The dark monologue. With all of today’s darkness, vampire stories, emos, real horror, like this 2016 USA election for example, it has become increasingly difficult to write a dark monologue or soliloquy that doesn’t sound cheesy. For example:
“As the darkness enveloped me like a warm blanket I thought back to my youth and my mother. Her caress and the blanket hot from the dryer she wrapped me in at bedtime. The darkness bespoke of that, hinting at welcome belonging, safety, and warmth. Yet it was a cold Comfort, for it would be my only companion save the moon and the infernal beating of hearts to tempting to go near.”
Sounds great, but still cheesy. Somehow. I’m gonna attempt to write one that isn’t. How? Well, let’s get meta.
“I’d heard of this, hell it’d been slammed into my head by pop culture, history books, stupid goths and mad fan girls. The darkness, the loneliness, the blah blah evil cold and warm and Oooh so seductive. I’d heard of it, it was what I was experiencing now that I was supposedly a undead sexy beast of teenage wet dreams. It was supposed to be anyway… But it wasn’t. Was this "darkness” something that came with time? Did it happen so slowly I wouldn’t realize till I was knee deep in blood, sex, and uncaring harems? Was it something that would happen when I had a taste of whatever fatty drug laden substance passed for blood in the local American? I sighed and fidgeted. The wet park bench seeped its tears of dew through my pants, yielding its wetness to my un-wanting underclothes. I didn’t care. I barely felt it, or perhaps my lack of caring made it so unimportant that my body had dismissed even physical sensations. I didn’t know. I was too deep in my own thoughts. All this supposed dark romantic shit that was supposed to be here…. Wasn’t. I was just… me. I could feel the blood from my recent neck wound dripping down my sweater. It smelled… good. Like pennies. I’d always liked the taste of pennies. I thought about how blood would taste…. How it would mean killing…. Maybe? I mean it still felt wrong but somehow…. Less? Like there was this dark ink blot in my mind saying “it’s ok, you’re different now.” I thought upon social norms, taboos, justifying acts of asshole ru or stupidity, stuff we do… and don’t do. Most still seemed to ring true… Don’t be a dick, be polite, don’t hurt people if they don’t deserve it, …. But theft…. Or murder… Or racism, sexism, and other isms, it seemed so small and superficial to the larger scheme of life and death. They don’t matter. … And that’s when that new little voice in my head got louder. “You’re a predator now, you’re not human, why should it matter, and besides…. Did it really ever matter in the grand scheme? Who kills who, who owns that, lives end and we are all small little creatures.” And that’s when I realized the voice had always been there, lurking, whispering. It was the voice that suddenly whispered “you could kill your pet cat right now just by squeezing” or “drop the baby” and all you can say is “no, why the fuck would I do that?” But the voice is still there. We all have it. Mine is just… Louder now. And all the little creatures who want that voice to be silent in their own head…. They looked like fun little toys. And I chuckled, as the little ink blot voice in my head laughed.“