Act 1
Blinders disable the vison of the audience whilst the stage remains in the lighting state of a blackout.
Ensemble: (whispering and gradually increasing projection) my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall (Reaching a crescendo).
The play opens with a white spotlight shone centre stage on a man laying down in a green, reclined chair, with a woman sat
Rhys: Have I ever told you the definition of insanity?
El: I don't believe you have (hesitating with a glint of curiosity), how would you define it?
Rhys: (Pausing) Insanity is the process of repeating the same task or action, over and over; expecting a different outcome. It's like playing some stupid video game, one of those side-scrolling mobile games featuring 2D retro style graphics. They all have some silly objective, most never with an end goal, just repeating that same trivial task – hoping and anticipating to reach a new high score; almost thinking that the higher number will become equivalent to their IQ. Have you ever repeated something?
El: (Thinking) Yes… I suppose I have, do you –
Rhys: So, are you insane?
El: Well (laughing) based on your definition yes, but then again, what other answer could I have given?
Rhys pulls a face frowning with a look of bewilderment.
Rhys: …
El: Well?
Rhys: …
El: Rhys?
Rhys: I don't get it (sighing)
El: (Smiling) What don't you get? You know I'm not going to judge you. This is why we talk. Definitions and labels don't mean anything to me. Just speak your mind and know that even if you think nobody is listening, you know I am. (Grinning) So, tell me, what is it that's bothering you?
Rhys: Why are people so obsessed with labels and definitions? Freedom and self-expression are a blasphemous sin in most minds, as if the air we live and breathe is designated towards those who follow the set structure of society. Why does labels and definitions simplify the harsh complications of reality? Because it eradicates the vague haze of deafening nonsense in people's ears, where their mind becomes devoured by the vast spectrum of how people can be identified. If you asked me, I'd tell you that if it were up to me, I'd say that we're all a little bit insane. But that complicates the latex mould for the set rules of how we define people, instead we strip back the rules to one simple understanding: either you're insane, or you're not.
Sighing in relief as if a weight of anxiety has been taken off of him.
It's that right there, all of those thoughts bubbling inside of me, and it kills me to feel the hate eat me alive.
El: I'm not really sure what you want me to say –
Rhys: Then don't say anything.
El: Then what would be the point of this?
Rhys: The point would still be the same – helping me to get better, but its relevance to my life and yours would be nothing.
El: Yeah, I get that.
Rhys: Right.
El: It can hurt to be open and trusting in people.
Rhys: Cool.
El: It's credited as personal information, and sometimes it's easier to grab a lock and keep that information in its own solitary confinement, than it is to actually share it.
Rhys: Okay.
El: Doesn't mean you should.
Rhys: There's a lot of things you shouldn't do but people still do them anyway.
El: Like?
Rhys: Robbing a bank, murder, identity theft, but people still do it.
El: That's why the justice system exists. It's little to nothing in terms of the possibility for getting away with crimes nowadays. CCTV, technology, and the government don't stop at anything to ensure you have no privacy.
Rhys: Yet, those crimes are still committed?
El: Yes, and still it doesn't make it justifiable. It's never right to commit a crime.
Rhys: Ever?
El: Never.
Rhys: Not ever?
El: No, never.
Rhys: Okay so let me explain this. Let's say a teen mother, who was raped by her father, and is now living off the streets and now is having to steal nappies and food to feed their baby, because they have no job and nowhere else to go, has now been arrested and served a prison sentence - is that wrong?
El: Obviously it's wrong.
Rhys: Well there you go –
El: That still doesn't make it fine.
Rhys: How?
El: A lot of things can be illegal, yet the moral side of it is justifiable, and it just makes its own little paradox.
Rhys: Brilliant.
El: I'm sorry about the way this is Rhys, but sadly that's the world we live in, just because something is morally understandable, that doesn't take away from the illegality behind it.
Rhys: Then why isn't anyone doing anything?
El: People are doing something, just because people aren't shouting at their top of their voices doesn't mean change is hopeless.
Rhys: Then why is nothing changing?
El: Because it's one thing wanting something to change, and it's another knowing how to actually change it.
Rhys: How would you recommend I change?
El: Give yourself objectives. It's much easier to find an end point when you know where you're actually going first. Find your destination, and build your path around that.
Rhys: But all these problems I have to deal with on top of that – how will I even be able to deal with those first?
