Dramatic Monologue- An Explanation for Mr. Chan
So you’ll fight us without a backward glance
Just assuming that our reverence
Is directed to the one who turned us into this,
That there’s nothing we’ve lost, and nothing we miss.
Well then, I guess I should start listing
All the ‘benefits’ that come with assisting
An old, insane, withered, bent shell
Of a man who’s thoughts constantly dwell
On the ridiculous concept of world domination
And pursuing this goal through our humiliation.
It’s taken us two arduous years to get to the point
Where we have finally become just barely adroit
Enough to even lay a finger on you
Let alone take you out, and what can we do?
Nothing, just continue to wearily fight
Aware of your stature, your goodness, your might.
Enough with point one, let’s move to point two-
How we spend our days as servants, and rue
The mornings when sunlight just barely is born
Before the chilly dawn air is violently torn
By his unbearable, high pitched, relentless shriek:
“Gun! Run! Chui! Get to the kitchen and heat
my tea! Fetch my books! What is this? Dust!
Make the bed! Sweep the floors! Lick them clean if you must!”
And so begins another fabulous day
Of bowing and scraping and hiding away
Watching him peruse those fragile old books
Knowing that with enough sneaky looks
We could find a way to restore what we were.
That inside those pages might lay our cure.
But as you well know, we’re too cowardly
To take the chance of being caught, we
Have been tortured and beaten for much, much less.
You don’t believe me? Here, I’ll let you assess
The scars and the bruises, all of them new
Quite different from the ones caused by you.
These go deeper than each visible mark
Burning and stabbing till our vision goes dark.
And that brings me succinctly into point three
Did you know we can’t eat? Sleep? Dream?
The only rest our new bodies require
Are those few moments when we ‘expire’
Just to awaken in a nightmarish place.
Did you know where he keeps us? From the look on your face
I’d guess the answer is no. I’d suspected as much.
So let me attempt to begin to convey what such
a horrible place it is we’re banished to
though it’s going to hard to describe to you.
You know that feeling, right when you wake?
When your chest is constricted and the world feels fake?
When the digital clock blinks a blood red hour?
When the adrenaline blooms in your veins like a flower?
Take that terror, that heat, that predatory shade
Capture and bottle it, and you’ve just made
Our home. Our den. The place where we go
To relax and unwind from our stressful day. So.
Look at me now, and tell me truthfully
Do you really not feel a shred of empathy?
And God help me, yes, I seem really crazy
Having this chat with myself, but since there’s no one near me
I have to be content with my inner ranting.
It’s better than the silent, private lamenting
We do, when we lay prone in that malevolent prison
Praying and begging, beyond rhyme or reason.
And now I return to something I previously mentioned
The inability to dream caused by our ‘ascension’.
And one last question (I hope you can cope)
If we cannot dream, how can we hope?