
Does that one stain on the ceiling look like a Pekingese to you, Aunty?
UNA
It sure does, Colleen.
Una exits.
COLLEEN (to audience)
Lonely and agreeable. Perfect combo. Mom and Dad don’t want me around, obviously. They were my first choice based entirely on reliability. But I ran out of fallbacks, I guess.
Colleen butts the cigarette in the breakfast tray. Una enters with pillow and blankets and dresses the bed with Colleen in it.
UNA
Found these in the basement. They’re clean, don’t worry. Goodnight, Colleen.
COLLEEN (to Una)
Night, Aunty.
Una exits.
COLLEEN (to audience)
It’s a white night. I stay up and smoke and watch the Pekingese on the ceiling because there aren’t any dogs outside. Aunty Una will bring me food in the morning and we’ll repeat the routine until I fade away like Max. Fade away right into this lumpy mattress just like everyone else. Until…
Una enters and sits at the foot of Colleen’s bed.
UNA
Colleen, I was thinking…
COLLEEN (to audience)
Bad sign.
UNA
That getting out of the house would be healthy for you…
COLLEEN (to audience)
Worse sign.
UNA
And maybe see some friends? Finding a job would be healthy.
COLLEEN (to audience)
I don’t have friends. I have problems from the past that made me delete all of my social accounts. A job’s not an option. Look at me. I’m a living zit.
UNA
I have a girlfriend from my book club that works at the depot downtown. She could get you a job.
COLLEEN (to audience)
And run shit through a barcode scanner decked out in a neon apron that slowly smudges the shadows under my eyes down my face? Pass. I want to be normal. Believe me, even from what you’ve seen for the past week. I want it more than anything. But none of that will help.
UNA
Colleen?
COLLEEN (to audience)
Why is she trying to be my mother? I already have one. I think Aunty knows her. (To Una.) Yeah. I’ll try.
Una smiles and pats Colleen’s leg.
UNA
You’re a sweetheart.
Una exits. Colleen sighs and sits up.
COLLEEN
Okay, okay.
Colleen takes a piece of toast from the tray and begins to chew at it.
COLLEEN
I’m eating, alright? Are you happy? Of course not. I’m still in this room.
Colleen stands up, moves to her duffel bag, and begins to dump clothes from it onto the floor.
COLLEEN
Bunch of rags and trash I wore in a different life. If I go outside I’m wearing what I’m wearing. If I go outside I need to shower. If I shower I can’t wear these clothes I’ve been wearing for two weeks.
Colleen retrieves the binoculars and moves to the window. She closes the curtains but peers out of them from the side.
COLLEEN
Chocolate Labrador. Trembling pug. Trembling Chihuahua. Something ugly and beaten up. Probably from a shelter and scared of men. But cute.
Una enters.
UNA
What are you looking at?
COLLEEN (to Una)
Dogs?
UNA
I called my girlfriend.
COLLEN
Mm-hm.
UNA
You have a job interview tomorrow.
COLLEEN
Okay, Aunty.
UNA
Are you going to be there, Colleen?
COLLEEN
Yes, Aunty.
UNA
Promise me?
COLLEEN
Promise. (To audience.) A Pekingese. Finally. Not as pretty as the ceiling stain. Unfortunate. But what can you expect from purebreds? They’re never as pretty in person.
Una exits. Colleen returns to the bed, tossing her food aside.
COLLEEN
I watch dogs, I eat a bit, and I smoke shitty cigarettes. What do you want from me?
Colleen lights another cigarette.
COLLEEN
Normalcy is overrated. No, heh, you’re right; I can’t say that with a straight face. Imagine being happy with the average. You get married, pump out a few kids, raise ’em, and die. An old-fashioned perfect life.
Colleen pulls hard from her cigarette and butts it out on the breakfast tray.
COLLEEN
Aunty Una tried out normalcy and look how that worked out. Now she’s alone with her fuckup niece. I never thought about marriage. It always goes the same way.
Colleen stands straight with her hand over heart.
COLLEEN
“And do you, Fallback Guy, take this skin-bag of bones and tendons to be your legally-bound Other? To tolerate and die alongside, to meld with into a DNA mash-up of dependence and hereditary mental illnesses?”
