10-Minute Stage Scene

This is my attempt at telling the basic story of Funeral for a Friend in one scene. It's a very rough draft. I'd like to eventually submit it to a 10-minute play contest.

Setting: Rear balcony of a church just before/during a funeral.

Characters:
DYLAN--a young man, mid-late 20s
TOM--a young man, early 20s

The only item on stage is a church pew CS. A bench will suffice.
Tom enters from SR, looking around, especially DC. He holds a program loosely in his right hand.

DYLAN: (entering behind Tom) Maybe we shouldn’t do this.
TOM: (placing his finger to his lips) Shh! (Tom moves downstage, peers over what would be the railing, motions for Dylan to join him.) Look. Look how many people came.
DYLAN: (trying to speak quietly) We can’t sit on the front row! Someone will see us.
TOM: Not up this high. Noone’s even going to look back here. All eyes will be straight ahead. On the casket. And the flowers. And whoever’s giving the eulogy.
DYLAN: Your mom.
TOM: What?
DYLAN: Your mom is giving the eulogy. (He indicates the program.)
TOM: It figures. I hoped my Dad would eulogize me.
DYLAN: (puts his hand on Tom’s shoulder) Maybe he’ll speak too.
TOM: Maybe. Oh well. It’s not every day you get to see your own funeral.
DYLAN: You’re privileged.
TOM: Don’t say that.
DYLAN: Think of it as my gift to you.
TOM: Don’t say that either.
DYLAN: Why not?
TOM: I’m tired of not feeling worthy. I mean, look at all these flowers.
DYLAN: A symbole of how much you are loved.
TOM: Were loved. Were. There’s so many. I don’t deserve it.
DYLAN: Don’t say that!
TOM: I love you for the sacrifices you’ve made, but I—I’m not worth it.
DYLAN: Yes you are!
TOM: I won’t be. I’m going to fuck it all up. I can’t live up to it. I can’t. This new life—All these people who love me—
DYLAN: Loved.
TOM: I’m deceiving them.
DYLAN: They smothered you.
TOM: This isn’t fair to them.
DYLAN: It wasn’t fair to you. Guilt has no place here. For you or them.
TOM: And yet.
DYLAN: Stop. You can’t go back. It’s too late now.
TOM: Is it?
DYLAN: Yes! (smiles) Who’s that?
TOM: My ex-girlfriend from seventh grade.
DYLAN: No wonder you turned to boys.
TOM: Be nice!
DYLAN: Made you smile.
TOM: Asshole. (He glances at Dylan out of the corner of his eye. They both laugh. Tom starts pointing out individuals, telling stories about them, a veritable “This Is Your Life.” Eventually he notices a former teacher.)
TOM: --and—Oh my God, she’s crying. (reaches out as if to touch her) No, please don’t. Please don’t cry...
DYLAN: Maybe we should go.
TOM: I can’t do this. (turns toward Dylan, away from the crowd)
DYLAN: We should go. We’ll just sneak out the, uh...the, uh...the, uh...You know what? We’re fucked. (holding Tom, shielding him) Don’t think of this as being your fault.
TOM: (pulls back, looks at Dylan) I really can’t do this.
DYLAN: Shh. You have to. Sit up. You have to tell me who all these people are. (Tom sits up straight next to Dylan. A piano is heard playing “Step by Step.”)
TOM: I used to love this song. (singing)
O God, you are my God.
And I will ever praise You.
And I will seek you in the morning.
And I will learn to walk in Your ways.
And step by step You’ll lead me,
And I will follow You all of my days.
(Pause.) Wow. It is kind of beautiful. Everyone you’ve ever loved in a room together. Why do they wait until you’re dead?
DYLAN: Because we do everything backwards in this world. Who’s that leading the prayer?
TOM: Glenn Robinson. Friend of the family. Church deacon. He was one of the people I looked up to spiritually.
DYLAN: And here she comes.
TOM: Mom? (Tom sheds a tear for the first time. Tom sits listening with his mouth hanging open. He sighs, makes a “tch” sound, and bites his lip. He whispers the word “No,” turns to Dylan, and puts his face in Dylan’s shoulder.) I can’t--! (Tom repeats this a few more times, like a mantra. He is pushing so hard into Dylan it’s as if he’s trying to push himself inside Dylan.) I can’t. I can’t.
DYLAN: (cradles Tom’s head, strokes his hair, but refuses to let him turn away) Shh. Shh. Shh. Watch.
TOM: I can’t—
DYLAN: (more insistent) Watch.
TOM: I could stop this. I could stand up, shout “I’m alive” and—
DYLAN: You wouldn’t dare!
TOM: --and—and we could all talk this over.
DYLAN: The time for talking is over. They didn’t want to listen, remember?
TOM: (half moans/half howls into Dylan’s chest) I can’t take it!
DYLAN: It hurts when something dies. It hurts to be born. These are only birthing pains.
TOM: I don’t want them to say any more nice things about me. I’m worthless. I’m nothing. Less than that. I’m shit. Why didn’t you just let me kill myself?
DYLAN: Because I love you. My love may not be enough to live for...but I couldn’t watch you die. And I was watching it every day. A thousand little deaths. I don’t pretend that it’s easy for you to leave me...BUT...I don’t think you realize how much it hurts me...to know that my love would never be enough for you. And I’m the only one who loved you enough to let you go.
TOM: I’m sorry. Oh god. Oh my god, I”m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
DYLAN: I’m sorry too. I never meant to tell you any of that. (Dylan looks into Tom’s eyes, strokes his cheek. They kiss passionately.)
TOM: It’s the benediction.
DYLAN: (stands, pulls Tom up) And this is goodbye. After all the cars depart for the cemetery, I’ll put you in a limo parked out back.
TOM: For the first year, I’ll send you a postcard a week.
DYLAN: With no signature or return address. You will move on.
TOM: But I’ll never forget. (Tom looks at Dylan a long time, searching for the words.) You saved my life!
DYLAN: And you saved mine. I was so dead inside, so numb, and you made me feel again. (Dylan sheds a tear.) It’s going to hurt like hell, but the pain and the tears let me know I’m alive. Tom, it’s so good to feel alive! (They embrace.)
TOM: Look at us. We’re a couple of dead men—
DYLAN: --stepping into the harsh light of a new life.

END