Emily Brown: A Monologue of the Deceased

Emily Brown: A Monologue of the Deceased


Darkness descended upon the small town and sealed the promise of night with the death kiss of cold wind. It was by far the coldest night Brightsville had ever seen, and probably the coldest it would ever experience. In the window of one frosted window sat Emily Brown. Emily had been up for two hours now, contemplating when would be the right time. Needless to say, she was greeting the night with open arms. The daylight only brought back memories she wasn’t ready to confront and people could see her then. See her for the vile creation she knew she was. She was a monster. A tiny monster trapped in the body of an unfortunate seventeen-year-old girl. She had known that for a long time now. She got up, crossed the room and opened the top drawer of the dresser. Looking around quickly as to make sure that no one was watching, especially not her little sister, she removed from the drawer a thin razor blade. The last thing she wanted her little sister, whom she loved more than anything, to know was that she truly hated herself—everything about herself. Crossing the floor for the second time she moved quickly and quietly to the bed where she began carving out her life story. She was the child of a mother who would never lover her, a sister to a girl who envied and wanted to be her, but most importantly, she was the reflection in the mirror that disgusted her. Glancing into the mirror to view her handiwork, she stated flatly,
“See, I am left-handed. It’s written all over my right arm.”