Colleen returns her attention to the window.
COLLEEN
And then we get a miniscule tax break and routine. Routine where we wake up next to each other every morning. Maybe we spend a night making a little combination of ourselves, something that presses out my belly and crawls out of me fleshy and screaming. Is it selfish to want children? I already feel bloated enough, like gravity is pulling me down further than I’ve ever gone. Right into the center of the earth. I know how pretentious and angsty that sounds. Like a teenage girl who thinks nihilism is the answer to her first period. But that’s what I think. That’s how I feel.
Colleen puts her binoculars aside and lies down in the bed. A long beat.
COLLEEN
Shit. I missed it.
Una enters and stands over Colleen.
UNA
Morning.
COLLEEN
Good morning, Aunty.
UNA
It’s three PM.
COLLEEN
Good afternoon?
UNA
You didn’t go to the interview. You said you would go yesterday. (a beat) I saw your mother. She gave me a letter. To give to you.
COLLEEN
You saw my mom?
UNA
We got lunch.
COLLEEN
You didn’t tell me you were going to see my mom.
UNA
She told me not to. Because you’d want to come along.
COLLEEN (to audience)
Wrong. I wouldn’t have wanted to see her.
UNA
Well. Here.
Una produces a folded piece of paper and places it on the bed. Colleen waits for a beat, then unfolds the letter and walks to the window.
COLLEEN (to audience)
“Colleen. When you were little and I rolled you down the street in your stroller strangers always said you looked nothing like me. I was tiny and tired and my hair was an unfurled mess of frizz. But you were a fat, jolly baby. You adored attention, even from strangers on the street. You laughed at everything. Even when your father and I argued, you sat in your highchair and giggled and clapped your hands. You were that bit of light that kept things feeling important. For us. But now I feel like we’ve run out of reasons to love you. If that’s harsh, then so be it. Don’t abuse your aunt’s hospitality. Try to get better. If you feel like yourself again, if you feel like that laughing child again, I’ll be ready to talk. Mom.”
Colleen lets the letter fall to the floor.
COLLEEN (to audience)
Well. She always was a bit too honest.
UNA
I didn’t read it, of course, /so
COLLEEN (to Una)
/She’s just catching me up on everything.
UNA
Okay. Let me know if you need anything.
Una moves to exit.
COLLEEN (to Una)
Do you have a towel I could borrow?
UNA
A towel?
COLLEEN
I need a shower.
UNA
Oh! Of course! The towels are in the hall closet.
Colleen prepares to exit.
UNA
Colleen…You need to start paying rent. If you’re going to keep staying here.
Pause. Colleen stares. Una exits hastily.
COLLEEN
I can’t even afford a phone anymore. Aunty can afford to put me up. I’ve seen her will. It’s all in my name and the sum is… it’s fair. Who else would be left to give it all to?
Colleen picks up the letter.
COLLEEN
Bitch. You’re pushing your sister to make my life harder, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you in months but you always manage to mother your way into my life.
The letter is tossed aside. Colleen exits. A pause. Colleen enters with her hair down and a wet towel in her arms. She tosses it on the floor and collapses in the bed.
COLLEEN
Alright. Baby steps.
Lights fade.
COLLEEN
Baby steps.
Lights back up on Colleen. About two weeks have passed. Colleen is dressed up – for her – and wearing a brightly-coloured apron emblazoned with a generic logo. She sighs, smooths out her apron, and exits. Colleen enters, slightly more disheveled, with her apron in her fist. She ties the apron around her waist and exits again. This repeats a few more times, Colleen’s appearance slowly degrading until she’s the frail mess we saw in the first scene, hair tied up. She exits one last time. SFX: The lights dim, implying the early hours of the morning. Colleen enters in uniform with a loaded garbage bag and a dog collar. She sits on the bed.
COLLEEN
I saw an old golden retriever tonight. White around the eyes, wandering without an owner. The headlights on Aunty Una’s truck are dim. I should replace them. She might appreciate that. (a beat) The goldie. Slumping across the street with its head down, like a dawdling grandmother bent over a cane and meandering to the park to feed the pigeons.