El: Generally, everyone has their own ways of dealing with problems. Some find that venting it to others does the trick, some think that drawing or painting allows them to output any tensions. Creativity is key! You have to allow your mind to breathe, instead of bathing in negative thoughts.
Rhys: But… how?
El: Read a book, go for a run, write something, go outside, just… do something. There's no greater place to go insane than stuck inside the same room every day; thinking of escaping, but never trying it.
As this scene ends it fades into the next.
They're all stood in a living room, with a table-tennis table on USL, with the four voices crowded around it ready to play – whilst Rhys and Lucina are sat down by a coffee table on USR, playing cards, disassociated with the others.Ensemble screams on stage, as they circle Rhys before he rises from within the crowd.Rhys: (Shouting) Noise makes me sick, I just hope they kill me quick. Voices echo, bouncing off the walls and slapping me in the face – my own disguised demons of the human race. Listen now, watch them scream, tell me if this is reality or just a techno-coloured dream.Voice 1: Oh boy!Voice 2: Have you ever committed a crime?Voice 3: No.Voice 4: Ever?Voice 2: Never.Ensemble begin laughing again, before then continuing circling Rhys.Voice 2: What's that?Voice 3: Where?Voice 1: There? Look. It's a…Voice 4: Fire! Fire! There's a fucking fire! Voice 2: Put it out quick, Rhys.They shoal around him as gels formulate red-lighting state across stage, with a pre-recorded sound of a fire cackling. Rhys runs around stage, chucking a bucket of burning embers into the audience's faces; crying with desperation.Rhys: Where's the fire? I can't see the…Voice 2: There! The fire is over there, run there now!Rhys is pointed to a different direction. He runs in desperation – frantically trying to put the fire out.Voice 3: What the hell are you doing it's over there? Run, now!Rhys is again pointed to a different direction. He runs in desperation – frantically trying to put the fire out.Voice 4: Rhys you idiot, it's over there.Voice 1: No there!Voice 2: There!Voice 3: There!Voice 4: There!All together: No, it's there (all pointing in different directions).They all burst out laughing as Rhys falls to the floor – breaking down.Voice 4: Turn the music up.The music sound bed gets louder, and more distorted, with the lyrics changing to hurtful comments targeted towards Rhys.Act 2 Blinders disable the vison of the audience whilst the stage remains in the lighting state of a blackout.Ensemble: (whispering and gradually increasing projection) my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall (Reaching a crescendo).Snap-lighting state change to flood white lights, bringing the audience back to the office.Lucina: What did you do?Rhys: I wrote a poem.Lucina: Well aren't you going to read it?Rummaging for a note in his pocket.Rhys: I call it: 'Insanity'."my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall-floating in a flurry- swirling in my tornado breath-fluttering in the air-drifting to my face-resting in my mouth-kissing my tongue-(it has made a friend)my blubber neck bulges down my chest- boiling over like a chef's broth-cascading a sebum waterfall down my oozing puss filled sores-secreting sanity into my crusty scabs-gently moisturising and revitalising me to my tender youthI SEE THE MONSTER!!!HE WRAPS HIS HANDSTHE LONG FINGERS INTRODUCE THEMSELVES CURLING AROUND THE DOORTHE HAIRY BEAST OF MINEATOUR MYTHOLOGY HE GRINS IN HUNGERTHE BEAST SNARLSGOOSEBUMPS INFEST MY PEELWARPING INTO A STATE OF BEINGUNCOMPREHENDABLE TO OTHERSYET CRYSTAL CLEAR TO MEthe voices scream-"shut up, sit down, listen"-nothing matters - nothing has meaning-i watch as the walls fall in- crushing me-my sanity depleting-IM SINGING IN SCREAMING PLEASE HELP METHEYRE FORCING IT IN MEITS KILLING MEIT HURTS MEITS GOING TO END METHE LOZENGE SLIDES DOWNTHE ACID BOILS IT SICKTHE CHEMICALS CORRODE MY BRAINTHE INSANITY COMES QUICK"
Lucina: Wow.
There is an array of silence.
Lucina: That truly was something.
Rhys: What do you think it means?
Lucina: I wouldn't over-analyse it –
Rhys: And I wouldn't say that's something many 'normal' people would write.
Lucina: I find that a lot of repressed rage comes out in the form of passion.
Rhys: Passion?
