***L and P enter a nice, well-furnished apartment. It has couch with a drape, hiding what’s underneath. The kitchen has many cabinets and an island, where people can eat. There is a small TV sitting on top of a TV cabinet. There are 5 doors: The front door, and the doors to the bathroom, master bedroom, baby’s room, and pantry. In general, most of the décor should be able to hide things inside of it. P: What’s that smell? Lionel: It’s likely mold. These old pre-war buildings leak all the time. P: It doesn’t smell like mold? Lionel: Smell a lot of mold, do you? P: Um, no. It’s more like... something rotten? Like something’s gone bad? L: It’s mold. P: And bleach? Kinda? Kinda bleachy? L: I think you mean mold. P: Kinda. Yeah, kinda. But it’s more like… L: Something rotten. P: And bleachy. L: Is that not what your apartment smells like? P (light/polite chuckle): No. My apartment doesn’t have a smell. L: Every apartment has a smell. P: I don’t think mine does. L: It does. Everything smells: the food you cook, your B.O. when you skip a shower, your shampoo, the smell of you screwing. All of it fills the apartment – seeps into the walls. Every apartment smells like the person living it in. ***P moves towards him. Plays with his jacket/tie/whatever P (flirtatious): But you smell amazing. *** Lionel walks away Lionel (disinterested): I perfume. P: You what? Lionel: Smell goes both ways—sit in it long enough and you’ll smell just like your apartment. I don’t want people thinking…. I have mold. P: Okayyy. Lionel: What? P (chuckle): Don’t you mean cologne? Lionel: Cologne can’t be used as a verb. What’s wrong with perfume? P: It’s just funny. Lionel: What’s funny? P: I thought you misspoke. That you were wearing perfume. Lionel: Would you have not come home with me if I was wearing perfume? P: Oh, come on. Lionel: I’m asking you a question. P (still lighthearted): Okay, geez. Ummm. I don’t know? Lionel: Be honest. Yes or no? P: I don’t know. Lionel: Would you have preferred I smelled like mold? P: Bleachy… And no. Lionel: Really? I thought we were getting along famously. P: Like, we were. Lionel: But not if I smelled like mold. P: More, kinda rotten, like, I mean, no. Yeah, obviously no. Lionel: What’s wrong with a little mold? P: It isn’t… seriously? Lionel: I’m only teasing you. P (a little put off): Right. Lionel: Sit with me. *** Lionel sits in the center of the couch. P sits beside him. Lionel scooches over to the side and turns to look at her. Lionel: Why did you go to that bar tonight? P: You know. To have a good time. Lionel: You were alone. Why didn’t you bring friends if you just wanted a good time? P: I wanted a different kind of good time. Lionel: What, a game of Go Fish? Connect 4 maybe? P (playfully): Oh, screw you. Lionel (straight): What were you looking for? P: I wanted to meet a guy. L: And do what with him? Go Fish? Connect 4 maybe? *** Taking this as a cue, P moves towards him. P: I wanted to have sex with a handsome, charming man. *** She goes for this kiss. Lionel stops her. L: Easy there, sport. Can’t we just have a conversation before we get to that? P: Um, yeah. That’d be nice actually. L: How old are you? P: Oh. Geez. Lionel: Please don’t act so dismayed. I’m 37 if it helps you. P: I’m 31 years young. Lionel: Getting up there. It won’t be long before you can’t have kids. P: Wow. Geez. Okay. Yep. Sure. Lionel: Is that why you went out? To meet a guy you could have kids with? P: This conversation is getting really deep, huh? Lionel: I really hate it when people say that. This is a conversation. There are things about you I want to know besides your favorite sitcom, and I don’t want to wait eight months hoping this topic arises naturally. P: I get that. It just caught me off guard, ya know? Lionel: And please stop acting so shocked at every little thing that catches you off guard. P: Okay. Sorry. Lionel: Do you want to have kids? P: Yes. Lionel: Is that why you went to the bar? P: Yes. Among other things, obviously. Lionel: What other things? P: A husband. Lionel: With which to have kids? P: Ha. Yes. Lionel: What kept you from having kids earlier? P: I never met the right guy. Lionel: What about your career? What do you do? P: I’m the general manager at a travel agency. Lionel: Are you happy there? P: Ha. No. I’m for sure not happy there. Lionel: What are you gonna do about it? P: I want to focus on a having a family. Lionel: You don’t want to make yourself happy first? P: I think having a family will make me happy. Lionel: What if you don’t marry the right guy? P (playful fake confidence): That won’t happen. Lionel: And if it does? P: Then it happens. I don’t know. I’ll have my kids. Lionel: And if you don’t love them? P: Now that for sure won’t happen. Lionel: And if it does? P: It won’t. Lionel: But what if it does? P: It won’t. Lionel: Whatever you say. What if you’re still not happy? P: Can we talk about something else? Lionel: Why? P: This is making me anxious. Lionel: A little anxiety can be constructive. You love your kids—what if you’re still not happy? P(flirtatious): Don’t you want to do something a little more fun? Lionel: Like what? Go Fish? Connect 4 maybe? What if you’re not happy when you have kids? P: Let’s just go to the bedroom already. Lionel: What if your unhappiness gives them unhappy childhoods? P: Then I’ll deal with it, okay? I’ll figure it out then. Can we please just fuck each other in silence? *** Deep, considered pause from Lionel. He smiles Lionel: I have a better idea. Stand up. *** He stands up. He helps her up as well and faces her towards the audience. Lionel: Stay there. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I can be pushy when I’ve been drinking. ***Lionel grabs something from the kitchen. We don’t see what is. P: That’s okay. You just got me thinking about my future, and I got so anxious, and aggghh. I don’t like to think so far ahead. Lionel: Neither do I. I can be a pretty impulsive guy. P: Oh yeah? Like how? Lionel: Oh, you know. Binge watch a show. Have a drink in the middle of the day. *** Lionel comes up behind her and slits her throat. She falls onto the rug, dead. Lionel: Slit a throat here or there. Stay up too late. Eat too much junk food. *** Lionel gets some paper towels and lazily wipes up the blood. Lionel: Lose my patience and make a snide comment. Watch too many videos online. Jeepers, you are a bleeder. I’m gonna need more paper towels. *** Lionel gets up and wanders into a separate room. The stage is empty, save the body, for around a minute. Lionel wanders back in with another paper towel roll, whistling/humming/singing a light hearted tune—maybe Mr. Sandman. *** He continues wiping the blood when Bev opens the front door. The two lock eyes with each other. L: Bev. B: Lionel. L: You’re home early. B: What did you do? L: I’m sorry. B: You’re sorry? L: I’m sorry. B: What were you thinking? L+B: Oh, you weren’t thinking. B: Now is not the time, Lionel. L: Sorry. I didn’t think— B: How could you do this? L: I thought— B: You’ve had issues before, but this… L: Well, I was— B: And to do it today. Of all days. L: What’s so impor— B: Of all the reckless, inconsiderate, poorly timed stunts you’ve pulled, this… L: If you would let me speak. B: I’m not mad, I’m— L: Furious. I know. And I’m sorry. Now if you would-- B: Lionel… I loved that rug. L: I know. B: It was an antique. L: I’m sorry. B: It’s ruined! L: We can get a new one. B: I don’t want a new one. L: Then we can get this one cleaned. B: Obviously we can’t. L: Very fair. B: You couldn’t have killed her somewhere else? L: No, I couldn’t have. B: Why not? L: She caught on. She tried to run away. B: You couldn’t let her run 4 feet towards the door? L: Forgive me if our rug was not at the forefront of my mind at the time. B: Oh, fuck you. “Our” rug. As far as you’re concerned, it’s a net to catch your spilt beer and crumbs. And bodies. L: If it’s in our house, it’s ours. B: You can keep your self-help books and shitty paintings to yourself. I won’t fuck with them if you don’t fuck with my stuff. L (hurt): Hey. B: Come on, Lionel. This was so inconsiderate. L: You’re right. I’m sorry. The situation got heated and— L/B: I/You weren’t thinking. B: I get it, but it’s not like you had no choice here. *Bev tosses her purse onto the kitchen counter. B: I really wish you would stop killing these poor girls. L: These girls are not poor. B: I really wish you would not indiscriminately murder women. L: I kill men too. B: Not anymore. You’re only killing women. L: You’re reading into it too much. B: Look, I don’t want another argument. I’m just really tired of coming home to corpses. L: I didn’t think you would come home so early tonight. B: Are you serious? L: What? B: You knew I’d be coming home early tonight. L: No I did not. B: Oh my God. L (remembers): Ahh shit. B: How many times did I tell you? L: I thought he was coming on Thursday. B: I said Friday, Lionel. As in today. L: Wow. Time flies. B: Is it that hard to go a week without killing somebody? L: I try to keep it out of your hair as much as I can. B: But I shouldn’t have to worry about that. I don’t want to stay at work late because I’m afraid of becoming a witness. L: I’ll clean it up. Nobody will know. B: My boss is really very traditional. He’ll never promote me if he suspects my husband is a murderer. L: I’ll tell him it has nothing to do with you. B: Oh, please. He’s so subscribed to the idea of nuclear family model. If a family doesn’t look like the Brady Bunch he assumes their something fundamentally wrong with them. L: Great. So we’ve got nothing to worry about. B: Just act like you’re posing for a Christmas card all night and we should be fine. L: All night? B: All night. And clean up that body please. L: What time is he getting here? B: Around 8. L: We got time. B: I don’t want it to be a crisis later. L: I’ll clean it. Don’t worry. B: You don’t clean very well. L: Well, maybe if I had bleach to clean it with. B: Oh, you got some nerve. L: I’m just saying. You give me a lot of flak for messes that I can’t clean. B: You can buy bleach. L: I can’t just leave it lying around the house. It enables you. B: Please don’t act like I have no self-control. L: I’m not acting, sweetheart. B: I have it under control. L: You can avoid it, sure. But you can’t help yourself if you’re around it. B: You’re embellishing. L: I am? B: You are. L: Oh yeah? In that case, I bought a bottle yesterday in anticipation of this mess. I hid it in the pantry, bottom shelf behind the boxes of quinoa you bought 100 years ago. Can you simply go to the pantry, grab it, walk over here, and hand it to me without a crisis? B: Screw you. L: Is there a problem? B: Get rid of the body first before you start bleaching the place. L: You think you know how to clean this better than I do? I need bleach first. B: It’ll take 5 minutes to bring it downstairs. L: Yep. But I need bleach first. B: If you throw a bleach covered body in the furnace, it’ll cause a huge fire. L: Lucky for us, furnaces are made to contain fire. Why don’t you just grab the bleach? B: Listen, it’s not a big deal. We still have time before my boss gets here anyway. L: I know what you’re doing. You want me out of the house so you can have the bleach to yourself. B: Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t use such childish tactics. Even if I wanted the bleach. L: So you don’t want the bleach? B: You’re being astonishingly annoying. L: Then I guess…. You wouldn’t mind if I… *** Lionel walks over to the pantry B: Lionel. L: What? It’s no problem. B: Would you please stop? You’ve pissed me off enough tonight. L: I’m just cleaning the mess, like you wanted. B: I’m serious. Stop it. Right. Now. L: It’ll only take a second. *** Lionel rummages through the pantry. B: Lionel! *** Lionel looks at Bev with a gleeful shock L (“I got you!”): You sneaky bitch! B: If you don’t clean this body immediately— L: No way! It wasn’t even in there for a day. B: Would you get off it? L: When did you even-- there’s no way you went through an entire bottle in a day. Where’d you hide it? *** Lionel continues to rummage through the pantry. He checks other potential hiding places in the house as Bev speaks. He eventually goes into the master bedroom, then emerging with a bottle of bleach. B: Of all the arrogant, delusional, unimpressive people I have ever met, you take the cake as the biggest, sniveling man-child I’ve ever come across. You think that you have the whole world figured out, and that everybody else are simple, blind fools with no direction or sense of self. If there was one thing— Lionel: Aha! Bev: No! *** Bev snatches the bottle from him. She starts chugging it, getting a few good sips in before Lionel pulls it away from her. Lionel: I knew it! You lunatic! Bev: Lunatic? This coming from the murderer? Lionel: Public servant. Bev: Murderer. Lionel: Public servant. Bev: Murderer. Lionel: A pragmatic public servant who recognizes that his admittedly/ unsavory means of helping society is one of the few means/ through which the individual can/ feasibly enact a real longstanding-- Bev: Murderer/Murderer/ feasibly enact a real, longstanding—Murderer. Lionel: Ohhhh, very good, Bev, very good. Yes, yes, very mature, yes, great. Thank you, that’s really very constructive. Bev: You murder women. Lionel: God, you can be so reductionist. Bev: You bring women to our house, and then kill them. Usually in a spectacularly messy, bloody fashion. Lionel: These women—these people, whom a not insignificant portion of were male—had nothing to offer. They were worthless. Waste. The world is better without them. Bev: Why do you do it? Actually? Do you get off on it? Lionel: For Christ’s sake. I’m not some monkey. Or some raving, directionless serial killer. I’m more sophisticated. And gentlemanly. And more like a public servant than serial killer. Bev: You get off on it. Lionel: Alright, I’m no Georgia peach, but I’m better than you. Bev: You are a lunatic. Lionel: And I’m also trying to have a discussion beyond just name calling. Bev: There is no world in which your murdering is more sane than me drinking bleach. Lionel: Do you even hear yourself? Bev: I think I sound completely reasonable! Lionel: I’m trying to do a public good. You’re some batty woman drinking bleach. Bev: Wow, and I’m the reductionist one? Lionel: Bleach drinker. Bev: It’s not so simple. Lionel: Bleach drinker. Bev: I need it to function. Lionel: Bleach drinker. Bev: It’s by no means perfect, but drinking bleach relieves a good amount/ of my social anxiety and pressure from work. I need to have some/ form of an escape, otherwise all the pressure/ would eat me alive./ It makes me into a better version of myself that can actually-- Lionel: Bleach drinker/ Bleach drinker/ Bleach drinker/ It makes me a better version of myself that can actually— Bev: Okay, I get it, okay? Happy now? Lionel: Doesn’t feel so nice, does it? Bev: Jesus, can’t you be the bigger man for once? Take the high road or something? Lionel: How’s that fair for me? Bev: How is it fair for me to worry about tripping over a corpse whenever I want a midnight snack? Lionel: How is it fair for me to sit at home every night, worrying if my wife died of a bleach overdose? Bev (touched): Do you actually? Lionel: Well… It would be inconvenient if you died. Bev: Why can’t you just say something sweet? Lionel: You know