Colleen hides the collar under her pillow.
COLLEEN
Not that I saw her soon enough. And when I did I just kept going. He… She… It went under my front right tire first, then the back right. Like a soft speed bump. When I braked hard and parked it was lying across the asphalt. Split down the middle, stomach popped open and glaring red from the truck’s brake lights. I was sure I wouldn’t cry when I saw it. But I did. For a while. And then…
Colleen places the garbage bag on the floor and crouches over it. SFX: lights shift to a dull red. They blink like hazard lights on a car.
COLLEEN (to garbage bag)
Shh, girl. You’re alright, you’re alright. I mean, you’re really not, but… better to lie than face a dirty truth?
She strokes the bag as if it were a dog.
COLLEEN
Where’s your owner, huh? Where’s your mom? I gotcha, girl. I’ve got you. C’mon, girl. I can’t leave you here. No one deserves this.
She stands. SFX: lights shift to normal.
COLLEEN (to audience)
I found a garbage bag in the truck’s glove compartment and pulled the body into it.
Colleen lifts up the garbage bag.
COLLEEN
First the top half, then the second. I drove slowly past the rec centre parking lot, the lump of black plastic in the corner of my eye, resting on the passenger’s seat. There was a car marked ‘security’ sitting next to the dumpsters. I left.
Colleen inspects the bag.
COLLEEN
It’s already starting to smell. I febreezed the shit out of Aunty’s truck cab. My room’s going to have an undertone of corpse in the morning but Aunty won’t mention it. Ideally. That thick stench of cigarettes covers up everything, right? Not a problem. Not a problem. The problem is what I’m going to do with this.
Colleen tucks the bag under her bed.
COLLEEN
I’ll get rid of it. In the morning.
Colleen tries to light a cigarette but can’t spark her lighter.
COLLEEN
Hell. Don’t tell me I’m gonna spend my last five on a new lighter.
Colleen tosses cigarette and lighter aside and gestures to the bed.
COLLEEN
Is this the end goal? To die like an old dog in the streets, splattered over asphalt? Fuck. At least someone will miss the girl. Me? I’ve got an aunt that wants a daughter and a mom who’s tired of hers. I won’t do it. I won’t lie down and die like a dog.
She begins to pace. SFX: as Colleen monologues, the lights eventually shift from their dimmed state back to normal.
COLLEEN
I have an early shift tomorrow but I’ll be damned if I get any sleep with a body under my mattress. A distraction would be nice. (she looks to the audience) This is when I tell a story so I can avoid the problem, the problems. Either way, here we go. There once was this man named… well, everyone called him Grandpa, so we’ll call him Grandpa. Grandpa went to stay at a hospital one day after his landlady caught him trying to seal himself in his room with the gas oven running. Grandpa was HIV-positive and wasn’t too keen on sticking around. He waded through his time at the hospital: ate meals with other inpatients, went to group therapy and solo therapy, and didn’t try to hurt himself, at least as long as the orderlies were watching. Then, one day, a girl with ribs and elbows jutting out of her skin was checked into the hospital. And Grandpa decided to show her around. She told him about her life, and he told her about his. Grandpa had lost a lot of friends in the old days and the girl wasn’t sure she’d ever had any. Grandpa and the girl weren’t really friends, but they ate together, endured group therapy together, and shared cigarettes in the parking lot. One day, while the girl sat in the cafeteria with an untouched tray of food in front of her, Grandpa said, “It’s not eating a lot. It’s trying a bit of everything and getting used to the idea.” And the girl never forgot that. But when the girl left the hospital and left Grandpa behind, Grandpa never heard from her again.
Colleen stops pacing as Una enters.
UNA
You’re up already?
COLLEEN
What? What time is it?
UNA
A bit after 7:30.
COLLEEN
Oh. Right. Do you mind if I borrow the truck for work again? And your phone?
UNA
You shouldn’t be online. That’s what the pamphlet said. And you shouldn’t /be –
COLLEEN
/Manager just wanted me to call in. If that’s okay with you.
A beat. Una hands Colleen a phone.
UNA
Let me know if you have any dirty laundry.