Lucina: Yes passion. Everyone can get so angry and occasionally do some really stupid things. Not all passion is associated with that angelic imagery of love and perfection, sometimes the properly radical form of passion comes in the form of anger.
Rhys: But what makes me feel so angry?
Lucina: People Rhys, it's very clear to see that you struggle with communication and understanding of people. Your slight introverted personality prevents you from doing this, and I wouldn't count this as some sort of weakness or illness, it's just something you need to work on, and I'm sure we both understand that.
Rhys: But how do I make the hurting go away?
Lucina: Write.
Rhys: What the hell is that going to –
Lucina: Look, dealing with emotions is something you deal with one step at a time, and that first step is calming down. You needed to clear your mind first of all from all the toxic and negative thinking – then we'll start working on your social skills.
Rhys: But all I have is negative thoughts – I'm sick and tired of hearing those same negative thoughts.
Lucina: Don't stop writing Rhys, it really is great to see that creativity formulate something so well crafted.
Rhys: Thank you.
Lucina: What does the poem mean to you?
Rhys: It represents how I feel.
Lucina: How so?
Rhys: Everyone thinks I'm insane. I'm given one glance and suddenly I'm pinpointed as some sort of freak, but I'm not. I feel, think, live and breathe like anyone else; just because I'm different doesn't mean I need to be sensationalised like some sort of virus you need to stay away from. I feel my mind shouting, with nerves encapsulating me and taking control. There's nothing different about me, except I become discarded and put to one side, and nobody understands how I wasn't always like this.
There is a cage sat centre stage, with Rhys kept inside of it. He is surrounded by his four friends which were at the party – all attached to the cage by a piece of rope wrapped around his waist. Tense pre-recorded electronic music begins to play – with dark-red lighting.
Ensemble: (chorally) What do you think you're doing?
Voice 4: Get out of their you fool.
Voice 3: Listen when he is speaking.
Voice 2: Use your eyes.
Voice 1: Try a little harder to be less dumb.
They all start behaving like monkeys – trying to break into the cage whilst screaming.
Act 3
Blinders disable the vison of the audience whilst the stage remains in the lighting state of a blackout.
Ensemble: (whispering and gradually increasing projection) my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall (Reaching a crescendo).
Snap-lighting state change to flood white lights, bringing the audience back to the office.
Lucina: What did you do?
Rhys: I wrote a poem.
Lucina: Well aren't you going to read it?
Rummaging for a note in his pocket.
Rhys: I call it: 'Anything like me'.
"skin so soft, so billowy,
so meaty, so raw,
so delicious, so tendersmooth like the finest silk,
an unkempt satin, stained red,
saturated in the blood of Satan's sonsun kissed cheeks sit rosy pink
sexual tendencies sit restless,
ready to strike and ready to feelmeat bulges; shouting out of my skin-
screaming for attention and suggesting the idea;
of stripping me clean to my purist formalitytongues salivating from sexuality-
secreting lube to cover the world in its sin,
sharing signs of incestuous sanctuarysensually stripping to a satanic sanctity,
scaring others with a progressive sanity,
harpooning minds with grade a insanitymeat drips with a sweaty profusion of secrecy,
sustainably and succinctly renewing me to a grade a tenderness,
placing me back to my childish immaturityoud noises harbour me to the feeling of reality,
holding me to the senses that hug me so tenderly,
releasing emotions to the world of personalitymy advice proclaims to of being nothing like me,
showing and demonstrating a masochism of my originality;
securing my soul to the prehistoric normality"Lucina: Wow.She sits there, shocked, in silence.Lucina: What does this-Rhys: I did it.Lucina: You did what-Rhys: I killed that person.Lucina: Who did you kill?Rhys: At the party… someone was choking to death.Lucina: What?Rhys: Because there was a fire or something, and I… can't remember. All I can remember is that fire scalding my skin and filling my lungs with smoke; then that damned music screaming its hatred at me – you remember this don't you?Lucina: Yes, of course I do.Rhys: Then why is nobody believing me when I say I never could've started a fire.Lucina: But what if you did?Rhys: Don't you start telling me what I did.Lucina: But you must've, you're the only one without an alibi – and let's face it you're the one only unstable enough to do something like that.They're in a court.Lawyer 1: Let the Jury know the evidence on the table.Rhys: Of what?Lawyer 1: Silence Mr Weimar.As the jury are shown, there's a lot of talking between them as whispers, before a gavel is struck.Lawyer 1: As you can see, Mr Weimar as clearly presented all of his passion following the tragic death via the form of a poem. In which it suggests he has clearly played around with this horrific death, as though it were some kind of creative writing piece one hands into their teacher for a gold star.Rhys: But I-Ensemble: Silence!Lawyer 2: Objection – the tone of the poem is completely eradicated by not having the author himself narrate it.Lawyer 1: Very well, please may I call Mr Weimar to the stand.The paper is slammed onto the table.Lawyer 1: Read it.Rhys: "dormant, dazed and alone-
awaiting his flesh to be stripped to the bone,
there sits my next client;
showing little signs of being defiant.the jacket of skin hugging his skeleton
solemnly sits in wrinkles-
tinged an orange hue by the sun;
whilst his eyes are ignited with twinkles.he sits there,
tied and defeated.
