What Stella has to say for herself after "a Streetcar named desire" ends. I submitted this for my A-level coursework and wanted to know what you guys thought! One from Blanche is coming soon.

Her white knuckles creak as she releases her death grip on the edge of the bath tub. Her hands are bony, skinny like her sister's, but she lacks the waif-like grace that Blanche possessed. Stella's shrunk down to the image of her sister, but all she is, is a poor imitation, an echo of the dainty beauty Blanche was, a walking corpse instead of a sculpted butterfly.

(Poor, beautiful, desperate Blanche.)

She disappears under the water, staring at the distorted ceiling, water muffling the Varsouvianna coming from the radio. Her eyes glaze over under the water, as she wonders what it would be like stay under the water forever, just sink down and down and never come back up. She knows she should sit up and get out, but she's so tired, she can't move. Wearily soul-sick from only ever thinking her thoughts, trading eloquence for silence, her only familiar bed fellows being suspicion and self pitying guilt.

Heaving her aching body out of the water, she relishes the burn of her lungs as they find oxygen after being suffocated so long; the pain of her betrayal and the strain of hiding her hurt find solace in a physical sensation.

She's standing in front of the mirror but the glass is too foggy to see her face, she can't see properly through the steam of the bathroom. Her hand is resting on the radio, the radio that Stanley broke, freeing his emotions with one act of violent rage.

(Your internal conflict smacks you around more then Stanley ever has.)

She lets go of the radio and sweeps the entire contents of the dresser onto the floor. There's a crash and the Varsouvianna stops abruptly, leaving behind a sticky silence. She looks down at the carnage, the mess that's now appeared.

Maybe she'll just sweep the whole thing into a cupboard or under a floorboard. Hide the evidence, (of her hurt) send the fragments to a dark place along with hidden liquor bottles and frown lines that mustn't be exposed to the light.

(What have you done?)

Now she's lying on her bed calmly, the black room welcoming her dark thoughts. Her muscles are stiff, tense as she fights to lie still on the (dirty) sheets that make her skin crawl with unwanted whisperings.

Dirty sheets…. She forces the (painfully graphic) mental images out of her imagination.

(Beautiful, bitter, broken Blanche).

She turns her head and sees the perfume bottles, as empty as their owner's life.

"What you're talking about is desire Stella! Pure primal desire!"

Desire. Of course Blanche would pretend to see desire as a sordid thing. Desire was everything she wasn't allowed to be. (and Envy, Stella, is all you ever were)

Desire; Blanche's secret, tragic flaw. The desire to be desired destroyed her.

She had fallen victim of yet another one of Blanche's self righteous delusions. She and Stanley had been trapped in the melodramatic dreamings of Blanche's mind along with Shep Huntleigh and poor Mitch.

(The innocent don't have justifications running around their heads Stella.)

Blanch with her craving to be the superior sister, the richer sister, the prettier sister. Blanche the martyr (the victim). Blanche and her desire to be wanted by everyone when Stella, Stella, Stella, had been happy with just one man (monster).

(say it Stella, Say what you really think, just this once)

Blanche had corrupted her home and mind with her lies and deceit. An expert at manipulating the world to see her through rose coloured glasses.

But this is her lot in life. Blanche made her bed, Stella lies in it, and Stanley is just the collateral damage, oblivious to what's broken.

"Stella!"

She flinches.

The harsh shout of her husband interrupts her secret puppet show (Blanche was holding the strings) but she makes no move to stir. She's locked in a fight she can't win.

(Stop running Stella, embrace the danger you're so 'Thrilled by', confront the truth you know exists. I dare you.)

"Hey Stella." Stanley takes the cigarette she didn't know she was holding, seemingly oblivious to her thrill (her cringe) as his (dirty) fingers touched her skin. "Stella, the baby's been crying, cancha hear him?" He dumps a bundle in her arms which she barely glances at.

She stares absentmindedly at his (dirty) hands and passes his (her) baby back.

(Say something Stella!)

"Can you take him Stanley?" she says quietly. "I think I need a bath."

fin.

Hope you like.