Monologue

So about 6 years ago I wrote a monologue that got a lot of people worried about me, thinking I was either crazy or dangerous... to myself and others. Really thoguht it was just a piece of fiction. I recently re-read it and I figured that I'd post it on here. It was intended as a 1000 word story for a competition but I never sent it in.

Anyway, here it is;

Is it supposed to hurt? Is it supposed to sting? Is it supposed to mean more, should I feel… anything?
I sit awake with a knife in my hand, playing with my feelings, trying to discern some meaning behind them. My heart was broken tonight. Or… It should have been. The alarm clock across the room ticks ever closer to one a.m. and I… my mind, moves ever further back to when you said it. “This isn’t working.” You said it calmly, kindly. You sat me down, chilled me out and broke it as gently as possible.
But it didn’t break. My heart didn’t skip a beat. My breath didn’t stop for an instant. I didn’t cry. I didn’t sweat. There was no fear. There was no happiness. There was, however, nothing.
Is that normal? Is it right? Probably not. Am I normal? Am I all right? Probably not. Liquid trickles down my arm and blood rains from the knife. The carpet will need to be replaced. Those stains will never come out. Someone else will have to do it though. I have no reason to… not where I’m going. The late London night rings out with police sirens, they’re close by, but they don’t mean a thing. It’s just odd that I noticed them.
I can still see your face. When you realised what my reaction would be. I’d say it was funny, but… I didn’t find it humorous. I’d say it was sad, but… I didn’t find it heart wrenching. You were scared, more for yourself than for me. You were selfish. You put me here. Everyone will think it. Everyone will know it. You forced my hand and made me resort to this. Where I’m going nobody cares. Where I’m going I won’t be alone… The clock chimes once to tell the room that another hour had passed. The clock is as arrogant as you. The clock thinks I care.
I run the flat side of the knife over my forehead, smearing blood across my brow. Another thought comes to mind. Why did you break it off? This doesn’t bother me either… if it had I would have asked before I made you leave. Was I too cold? Was I unfeeling? Uncaring? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you some how?  Were you seeing someone else? Someone else… should that have hurt me? Should that thought have made me feel worse? I was told once that the feeling you get when the one you love is caught cheating on you is like being stabbed in the heart with a corkscrew while simultaneously having your limbs put on ice. Admittedly I have never had a corkscrew to the heart… but unless it feels like a mild itch, on your left butt cheek I don’t think I’m feeling that one. As for my arms going cold and numb… I’ll chalk my inability to comprehend that one to me sitting next to a radiator.
A loud knocking in the other room brings my mind away from you, and none too soon. I know it’s the front door. I don’t even move. I already know who it is. They can let themselves in.
Why don’t I move? Because of you? Because of what I look like? Do I not want them to see me like this? Maybe you’ve done this to me. Maybe I did it to myself. It doesn’t matter. All reason goes out the window in this situation. I don’t move because I no longer care. That’s what you did. Although… that implies that I cared before those words. Did I care before those words? I don’t remember. Perhaps you did break me.
Perhaps this is what it means to have your heart broken. I say I loved you. Could I have loved you? Could I have cared for you if I had no care. If I had no feelings. If I… Could I love you if I could not love?
No.
But does that mean that I had feelings before tonight? Or does it mean that I feigned my care? Does it mean that I loved you or does it mean that I believed I wanted to?
Do I believe now that it matters? Or do I wonder out of boredom… I wait here. I wait here for something, some sign. I wait for the banging to stop. Are they coming in or do they need an invitation?
It doesn’t matter… so much doesn’t matter. Not now. After tonight I… That doesn’t matter either does it? Not to me. Not to you. I wonder if what happens after tonight matters to anyone. Again I don’t care it’s just a passing wonder but… The flashing red and blue that fills the room of my one bedroom flat begins to hurt my eyes, the sirens hurt my ears. I wonder, for a moment, what their doing here, why the police are banging on my door, but then I look down at you. The knife in my hand glints in the light, and I remember your blood on my forehead. Your blood trickling down my arm. Your blood staining my knife and my carpet. Your blood seeping out of the open wound on your neck.
They’re here because of you. They’re here because of what you drove me towards. Their here because I killed you… and I still can’t bring myself to care… to feel…
I sit awake with a knife in my hand and my dead ex-girlfriend at my feet, playing with my feelings, trying to discern some meaning behind my lack of emotion as the police pound on my door.
I sit here and do this, not because I am in shock. Not because I want to… but… I sit here and do this because if I don’t do this, then you’ll get away with what you did. You’ll get away with forcing my hand… you murdered yourself… and everyone will know.
I’ll make sure of it.

As I said, it was purely fiction. It's nowhere near as good as I thought it was when I wrote it, but nothing is. I had originally intended to make it part 1 of a series entitled 'the seven sins' but it was a lot harder to write interesting monologues about Lust, Gluttony, Pride, Envy, Greed and Sloth, (Sloth and Gluttony especially).
Anyway,
Hope you 'enjoyed' that.

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- James