the beads of sweat trickle down his hair-
he knows why he is seated."silence", i order, as my knife glides through.
the incision squirting the demon water like a fountain-
increasing in mite as i tear this juicy tissue,
of his obese belly looking like a mountain.slashing and slicing,
carving and creating,
celebrating my hating-
these skills have been waiting.drowning now- saturated in a blood bath;
i'm a fucking psychopath.
"what i'm doing can't be wrong?"
i think as his mind decays; going, going, going... gone."Lawyer 1: And what title, Mr Weimer, did you bestow upon this horrendous piece?Rhys: …Lawyer 1: Well?Rhys: Psychopath.Lawyer 1: I rest my case.Rhys: But I-Lawyer 1: I think it's best now…Rhys: Don't even-Lawyer 1: We all have you assemble for…Rhys: Remember that-Lawyer 1: The jury's verdict.Rhys: Even happening!Ensemble: Silence!Judge: The jury will now decide in a brief recess.The ensemble all scream at each other, with strobe lighting, for ten seconds, animalistically fighting in the darkness.Member of jury: The jury finds the defendant…Ensemble: Guilty!They're all stood in a living room, with a table-tennis table on USL, with the four voices crowded around it ready to play – whilst Rhys and Lucina are sat down by a coffee table on USR, playing cards, disassociated with the others.Voice 1: Have you seriously never played beer pong before?Rhys: They're all drinking.Voice 2: I mean I've watched people play it before, but I've never really had a go myself.They all drink.Rhys: They think it makes you an angsty teen when your stomach's being pumped.Voice 3: Do you remember Emma last time?Rhys: Oh, did I say angsty? Meant to say cool – because everyone cool has four brain cells and spew their guts out for intellectual reasons.Voice 4: Oh, fuck yeah, she was basically begging for my dick by the fourth round.Voice 2: Dude, that's only because you slipped vodka into her cup each time before she drank it.Whilst Rhys and Lucina play cards, the others begin playing beer pong.Rhys: They try to create this façade of being better than they are, but do you know what's beautiful about the human race? Everyone is just as equally alone. There's no point trying to impress others, because we're all just trying to impress ourselves at the end of the day and how fast we're changing – and evolving to our worst selves.Lucina: (Laughing) Right I was just asking how you were.Rhys: (Smiling) Sorry… just can't handle anything like this.Lucina: Like what?Rhys: Talking… people… people drinking… again just mainly people.Lucina: Sometimes I feel like you're trying to be some sort of caricature as if you just make up some sort of persona to satirically mock people like you.Rhys: No, trust me, I'm the real deal. If I were a sandwich, drink and packet of crisps in a shop for three pounds, I'd bet you go "damn now that's what I call a real deal", that's how much of a deal I am.There is an awkward silence, as Lucina looks up at him and they pause playing cards.Rhys: I should probably stop talking about myself… and just stop talking in general.Lucina: No, I think it's cute – I like talking with you, you're able to make me think a little differently.Rhys: Hitler made people think a little differently too, doesn't mean it's always a good thing.There is an awkward silence, as they pause playing cards again.Rhys: Well I enjoy talking with you too, so why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?Lucina: Typical teen problems of course – don't get on with my parents, don't like how I look, hate my skin, a ton of insecurities… but then again, there's always someone that has it worse.Voice 2: Let's all play strip poker after this.Rhys: Not sure everyone.Lucina: You think there's one person at the bottom of the system that just isn't better than anyone?Rhys: That's how chains work – there has to be an end.Lucina: But that's the point – it's impossible to be at the end.Rhys: How?Lucina: Think about it this way, there are so many different categories you can define whether or not someone is better than you; such as looks, personality, ability to speak or climb a tree – it's impossible for you not to be better than someone at something.Voice 4: Rhys: What are you better than everyone else at doing?Lucina: Drinking of course.Rhys: (Laughing) Just when I thought we were getting