Una exits. Colleen dials the phone and puts it to her ear.
COLLEEN
Come on… Fuck you. I know you’re screening this. Voicemail my ass – Shit. Hey, dickhead. I want my stuff back. The box labeled ‘Colleen’s Crap’ in the corner by the front door? That one. Drop it off at my aunt’s place. Oh, and, fuck me for falling for you, right? Asshole.
Colleen tosses the phone aside and collapses on the bed.
COLLEEN
Yelling at people I thought I loved always makes me feel better.
After a beat she produces a bag of coins and counts them out.
COLLEEN
That’s… three… four… Yup, still only five dollars. I am two hundred and ninety-five dollars short for rent. Only.
Colleen unties her hair and tries to comb it out with her fingers. She retrieves the apron and puts it on. Una enters with a breakfast tray.
UNA
I thought we could eat together.
COLLEEN
In here?
UNA
Wherever works for you.
Colleen sits on the bed. Una joins her. Una eats. Colleen tries her best. A beat.
UNA
Y’know… your mother was asking about the hospital. She said you hadn’t told her anything before you got admitted and I guess… that she wanted to know if we’d talked about it? I didn’t want to ask, but…
COLLEEN
But she made you.
UNA
No!
COLLEEN
It was boring. You’ve been to a hospital before. It’s boring and it smells like sick people. (to audience) When you’re an inpatient they’re on your ass 24/7 even if you weren’t checked in for self-harm or kill-yourself-itis. Hard to sleep when an orderly is shining a light in your face every few hours. Doors don’t close, anything noose-like is banned, shaving is monitored, showers don’t get warm let alone scalding. You have to socialize. You have to go to therapy. You have to be normal.
UNA
Alright. That’s fine, you don’t need to… It’s fine, Colleen.
Una begins to collect the breakfast items.
COLLEEN (to Una)
Hey, I’m going to be a bit short on rent by the end of the month.
A beat.
UNA
No. That won’t work. No, you have to pay rent in full at the end of every month. If you want to stay here.
Una exits hastily with breakfast tray. A beat. Colleen retrieves Una’s phone and paces as she scrolls through it.
COLLEEN
It’s her, of course. The woman behind the curtain controlling her sister with pulleys and levers. “Make her pay rent, don’t tell her we’re meeting, ask her about the hospital, does she seem normal yet?” Fuck you. Conniving…
Colleen sighs and puts the phone aside. She places an unlit cigarette in her mouth and exits. Una enters after a beat and retrieves the phone, inspects it, then pockets it. She makes Colleen’s bed, organizes the pile of clothes to the best of her ability, opens the curtains, and exits.
A beat. Colleen enters, de-uniformed and carrying a cardboard box with ‘Colleen’s Crap’ written on the side. She drops it by the bed and produces a stuffed bear, a few wristbands, a squashed cigarette pack, and a coffee mug.
COLLEEN
This was my best friend when I was a kid: Dirty. (she holds up stuffed bear) Mom hated that name which is probably why I liked it so much. These wristbands, I used to… Handy tip: if you want to distract yourself from whatever, just snap it against your wrist. Works wonders. The mug’s from L.A. The pack of smokes… not sure why he stuck that in there.
She shakes the pack.
COLLEEN
Empty. And then…
Colleen pulls a worn but colourful bathroom scale from the bottom of the box and places it on the floor. An uncomfortable beat.
COLLEEN
Okay. Okay, Okay. Here we go.
She toes the scale as if dipping into cold water. Steps back. Another attempt, and then she kicks it across the floor. Colleen sighs, her breath shaking.
COLLEEN
Christ. It doesn’t get… easier. Seeing those blocky digits go up. Well… fuck. (a beat as Colleen stares down the scale) Positives: my hair isn’t falling out in the shower anymore.
Colleen lies in bed.
COLLEEN
Although the blue nails were gross too. And the acne. And the bad breath. But that’s what polish, foundation, and mouthwash is for. Masking.
She sniffs the air.
COLLEEN
I can just barely smell the old girl under my bed. Only if I look for it.
She sits up.