what I mean. Bev: Why can’t you just say you’d be sad if I was dead? Lionel: I’d prefer if you were alive. Bev: Oh my—Maybe I’m expecting too much from a murderer. Lionel: You’re unsurprisingly needy for a woman who drinks bleach. Bev: Well maybe I wouldn’t drink bleach if you didn’t make my life so stressful. Lionel: Maybe I wouldn’t kill people if you weren’t making my life so stressful. Bev: Well, if you just got a job/ you wouldn’t feel the need to-- Lionel: you wouldn’t feel the need to—there it is. It always comes back to this. Bev: Well it’s true. Lionel: I’m trying. Bev: Try harder. Lionel: Why, so I can end up like you, drinking bleach just to get through the day? Bev: Better than killing people. Lionel: Yeah right. Bev: You’re killing people. Lionel: You’re killing yourself. Bev: Alright. That’s enough. Let’s stop. Lionel: Agreed. Bev: I’m tired of this argument. It gets exhausting. Lionel: Here here. Bev: We got other things to worry about. Lionel: Amen. Bev: Truce? Lionel: Truce. Bev: What time is it? Lionel: Almost 8. Bev: You should clean the body. Lionel: I still got time. Bev: At least wrap it up. I don’t like it staring at me. Lionel: Likewise. *** Lionel wraps the rug around the body. Bev lounges on the couch. Lionel: How was work? Bev: Same old same old. You? Lionel: Nothing new. Bev: So, shitty? Lionel: …Yep. Bev: You work on your painting at all? Lionel: No, I was preoccupied. Bev: With tracking and killing this girl? Lionel: In so many words, yes. *** Bev sighs Lionel: Truce. Bev: Truce. *** Both sigh. Bev: I just want to turn off my brain and watch my soap opera until my boss gets here. Lionel: Can you keep the volume low? I think I’ll get some work done on my painting. Bev: Oh, that’s great. Sure thing, let me know if it’s too loud. Lionel: Will do, thanks. ***Bev scrolls through the TV with the remote. Lionel pulls out a canvas and puts it on an esel, outside of Bev and the audience’s view. Lionel stares at the canvas, trying his best to look deep in thought Bev: Lionel. Lionel: … Bev: Lionel Lionel: Oh. Yes? Bev: Did you record the newest episode of Life, Love, and Loving Life? Lionel: I did. B: It isn’t here. L: Keep looking. B: I’ve looked. It isn’t here. L: Well, I recorded it. B: When? L: Yesterday. B: Yesterday? L: Yesterday. B: What about one today? L: It was on yesterday. B: It’s on every day. L: Everyday? B: Every day. L: A new episode every day? B: Yes, and now I’m missing one. L: That’s fine. You can afford to miss an episode here or there. B: But tomorrow, I won’t know what happened today. Lionel: They can’t expect you to watch a new episode every day. B: But I won’t know how they got from yesterday to tomorrow without knowing today. L: There’s no chance that every day is that important. Bev: Of course every day is important. L: What happened this week? B: Michael divorced Stacy. L: What else? B: That’s all I remember. L: That’s all you remember? B: Yes. Lionel: Exactly. Most days are unimportant. B: You don’t have to remember every day, so long as you know what’s happened. Lionel: But you don’t know what’s happened. Bev: Well I’ll know if something happened. L: Why does that matter? You watched a week’s worth of episodes and you only remember one event. B: It was important. L: So none of the other stuff was important. Bev: It was important. Lionel: But you don’t remember it! B: I remember that I saw it happen. L: Jesus Christ. B: I remember the divorce happened naturally. Day to day. One day they were happy, the next day they were fine, the next day they were fighting, and the next day they divorced. I wasn’t lost, wondering how I ended up at the divorce. L: Do you remember why they divorced? B: Not really. But I remember it was for a good reason. L: If you can’t remember last week, then you won’t remember today anyway. B: But I don’t need to remember last week because I would know what happened. Tomorrow, I won’t know what happened today, and every day after tomorrow, I’ll be lost. I’ll wonder every day how we got to tomorrow’s today, and tomorrow’s tomorrow’s today, always thinking about Tomorrow’s yesterday. Today. L: Just ask somebody else what happened today. B: But I wanted to see what happened today. L: Well, I can’t help you with that. Lionel: Stop. Would you please stop with that? I feel faint. I’ve never felt anything like it. I feel like I’m in free-fall. Bev: Like you’re skydiving without a parachute. Lionel: Yes. Bev: And you’re kicking yourself, because right before you jumped, you kept reminding yourself not to forget the parachute, but you forgot it anyway. Lionel: Yes, actually. That’s exactly right. Bev: And yet, for some reason, you’re more concerned about the skydiving instructors thinking you’re stupid than you are your lethal plummet. And that just makes you more upset with yourself. Lionel: My God, Bev, that’s exactly what I’m feeling! Bev: Then you notice how dry your eyes are, and realize that you forgot your goggles as well. So you feel even stupider. Lionel: Yes! Exactly! You’re right on the money! Bev: At this point you realize you’ve fallen not even ten feet from the plane, and