serious.Voice 4: Rhys why aren't you drinking?Rhys: Okay at what point did I tell you I was going to be drinking.Voice 4: This is a sesh Rhys, the legal requirement is to drink here.Rhys: We're underage drinking – nothing about this is legal.Voice 3: This is private property Rhys – it's legal.Voice 1: Everything we're doing here is legal.Voice 2: Did nobody hear my idea about strip poker?Voice 4: Have a smoke Rhys?Rhys: What no-Voice 4: Don't be a bellend Rhys, and just have a smoke.A cigar is shoved in his mouth by voice 4 and is lit with a lighter by voice 3.Rhys: (breathing in smoke) No wonder your voice is so croaky and disgusting (choking) it's because you're always smoking these.Voice 4: Oh really?Rhys: Yes, really.Voice 4: Well if you're such a lad about town – who thinks he's so tough and can stop the big bad wolf, why don't you fuck your little lady friend?Rhys: Mmm... I guess it would have to do with the fact that maybe I have more than three brain cells.Rhys is cornered by them – whilst they all chorally burst out into laughter.Voice 4: Aren't you the little comedian? Well I suppose you have truly proven yourself to have the brains – why don't you prove that you have the brawn? Voice 4 climbs on top of Lucina – unzipping his trousers and clutching his hands around her throat, as she squirms and gasps for breath. They laugh at him as they rip open her legging and skirt (with a pre-recorded sound of this in the background)Rhys: Lucina!Lucina: H… help me Rhys… I'm scared.They all laugh at them.Voice 2: Quick Rhys, get over here.They push him away each time.Voice 3: Yeah Rhys, come here quick.Voice 4: Hurry up, Rhys!Voice 1: Run, Rhys, run!Lucina squirms with a pre-recorded sound of her violently choking in the background, with the ensemble continuously laughing – increasing both their projection and their sinister tone of voice, until it reaches a crescendo with Lucina's limp body collapsing to the floor. The ensemble run off stage. Rhys is left on centre stage, struggling to breathe, crouched in a ball – with strobe lighting flashing in the background, and electronic-music simultaneously playing too.Rhys: my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall… my skin is peeling; falling apart like plaster on a wall.Act 4Blackout – lighting state gradually fades to a red wash on stage.El: What the hell did you do?Rhys: I expressed myself.El: And how did you do that?Rhys: By painting the walls with another man's blood.El: But why? Why Rhys? What part of you thinks murder, and hate does anything? You out of everyone should know that better than anyone else. What do you have to say about this?Rhys: You shouldn't be anything like me.El: Yeah well guess what? Nobody wants to be. Nobody wants to be you or have any association with your incestuous mind – because nobody wants to be insane.Rhys: Thank you, El. BeatRhys: I needed to hear that. You're right, nobody wants to be insane – it just 'happens'. No, I'm not banging my head against a wall, spewing my spit everywhere – I think, and breathe and understand just like everyone else. I'm smart. I know to use my voice, and that's something not nearly enough people can do, so I at least think that I deserve my recognition for that. I know that sometimes my mind can get hazy, my sanity a little fuzzy, but I'm still human. I'm not second grade degenerate meat you toss to the side, I'm real. I know what everyone is thinking – and I just want everyone to shut up sometimes. My mind is depleting, and instead of pointing and laughing at me, help me. Normalise it. People won't ever be treated if you let them sit in silence; allowing them to think they're meant to be alone, when they're not. But that's all I have to say – all of my passion. El: I'm sorry.Rhys: No it's okay, really it is. But… this upsets me. We're going to have to let you go I'm afraid. Your service quite frankly has been somewhat abysmal, and you're not really the hopeful voice I'm looking for.El: I don't understand.Rhys: It's a shame really – you truly did some amazing work, but I'm afraid that this story has come to an end and this is where I say goodbye.El gets up and leaves off stage, whilst someone new walks on, and sits next to Rhys.Rhys: Have I ever told you the definition of insanity?Curtains pull as everything fades to a blackout.The End