COLLEEN
I can’t sleep. It’s not the usual insomnia. Obviously. The… the body underneath my mattress. I can’t get rid of it. Physically. Mentally. Either way. It’s sitting there. Rotting in the back of my brain.
A beat. Colleen exits. Another beat. Colleen enters with a plastic grocery bag. She sits on the bed and takes out a container of ground beef and a box of rat poison. She breaks open both and begins to roll pellets of poison into lumps of raw meat. Satisfied with a handful of toxic meatballs, she exits with her props. A beat. Colleen enters, wiping her red hands on a rag, and goes to peek out the window.
SFX: The lights dim and rise multiple times (implying several days passing) as Colleen says her next lines, then return to normal by the time she finishes listing dogs.
COLLEEN
Blue Heeler. Saint Bernard. Labradoodle. Goldendoodle. Shit Tzu. Labrador. Labrador. Golden Retriever. Labrador. German Shepherd. Dachshund. Jack Russell. Copper Spaniel. Terrier. Husky. Coyote? No, that’s a raccoon. Collie. Bulldog. Pit bull. Or… Staffy? Corgi. Mastiff. Newfie. Samoyed. Weimaraner.
Una enters with a breakfast tray.
UNA
Early morning again? You’re becoming a real go-getter.
Colleen shrugs, fixated on window. Una sets down the tray and begins to exit then stops.
UNA
Oh! I’m not sure if you’d care to hear about this, but you know the woman who lives next door, with the pug? I saw her as I was getting the mail. Apparently, her dog ate something weird and she had to take it to the vet but they’re saying it wasn’t anything natural. Weird, huh?
COLLEEN (to Una)
Weird. (to audience) Day six. One pug.
Una exits. Colleen sits on her bed.
COLLEEN (to audience)
Don’t blame me. Don’t say anything before you hear me out. This is about me being better. You want that just as much as I do, right? The dog… the dogs. If I can get over what I did by repeating it, by normalizing it… maybe I can move past it. Go back to being normal. And… Nothing. I’ve got nothing sinking in my gut, no beating in my chest. And I would know the feeling of guilt, believe me. When I called Mom after being committed… Felt like I let her down past bedrock.
SFX: Lights and sound shift to a sterile hospital. Colleen stands and mimes speaking on a landline.
COLLEEN
“Hey. It’s your daughter. Uh-huh. I know. I’m sorry. Listen, I– Mom! I’m in a hospital in California right now. Like, committed. No, I didn’t choose to do it. It’s… yeah, involuntary. It’s not rehab! Not drug-rehab rehab. (a beat) Yes, it’s legal, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t put me here if it wasn’t. No, I don’t want to fight it. Because it’s legal! Why aren’t you– (a beat) Sorry. I didn’t get a lawyer. It wasn’t like that; this isn’t a courtroom drama, Mom. I can’t tell you which hospital. No, that’s not part of the rules. I just don’t want you to see me like– Mom, please! I just wanted to let you know, okay? Tell Dad I said hi. And sorry. No, I don’t need to talk to him. I’ll call again soon if I can. And I’ll see you when I get out.”
Colleen “hangs up.” SFX: lights and sound shift to normal.
COLLEEN
I didn’t, though. I didn’t call again. She knew where I was. And I didn’t see her when I got out. I called after a month of couch surfing at old high school classmates’ apartments. Called her and asked for a bed. I didn’t get one.
Colleen offers a half-hearted smile, retrieves her uniform, and exits. After a beat, she enters again (sans-uniform) and faces the audience. SFX: lights shift to a fluorescent, harsher white. Colleen speaks to her manager.
COLLEEN
“I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not, but… what do you mean? Letting me go? So I’m fired. I don’t really care if you don’t like that word. I’m fired, aren’t I? Do I at least get severance? Fuck. Okay. Uniform to HR. Deposit back for the nametag. Alright. Yeah. Good luck to you too… shithead.”
Lights shift to normal. Colleen sits on bed.
COLLEEN
After that run in with management the teenage-whatever who seems to know all the behind-the-curtain gossip told me that the manager’s son was looking for summer work and that we were already overstaffed. So they had to drop me. Also, the ex-retiree who got sick of dying at home and returned to the workforce told the boss that he saw me stealing merch. Which he didn’t! Not that it matters. I’m dead. Who’s gonna hire this?