you still have miles full of self-resentment left. Lionel(inflated) : You know it. You know it too! Bev: When they try tossing you a parachute, you drop it, and so they throw you another. You catch it, but you still feel stupid. Lionel (inflated): Truly! Impeccable! Exquisite! Go on! Bev: But even after you deploy the chute, you find you’re still plummeting. Lionel: Flawless! Sound! Pinpoint! Go on! Bev: It’s then that you realize you’ve had two concrete blocks tied to your feet this whole time. Lionel: Dynamite! Momentous! Magnanimous! Bev: So you then regret all of your life’s decisions. If only you had paid more attention when you were a boy scout. If only you had taken up sailing like you always wanted to, then you would know how to untie a knot. Lionel: Obsequious! Verisimilitude! Onomatopoeia! Truly, a maestro of sentiment! Bev: Luckily for you, you have a knife. Lionel (longing): Yes. Bev: But as you bend down to cut the blocks off. Lionel (desperate): Yes! Bev: Your back begins to hurt. Lionel (ecstatic): YES! Bev: To the point where it’s really not worth cutting the blocks off. Lionel: YES! YES, BEV, YES! HA HA HA! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT BEV? CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? *** He kisses her with more passion than ever Lionel: We’re the same, Bev. You feel the same exact way that I do. We aren’t alone here. My God, 5 years of marriage, and we never knew we were the same! If only you had told me sooner. If only I had known that you— Bev: Oh, I’ve never felt that way before. Lionel: What? Bev: No, no. Never once. Nowhere near. I can’t relate to any of that. Lionel (devastated): But. But how? You described me so exactly… Bev: I believe I read it somewhere. Lionel (re-inspired hope): You did? Where? Who? Bev: I can hardly remember. Lionel: What? Bev, you must tell me. Bev: Let me see. Was it that novel? Lionel: By whom? Bev: Or was it that magazine? Lionel: Which one? Who wrote it, Bev? Bev: He’s not very popular. Lionel: So it’s a man then. Okay. Keep digging. Who wrote it? Bev: Did I read it in the newspaper? Lionel: Who would put that in a newspaper? Bev: Maybe it was that textbook? Lionel: Psychoanalysis? Philosophy? Bev: I could see it being that advertisement. Lionel: Do you know who created it? Bev: It could have been that brochure. Lionel: Who gave it to you? Bev: Or was it that manifesto? Lionel: Bev, please, I’m begging you. Bev: I know! It was in that recipe book! Or was it? Lionel: On my soul, Bev, I must know who wrote it! Bev: Did I even read it? I think I overheard it. Lionel: Okay, you’re getting closer. Keep going! Bev: It was that lecture! Lionel (increasingly desperate): Yes?! Bev: No, it was that sermon. Lionel: Are you sure? Bev: Yes! No. Maybe it was that wedding toast? Lionel: Who’s wedding? Bev: Or was it at my high school reunion? Lionel (fed up): I need an answer, Bev. Bev: I feel like a dictator said it. Lionel: Enough! I don’t care if it was a painter, poet, pariah, parole officer, pedophile, parrot, or anthropomorphic peanut. But I need, Bev, I desperately need to know. Who said it? And how did he cope with this feeling? Bev: I remember now! Lionel: Yes?! Bev: It was you! *** Steady pause Lionel (ruined): No. Bev: Yes! Lionel: no Bev: You did, remember? You said it on that road trip with my mother. Right when we got to the apple picking fair. Lionel: God… you’re right. Bev: She said she wanted to stay for at least an hour, then you started going on about parachutes and cinderblocks and such. Lionel: I don’t… I can’t… Bev: Oh, don’t be so upset. At least you know you’ve gotten through this feeling before. Lionel: No. This current feeling is even worse. Unlike anything ever. It’s like a quarantine zone has been visited by a plaguebearer. I’ve been enveloped in darkness. Overwhelming shadows that skew my sight, leaving me blind and fumbling. A fervent rot at the core of my brain. Dissolving my memories. My sense of reality. And overbearing…. And overbearing… what, and overbearing…? Bev: Melancholy. Lionel: Melancholy, yes. An overbearing melancholy that… that… Bev: Leads you by one— Lionel: Yes, leads me by one foot, making me trip with every step… Bev: Down a never-ending staircase. Lionel: Right, a never-ending staircase that stretches— *** Horror spreads over his face. He turns to Bev. Bev: You’ve said this before. Also at the apple fair. Right after you dropped your bin full of apples. ***The lights go out. Pitch black. Bev: What was that? Lionel: A fuse blew. Bev: Jesus, Lionel, I told you to get that fixed months ago. Lionel: It rarely happens. Bev: Where are those flashlights I bought? *** Lionel turns on the flashlight on his phone. Pitch black. Bev: Put that away. Lionel: Why? Bev: I bought flashlights for situations like this—we should use them. Lionel: What’s wrong with this one? Bev: You’re making waste of the flashlights I bought. Lionel: Those flashlights were a wasteful purchase. Bev: Only if you don’t use them. Lionel: We don’t need them. Bev: But we have them. So we should use them. Lionel: Are you being serious? Bev: Yes. They’re stronger