Confessions of a Lonely Soul

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
My thoughts in those last moments.

Submitted: March 13, 2014

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Submitted: March 13, 2014



Confessions of a Lonely Soul

By Calil Davis

[The set is very minimal. It should convey the emptiness that the character is feeling. There is a chair center stage that the character starts out seated in. Stage right of the chair there is a small table. On top of the table there is a glass of water and several prescription pill bottles. The pill bottles have been emptied out and their contents have been strewn across the table. Downstage directly in front of the bed is a small coffee table or crate. On top of it lies a pistol. Stage left of the chair is a recliner. Hanging over the back of the recliner is a noose. Each object should occupy it’s own third of the stage so there should be a considerable amount of space between them. At any point, the character may get up and interact with the objects especially during the silences and pauses.

At rise, the character is seated center stage. He is writing in a notebook. He is wearing a stopwatch around his neck that he starts before he begins speaking.]


Fifteen hundred and one. One thousand, five hundred and one.

That’s how many friends I have on Facebook.

That’s five times more than the average adult user.

I have 334 Instagram followers.

239 followers on Twitter.

But for some reason I can’t figure out why I am always alone.



[Stands and goes to the table with the pills. He slowly drops them into the water one by one as he speaks, constantly shifting his attention from the audience to the glass.]


I’ve grown up in a time where information can be passed from one side of the world to the other in a matter of seconds.

But for some reason, no one can hear me screaming.

No one is reading my emails, statuses, or tweets.

Of the over 2,000 people that I’m “connected” to you would think at least one would notice something is wrong.


[Makes his way over to the recliner and noose.]


As humans, we go our entire lives searching for a sense of belonging.

We wonder:

“Where do I sit in the high school cafeteria?”

“Maybe I should join a fraternity.”

“Why don’t my coworkers invite me out to drinks?”

But we rationalize:

“None of my friends have lunch this period”

“Those guys are douchebags anyway.”

“They probably know I’m too busy.”

Busy with what?




I’m going to go home, pour myself a tall glass of wine and binge watch an entire season of Friends of Netflix.

Then I’m going to get drunkenly emotional because of the irony of my situation and tweet about it as a desperate plea for some human connection.

But it doesn’t matter because my problems are as trivial as someone’s bad Wi-Fi connection.



[Takes the noose and tests its strength with his hands.]


And what’s even worse, if I died, I was gone and all of this was said and done, everyone would all of a sudden have been my best friend.

“Rest in peace.”

“You were such a great guy.”

“I remember the time…”

“I miss you.”

You miss me?? What about when I was alive? You never called, you never texted, you didn’t miss me then. You practically could have seen me whenever you wanted, but you didn’t.

I wasn’t high enough on your priority list to matter.


[Angrily throw the noose on the ground.]


I wasn’t high enough on anyone’s priority list to matter!


[Goes back to center stage and sits.]


So, now I sit here alone.




Being alone sucks, but feeling alone is even worse because even if you’re in a crowd surrounded by people you’re still alone.

I’m tired of being alone.

I’m tired of FEELING alone!

I’m tired of feeling.

So I’m done.

You all win.


[Takes the gun in his hands.]


You all win because this isn’t a suicide. It’s murder

You all killed me with your fake smiles and empty words. If I had truly meant anything to you, your actions would have proven it.

You’re all murderers!

So don’t bother returning to the scene of the crime. Don’t tell anyone what you know. I’m giving you an out.

This way we can all win.


[Long silence.]

[He sits and continues writing. Once he has finished writing he tears the pages out of the notebook and puts them in a manila envelope.]


In the US, someone kills himself every sixteen minutes.


[Checks stopwatch and stops it.]


I guess now I’ll finally belong to something.


[He puts the gun to his mouth.]





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