Colleen exits, then returns with a tea set.
COLLEEN
A routine. A sense of security. That’s all it takes.
She pours tea into two mugs.
COLLEEN
And then, one day, a spiked cup of tea. An inheritance. And a girl who lives for another day.
Una enters with a basket of laundry.
COLLEEN (to Una)
I made tea. I thought we could have a bit of routine.
UNA
Oh! I’d love that, Colleen.
Una sits. Colleen hands her a mug. They sip.
COLLEEN (to audience)
This all goes on for a while.
UNA
A woman from my book club started going to AA. Can you believe that? She said not to tell anybody, but you’re not in the book club so it’s fine, right?
COLLEEN (to audience)
Una talks. I nod. She drinks the tea.
UNA
The neighbour’s pug had to be put down. I feel so sorry for her. The neighbour. Well, the pug too obviously.
COLLEEN (to audience)
She enjoys talking at least.
UNA
We’re reading the most disgusting book. The main character is awful! How can I like a book if I don’t like him?
COLLEEN (to audience)
Did you know that female praying mantises bite off their partner’s head after fucking? Like a cigarette after an orgasm. Both deadly but one a bit more immediate.
UNA
Another dog sick! I hope this one doesn’t get put to sleep. I know how much you love dogs.
COLLEEN (to audience)
Except this decapitation ritual is only found in captive praying mantis. So what is it about a cage that makes a mantis want to tear of that one piece of connection’s literal head off?
Una checks her watch and sets down her mug.
UNA
Oh shoot, meeting starts soon. Thanks for the tea.
She exits.
COLLEEN
Easy. Like a captive praying mantis.
Colleen pats her pockets.
COLLEEN
I need a smoke. We’ll talk soon.
She exits. After a beat, Una enters and begins to tidy up the room: opening the window, making the bed, sorting clothes. Eventually she sniffs the air, goes beneath the bed, and produces the garbage bag. She inspects it, opens it. Reacts as expected.
UNA
Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
Una has a moment. Eventually she pushes the garbage bag under the bed, produces her phone, and dials.
UNA
Hi. No, it’s… No! I found… a body. No! An animal, I think. A dog, definitely a dog. Under her bed! I don’t know! I can’t… But– …I know. I know. Okay. You’re right. No! I don’t need you to come over. She doesn’t need you to come over. I can handle it. I’m sure this time. Bye.
Una hangs up and tentatively sits on the bed. A pause as she stares past the audience. Colleen finally enters.
UNA
Where have you been?
COLLEEN
Work?
UNA
I heard you were fired.
COLLEEN
I was… I was laid off. How did you–
Una slides the garbage bag out from under the bed.
COLLEEN
Shit.
UNA
Well? (a beat) Colleen!
COLLEEN
I didn’t know what to do! She didn’t have an owner or a collar and I couldn’t just leave/ her–
UNA
/So you brought in a corpse!?
COLLEEN
I didn’t know!
UNA
You didn’t know what? That I would find out?
COLLEEN
That I… That it would play out like…
UNA
I’m trying, Colleen. God help me, I am. But this…
COLLEEN
I’ll get rid of it!
UNA
Clearly! You didn’t think you were going to keep it, did you?
COLLEEN
It was an accident. I didn’t see her. I didn’t know what to do, Aunty!
A beat.
UNA
You should start looking for a place for the end of the month.
COLLEEN
You can’t/ do–
UNA
/Yes I can! I can, Colleen. This isn’t going to work out. This… This is insane. This is beyond what I promised I would do. I can’t… I can’t get into your head. I can’t understand your thought process. If this is what you think is the right thing to do, then I won’t stand by and let it happen. Just… get rid of it.
Una exits. Colleen lies down in the bed, pulls the dog collar out from under her pillow.
COLLEEN
So. Another dog dead on the street. Someone’s leaving things out that they shouldn’t be. Another dead dog and another girl who doesn’t feel that guilt that… that she should.
She reads the tag on the collar.