than your phone anyway. You’ll be glad we bought them. Lionel: Fine, Bev. *** Lionel turns off the flashlight. Lionel: Go grab them. Bev: Where are they? Lionel: Hell if I know. Bev: Are they in the pantry? Lionel: Beats me. Bev: Can you help me look? Lionel: I can’t see anything. Bev: Here, I found the pantry. Do you know what shelf they’re on? Lionel: No, ma’am. Bev: Well, fucking help me. ***Lionel turns on his phone’s flashlight and points it into the pantry. Lionel: There, second to bottom shelf. *** Bev grabs them and hands one to Lionel. Lionel turns off his phone’s flashlight. They turn on their new respective flashlights, pointing them at each other. Lionel: Wow. Thank God for these flashlights. Bev: Shut up. Lionel: Whatever would we do without these things? Bev: We wouldn’t be in this situation if you would just call the fucking landlord. *** Lionel walks over to the fuse box. Lionel: It takes two seconds to fix. If you have a flashlight. Thank God you bought these things. *** Lionel flips the switch. All of the lights come back on. The rug is nowhere to be found. Bev: It takes two seconds to call the landlord. Lionel: It’s a non-issue. Bev: Something is wrong with the wiring. What if it starts a fire? Lionel: It won’t start a fire. Bev: And what if it does? Lionel: I’ll buy you dinner and we’ll call it even. Bev: I bankrolled everything we have. I’ll be damned if I lose it all because you’re too lazy to make a damn phone call. Lionel: Bev: Lionel: Lionel: Then you do it. Bev: I shouldn’t have to. You’re here all day doing nothing. Lionel: I’m raising a child. Bev: I’m raising two. Lionel: Bullshit. You’re never here. Do you even know what she looks like? Bev: No—my attention is usually on the corpse lying around on any given night. Lionel: Oh, you diva. I usually clean it up before you get home. Bev: Don’t kill people! Lionel: Like you give a shit. {MORE} Bev: What time is it? Lionel (checks watch): Half past eight. Bev: Oh. What?! Lionel: Shit. Bev: My boss is supposed to be here by now! Lionel: Okay, calm down, we’re fine. Bev: Get rid of that body now. Lionel: I don’t have time. Bev: You don’t have time? Lionel: Not anymore. Bev: Why did you wait so long? Lionel: I thought I had time. Bev: He’s late anyway. Just go, get rid of it. Lionel: What if somebody sees me? Bev: I don’t fucking know. Lionel: Let’s just hide the body. Bev: Here? Lionel: Yeah, he won’t notice. Bev: What if he sees it? Lionel: He won’t see it. Bev: I will not roll the dice on my boss finding a corpse in our living room. Lionel: You’re overthinking it. Bev: Excuse you? Lionel: He won’t be rummaging through our apartment, Bev. Let’s just hide it. Bev: Please, God, just get rid of it. How hard can it be? Lionel: Hard. And time consuming. Bev: You’re so fucking unbelievable. Lionel: We can put in our bedroom. Hide it under the bed. He won’t look there. *** The baby starts crying. Bev: Fucking shut up! Lionel: I’m trying to help. Bev: Not you, the baby. Lionel: Oh, I didn’t even notice. Bev: You always do this. You put everything off until it becomes a crisis. Lionel: I lost track of time. Bev: So deal with your problems when they come up. You have no personal responsibility. Lionel: This isn’t a big problem. We can hide it. Bev: You’re putting our lives at risk. God, what would people say if they knew my husband was a murderer? Lionel: Hiding the body fixes this problem. You know that. You’re just using this as an opportunity to grandstand. Bev: It’s hard to not grandstand over a serial killer too lazy to get rid of evidence. Lionel: Who am I supposed to hide the evidence form? We have no friends that come over, you’re never home—I basically live alone. Bev: Your daughter? Lionel: So I should hide the evidence in case my infant daughter snitches on me. Bev: I’m saying you don’t live alone; you have our child to look after, remember? Lionel: Oh, don’t get me started. Are you accusing me of being neglectful? Bev: I’m saying all the time you spend murdering women would be better spent raising your daughter. Lionel: When we had her, I didn’t foresee having to raise her by myself. Bev: What’s that supposed to mean? Lionel: The longest period of time you’ve spent with her was in the delivery room. Bev: That’s bullshit. Lionel: I spend all goddamn day with her. I’m allowed some time for myself. I only wish there was somebody else who would be willing to look after her. Bev: I’m the one footing all of the bills here, pal. You’d be homeless if it weren’t for me. Lionel: It’s not unheard of for working parents to see their children. Bev: Even when they’re the sole bread winner? Lionel: Oh, please. People stage protests over people with the amount of money we have. Bev: If you would get a real job, I could spend less time at the office. Lionel: Even if you were home more often, you would just drink bleach so you could pass out. Bev: We had a deal. I let you quit your stockbroking job/ so that you could raise our child and work on your stupid fucking art. Lionel: /I didn’t know I need your permission to quit my job. And I also assumed my daughter would have a mother willing to