(Lights up on the hospital room again. This time, Sam comes through the door with a few flowers that she* picked herself.* She* comes in and places them on the table next to Michael's bed. Michael is so caught up in his book that he doesn't even notice she's* come in.)
Sam: Hey, babe.
Michael: ...Hi, Sam.
Sam: I, um. I brought flowers.
Michael: Oh. Thank you.
Sam: So. How are you feeling?
Michael: Well, it can't be worse than death, so I'd say all things considered I feel pretty good.
Sam: ...Are you sure?
Michael: Yup. Nothing's wrong here. Aside from the obvious.
Sam: You don't want to talk about it?
Michael: There's nothing to talk about. I'm dying, I've accepted it, everything generally sucks. Whoop-de-doo.
Sam: Um. That doesn't seem like the healthiest mindset to have, hon.
Michael: Eh. Can't be any worse than all this. (He gestures to himself.)
Sam: You absolutely don't want to talk about it.
Michael: That is correct.
Sam: Even if I promise I'm not going to offer solutions and instead I'm going to listen to you and help you organize your thoughts verbally.
(Michael pauses and looks up, finally meeting Sam's eyes.)
Michael: Um- Well, I didn't know you //knew how to do that.
Sam: Yeah. Yeah, I know. I didn't really think it was an option.
Michael: Do you promise you're not gonna try and solve my problems and you're just going to listen and ask emotion related questions?
Sam: I promise.
Michael: You pinky promise.
Sam: Yes. I pinky promise.
Michael: (Beat.) Okay. Okay, um, nobody that I actually like has tried to do this with me. It's all been the hospital grief counselor and Adam trying to initiate this stuff.
Sam: You also super don't have to tell me. Not now, and not ever if you don't want to.
(Sam leans forward and kisses Michael's cheek gently.)
Sam: Now. (fake deep voice, doing finger guns) This is the FBI, open up!
Michael: Uh. I don't really know where to start. Um, the hospital's grief counselor kinda sucks. She keeps trying to get me to talk about what's going on in my head. As if I know. 'What's going on up there, Michael? What makes you tick?' Wish I knew, Noelle.
Sam: Oh, boo, lame.
Michael: (a weight is visibly lifted off his shoulders.) Right?! Oh my God, don't even get me started on- there's this one girl that always tries to eat lunch with me, and it's like- I am not going to be around long enough to form any actual connections with.
Sam: Ew. What the heck.
Michael: Right! Her name is Becca, and she's obsessed with me or something. I swear. Either it's a crush or she's a serial killer, either way, good luck with that one, girlie.
(Sam adjusts how she's* sitting on the bed. She* kicks her* feet and twirls her* hair obnoxiously.)
Sam: Soooo... are there any girls* you like?
Michael: Well, there's this one girl,* and she's* funny, and smart, and a little socially inept but that's okay, it's the autism, I get that.
Sam: (She* giggles, clearly faked.) Wow, I wonder whoever you could possibly mean.
Michael: Yeah, hmmm... I wonder... It's almost like it's my beautiful, amazing, talented, funny, genius girlfriend* or something.
(Sam looks away and giggles nervously, more genuinely now.)
Sam: Boo, loser.
Michael: You love this loser.
Sam: Yeah... yeah, I do.
Michael: I love you too, Sam.
Sam: (embarrassed) Now. Tell me more about this girl. What's her name? Benadryl?
Michael: Oh my God, Becca, she's the worst. Guess what she did at lunch yesterday?
[Lights down.]
YOU ARE READING
Black Parade - A One-Act Play
Short StoryA short play about family, love, and loss. I recently got the honor of directing this at my school. 8/10 experience, would recommend trying... with more rehearsal time than a week. This show is kinda meaty, not gonna lie.