COLLEEN
Lady. That was her name. See, I thought that would make me feel something. Like when your mom catches you skimming from the change jar when you’re too young to know why it’s wrong, just that it’s wrong. Or, or when another patient finds out you’re stealing cigarettes from her and you only get that pang of guilt after being found out, never before. I mean, at least I got cash and a few head rushes out of those misdemeanors. This? Nothing. Not anymore. Not like I did with Max. Aunty’s kid. I didn’t go to Max’s funeral. And I felt bad about that. Max was different as far as family is considered. Max was the… the pinnacle of innocence. Mom and Dad used to babysit him and if I came home late and fell asleep on the couch he’d play a game in the morning where he’d jump on my legs yelling ‘Boo!’ and run off again and again. Rough for the hangovers but reaffirming for the soul. Little bastard. I loved him. I think. If you don’t love your family unconditionally, then I loved him. But I didn’t go to his funeral. I was in California with a bunch of zero-percent-fat girls, girls funded by clubbers buying them drinks and keys of coke with daddy money. I remember swaying in a bathroom while my phone exploded with texts from Mom. I threw up and went home. And that was it. If I can live without guilt, then…
Lights fade and come back up. Colleen takes the garbage bag off stage and returns to bed with two mugs. She pours tea into them, and a vial of liquid into one of them. Una enters with a suitcase and places it at the foot of Colleen’s bed.
UNA
That’s a third one now. Neighbourhood watch is telling people to watch what their pets eat outside. Somebody really evil is just leaving stuff for those poor things and… I might get a deadbolt if they don’t catch him.
COLLEEN (to Una)
You’re not a dog.
UNA
Doesn’t matter. Sickos are sickos. Dogs, people, it doesn’t matter. (a beat) You aren’t… you don’t know anything about this whole thing, do you?
COLLEEN
Aunty. It was an accident. Why would/ I–
UNA
/Right. Of course. I’m just… worried.
COLLEEN
Do you have time for tea again before your meeting?
UNA
Oh… I don’t know if… I guess I do.
She sits on the bed next to Colleen.
UNA
This is nice, I suppose. It’s still nice to have a little routine, you know? Max and I used to eat breakfast together before he went to school. He’d tell me about what they would learn that day and I would give him a simple version of what I’d do at work. Every morning. The same thing.
A beat as Colleen blinks at Una. She ducks her head.
COLLEEN
I’m sorry about Max. I don’t know if I ever said that.
UNA
You… You didn’t have to. You still don’t. (a beat) Tell me about the place you found.
COLLEEN
It’s a loft? I think. One bedroom. One bathroom. One kitchen. Not much else. Oh, windows. Two windows. It’s not on the ground floor, which I like. Sort of smells like paint. The walls are white. Look, I don’t want to just leave this thing alone. I cared… I still do? He was my cousin…
A beat.
UNA
When… when the police knocked on my door it was almost morning. I can’t remember how I felt. When they told me about Max’s dad driving through the rail, blood more booze than blood. I blamed myself for the longest time. Not that there’s someone at fault. I used to think it was me to blame for letting Max see his dad on that weekend. I’m sure he felt at fault. But he couldn’t help his problems or his demons. I can’t blame myself. I can’t blame him. It’s not an issue of being sorry, Colleen.
Una reaches for her mug. Colleen pulls it away.
COLLEEN
You know… I think I messed up. The mugs look pretty dirty. But we can have tea next time?
UNA
I, well, I should be heading out anyways. Thanks, Colleen. For understanding. Happy packing.
She exits. An extended beat as Colleen struggles with her own turmoil. SFX: A dog barks in the distance.
COLLEEN
No… I can’t, I can’t be like this. Not now. I was so close. I was so fucking close!
SFX: Another dog bark, and then another, closer now. Colleen hunches over on the bed, head in hands.
COLLEEN
I’m sorry, okay! I feel… sorry.
SFX: The dogs’ barking becomes more frequent, louder and closer.
COLLEEN
What now? (she looks into the audience) What do I do now?
SFX: The dog barks fill the room, drowning out Colleen’s last words. They continue as the lights fade, aggressive and consuming Colleen. Lights out.
End.