see her once in a while./ All we are to you is just an inconvenience. Bev: /How are you the martyr here? I work my ass off./ Everything you have is a result of me. Lionel: You work all the time because you can’t stand to be in this house./ To look at your own family. Bev: / Damn right I can’t stand in this house. There’s a body lying around half the time. Do you have/ any idea how it feels to walk into a crime scene every night? Lionel: /You don’t give a shit about the corpses. You barely notice them. I bet you’re fucking glad to see a corpse because/ it gives you a chance to blame me for your problems. Bev: /You think I’m glad? I have to drink bleach to bear being in this house./ Lionel: No, you have to drink bleach to bear being around me and our daughter./ I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with the woman I married, when you weren’t delirious on cleaning chemicals. Bev: The amount of stress you foist onto me is too much to stand. I should want to come home at night, but it’s not so easy when your husband is a murderous psychopath. *** Bev’s phone rings. She checks it. Bev: Oh, fuck, it’s him. Get rid of that body NOW! Lionel: I’m going to hide it. Bev: Get rid of it. Lionel: And what if I pass him on the stairwell, heaving a bloody carpet? Bev: I wish you would have considered that before he was at our house. Lionel: I’m trying to tell you how to fix it but you never fucking listen to me! *** The phone stops ringing. Bev: Fine. Hide it. I don’t give a shit. But if he sees it, don’t expect any support from me. Lionel: Obviously. Believe it or not, I’m not trying to sabotage your life. Bev: Actually, I do find that hard to believe. *** She checks her phone again. Bev: He left a voicemail. Jesus. Hide the body and SHUT THAT FUCKING BABY UP! Lionel: She won’t stop crying unless you leave her alone. Bev: Find some other way. Lull her. Or something. Lionel: If you were here more often, you would know that if you go to her when she cries, she never stops. The fastest way to make her stop is to just ignore her. It usually-- Bev: Oh my God, you’re still talking? Shut up. I need to listen to this. ***Lionel stands still, tapping his foot as Bev listens to the voicemail. Her panic melts into relief. Bev: Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God. He cancelled. He said his grandson is sick, but he can do tomorrow night. Lionel: His grandson? Bev: Right? Lionel: Sounds made up. Bev: You think? Lionel: Did your grandparents ever cancel their plans when you got sick? Bev: No. Well, whatever. Now you have time to deal with that body. Lionel: I’ll do it in a bit. Bev: Are you kidding? *** The baby stops crying. Bev: Woah. Lionel: I told you. No matter how hard she cries, don’t give in. Bev: No kidding. Good to know. Lionel: She used to drive me nuts before I figured that out. Bev: She doesn’t still drive you nuts? Lionel: Ehhh… Less nuts. Bev: I’ve never heard a baby cry so much. Lionel: She cries even more when you’re not home. This was actually a new record, most likely. Bev: A mother’s touch. Lionel: …Right. Sometimes I just want to gag her. Bev: I know that feeling. Lionel: Not that I ever would. Bev: Sure you wouldn’t. Lionel: I mean, listen, I love our kid. Bev: Of course. Lionel: I mean, she’s my daughter. Bev: Right. Lionel: I love her. Bev: You love her. Lionel: Exactly. Bev: Exactly. Lionel: But… Bev: Yes? Lionel: Sometimes… Bev: Tell me. Lionel: And this almost never happens. Bev: Okay. Lionel: Really, almost never. Bev: I trust you. Lionel: Sometimes… I kinda wish… and she’s my daughter… Bev: You love her. Lionel: I love her!… but rarely… Nevermind. Bev: No, come on, tell me. Lionel: It’s nothing. Bev: Tell me. Please. I won’t get mad. Lionel: Well… I start to think… I wish we never had her. Bev: Alright. Lionel: Oh my God, I’m awful. Bev: No! No no no. I think… sometimes… I mean, how could you not? If it’s sometimes. Lionel: It’s rarely. Bev: Rarely. Lionel: Almost never. Bev: Exactly! Lionel: And she’s— Bev: She’s your daughter. You love her. Lionel: I love her. Bev: And, I mean, I love her. Lionel: Of course! Bev: I mean, how could I not? Lionel: You’re her mother. Bev: I’m her mother. Lionel: Exactly. Bev: Exactly. But… Lionel: Mhm. Bev: I mean, our lives would obviously be easier if she wasn’t around. Lionel: Sure. Bev: I’m just saying. Objectively. Lionel: There’s nothing wrong with saying that. Bev: Yeah, it’s fine to say that. Lionel: That’s how it is. Bev: It’s not as if I don’t love her. Lionel: You’re her mother. Bev: I love kids. Lionel: Me too! Bev: I know! I’d just have more time to focus on myself. Lionel: You’re busy! Bev: I’m so busy. Lionel: Oh my God, you’re always busy. Bev: And I wouldn’t trade our daughter for anything. Lionel: Neither would I. Bev: But… I’d be less busy if there wasn’t another mouth to feed. Lionel: You don’t need that baggage. Bev: Well, I don’t know if she’s baggage. Lionel: No! No no no no no right right right, obviously she isn’t baggage. Bev: She’s our daughter. Lionel: We love her. Bev: Oh my God, she’s the best. Lionel. Couldn’t ask for a better kid. Bev: But… Lionel: I could focus on painting. Bev: Where do you find time to paint when you’re looking after a child? Lionel: None! Bev: Well, not none. Lionel: Almost none. Bev: More than almost none. Lionel: Sure, a little more than almost none. But I can barely focus on my painting. Bev: How could you? Lionel: Right. Bev: You have a life to look after. Lionel: That’s what I’m saying! Bev: That’s okay. You can say that. Lionel: What, I have to just drop my life to take care of her? Bev: It’s a lot. Lionel: It’s a lot. And all at once. One day, poof, all my time, all my dreams—No time for them anymore. Bev: It’s hard! Lionel: Sooo hard. And, hey, you’re right, let’s not kid ourselves. Bev: Okay. Lionel: Obviously I have to time… you know… kill people. Bev: Women. Lionel: People. Bev: Almost exclusively women. Lionel: Let’s not. Not right now. Bev: You’re right. Lionel: Regardless of who I kill… I mean… What, I’m not allowed some leisure time? Bev: Everybody needs leisure time! Lionel: I don’t want to toil away at a painting after spending the day looking after my daughter. Bev: And it’s not like you don’t love her. Lionel: Of course I love her! Bev: You’re her father. Lionel: And you’re her mother. Bev: We love her! Lionel: But… Bev: I’m exhausted when I come home from work. Lionel: Well, you work so hard. Bev: I want to just come home and relax. Have some me time. Lionel: How could you not? Bev: I don’t want to come home and just spend the rest of my day with my daughter. Lionel: No, you don’t. Bev: Well, sometimes I do. Lionel: Almost never. Bev: More than almost never. Lionel: Never, actually, now that I think about it. Bev: Lionel… Lionel: … You love her. Bev: I love her! Lionel: You work because you love her. Bev: Exactly! But… Where do I find time to focus on myself? Lionel: You don’t. Bev: I work all day, just to raise a child all night? Lionel: Who can live that way? Bev: Right! And I’m always so exhausted and stressed. It’s too much too deal with. Lionel: You’re always working. Bev: So I… you know… drink bleach… it calms me down. I feel like I can handle everything the world is throwing at me… and so, what? I’m crazy? Lionel: Well… Bev: I’m not crazy. Lionel: I know! But… Drinking bleach is crazy. Bev: Not really. Lionel: Ehhh, yeah it is. Bev: Crazier than killing women? Lionel: People! Bev: It’s not crazier than that. Lionel: Yes it is! Bev: You’re killing people! Lionel: You’re drinking bleach! Bev: You’re a bona fide murderer! Lionel: You’re a diagnosably psychotic bitch! Bev: Come again? I’m the fucking psycho? You raving, worthless, little, emasculated--- Lionel: Bev. Bev: What? Lionel: Let’s not. Bev (deep breath): Okay. You’re right. Lionel: Where does that get us? Bev: It’s just not worth it. Lionel: I’m sorry. Bev: I’m sorry too. Lionel: But… drinking bleach is kinda crazy. Bev: Oh, Jesus… Fine. Drinking bleach is a little crazy. Lionel: That’s all I’m saying. Bev: But... So is killing people. Lionel: Well, obviously there are healthier alternatives— Bev: Lionel. Lionel: But… Okay. It’s a little crazy. Bev: And, I mean, I get it. Lionel: We have a lot on our plate, you and I. Bev: We need to cope somehow. Lionel: Exactly! I mean, what happened to the good old days? Bev: Hm? Lionel: The good old days! Bev: I don’t know what you mean. Lionel: You know… back when we were happy. Bev: Um. Lionel: Well… you know… happier. Bev: Right! What ever happened to those days? Lionel: And, I mean, I’m not saying she didn’t make happier. Bev: Nooo. Of course not! Lionel: I mean, I love her. Bev: Of course. Me too. Lionel: I know. But… I guess I’m happier… but I feel like my life is worse. Bev: Can I be honest? Lionel: Please. Bev: I’m much sadder now that we have her. Lionel: Me too! Bev: Really? Lionel: Oh my God, I was so afraid to say it! Bev (laughing): Wow, I have felt so guilty for feeling that way! Lionel: So did I! Bev: It’s just exhausting. Lionel: I’m miserable! Bev: I’m so miserable! Lionel: We’re both miserable! Bev: I thought having a kid was supposed to help that. Lionel: Nope, it’s way worse now. Bev: It would be so much easier if she wasn’t around. Lionel: Yes! And, again, I obviously love her. Bev: Yeah. Lionel: I’m her father. Bev: … Lionel: Right? Bev: … Lionel: What? Bev: … Nothing. Lionel: What is it? Bev: It’s nothing. You’re her father. You love her. Lionel: Tell me. Bev: It’s nothing, I just got distracted. I’m her mother. Lionel: Bev. Bev: It’s nothing. Lionel: I won’t judge you. Bev: …Yes you will. Lionel: No, I won’t. Bev: Yes you will. Lionel: No, I won’t. Trust me, Bev. Bev: Oh my God. Lionel: Say it. Bev: Well… I don’t hate her… But… and I’m her mother… and she’s my daughter… But I can’t say… If I’m being really honest… It doesn’t feel like… When I look at her… I don’t think I love her. Lionel: … Bev: … Lionel (thrilled): I knew it! Bev (hurt): Fuck you. Lionel: I fucking knew it! Bev: That’s not what I meant. Lionel: That’s why you’re never home! Bev: She’s my daughter. Of course I love her, it’s— Lionel: “Working all the time.” My ass! Bev: If she died, that’s, it’d be awful.
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