HOSPITAL WARD.
GUY LIES IN A COMA. ANOTHER BED IS OCCUPIED BY GUNTER, WHO APPEARS TO BE
IN A SIMILAR UNCONSCIOUS STATE.
THE ROOM IS QUIET, SAVE FOR THE SOFT BEEPING OF GUY’S VITAL SIGNS
MONITOR.
JANE ENTERS.
JANE:
Guy, my darling Guy.
SHE KISSES HIM.
It’s me… Jane.
I’m here, just like I promised I’d be, every day, until you wake up.
SILENCE.
How are you today?
SILENCE.
SHE SITS ON A CHAIR BY THE BED AND WITHDRAWS A BOOK FROM HER BAG.
So, where did we leave off?
Ah yes, here we are…
(READING)
The trees, tall and wise, stretched their gnarled branches towards the
sky, echoing secrets of the ages in a symphony only Lysander could comprehend.
As he ventured deeper into the heart of the forest, Lysander stumbled upon a
clearing bathed in the ethereal glow of moonlight. In the centre of the
clearing stood a majestic oak, its bark etched with runes glowing softly in the
silver light. He reached out and touched the ancient bark. In that moment, a
rush of wind swept through the clearing, carrying with it a voice, ancient and…
(SHE SUDDENLY CLOSES THE BOOK)
I won’t pretend it’s been easy, Guy.
Each morning, I rise. Because I have to, because I choose to, because I
believe – hope – that one day, you’ll come back to me. Yet I can’t help but
feel that with each passing day, a part of me is withering away, rotting in
this chair.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
I sit with him, you know, every day. I read to him, talk to him about
everything and nothing. Shave him. Shave him? Yes.
JANE TAKES THE TOOLS OUT OF HER BAG AND STARTS TO SHAVE GUY’S FACE.
I find comfort in talking to Guy about the mundane; did he know the
Hendersons’ cat finally got stuck in their own tree? Irony, Guy loves irony.
I tell him about the Jammie Dodger shortage at the supermarket as if
it’s headline news. And sometimes, I swear, I see a flicker, a sign he’s there,
trapped in his own head, screaming about the absurdity of Jammie Dodger
shortages in supermarkets.
I’ve found myself bargaining with every deity I can think of, promising
a lifetime of good deeds for a single moment of clarity from him.
SHE WITHDRAWS A PACKET OF JAMMIE DODGERS FROM HER BAG AND EATS ONE.
I’d even tell him the truth about the Christmas vase from Aunt Muriel he
thought was lost.
(A BROKEN VASE SITS ON THE SIDE TABLE)
I’ve become quite the conversationalist, speaking into the void, filling
the silence with words.
Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You talk, even if it’s just to the
walls, because the alternative is silence, and the silence is unbearable.
SILENCE.
And maybe, just maybe, my words will be the lifeline that guides him
back.
Until then, I’ll be here, talking even when I’m not sure if anyone is
listening.
TO GUY:
Remember the time you surprised me with that picnic in the living room
because the park was closed?
SHE STARTS TO REARRANGE HIS BLANKET.
You had it all laid out, the blanket, the basket, even those little
candles you were so proud of finding. We made a toast to indoor adventures and
drank until we could barely move.
SILENCE.
I was rummaging through the attic last Tuesday. You remember, our shared
vault of “we’ll sort it later” treasures and I found an old picture of us in
Brighton.
SHE SHOWS HIM THE PICTURE.
I remember we were seeking out the best fish and chips. We found it,
though, didn’t we? Tucked away in that little alley, the one that smelled of
salt and vinegar. You said it was the best you’d ever had. I agreed, but
between you and me, it was being with you that made them taste so good.
SILENCE.
We spent that night walking along the beach, sharing our dreams under
the stars.
There we were, utterly lost but utterly content, discovering hidden
corners of the place and each other. Every word came straight from your heart
promising a lifetime of adventures together. And then there was the rain. We
danced in it. You spun me round and round until we collapsed, laughing, into
that massive puddle on the promenade.
We were drenched, utterly soaked, and happy. But here’s the secret I’ve
never shared: as we walked back along the beach, hand in hand, I found a small,
smooth stone. It was nothing special, just a piece of quartz, but it sparkled
in the night. I slipped it into my pocket, a solid piece of that perfect,
fleeting moment. I’ve kept that stone with me every day since. It’s here with
me now.
SHE REVEALS IT FROM UNDER HER TOP,
HANGING ON A CHAIN. SHE REMOVES THE CHAIN WITH THE QUARTZ STONE AND PUTS
IT IN HIS HAND.
These shared moments remind me of us, of who we are beyond this…
SILENCE.
So, I’ll keep sharing these memories with you, my love.
Even if you can’t respond, I know you’re listening. These stories, our
stories, they’re the crumbs leading you back home to me.
JANE FINISHES SHAVING GUY.
SHE NOTICES JAMMIE DODGER CRUMBS AND REMOVES THEM FROM HIS BLANKET.
And I’ll be here, waiting, reminiscing, until we can create new memories
together again.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
I can’t do this.
SHE STARTS TO PICK UP HER THINGS TO GO.
I thought I could, but every day feels like I’m sinking further and
there’s no one to pull me out. I tell myself, “just get through today,” but the
days stretch on, endless, each one a mirror of the last.
SHE HEADS FOR THE DOOR BUT PAUSES THERE.
And Guy. Guy is trapped in his silent world, unreachable, leaving me to
navigate this darkness alone.
SHE WALKS BACK TO HIM.
Everyone says, “you’re so strong,” “you’re doing so well.” But they
don’t see this, do they? The nights spent in tears, the days filled with a
hollow emptiness that consumes everything.
SHE REPEATEDLY ADJUSTS HIS BLANKET AGAIN.
Strength? It’s a façade I hide behind because the truth is too much to
bear. I miss him. Not just the man he was before the accident, but the life we
shared, the future we dreamed of.
And the silence? It’s suffocating.
SHE WALKS OVER TO A WINDOW AND LOOKS OUT.
The loneliness, Guy, it’s indescribable. The silence echoes in the
emptiness of our home, in our bed, where I lie awake, yearning for your warmth.
I’m trying to be strong… but some days, I’m just pretending, hoping somehow to
make it through to the next morning.
SILENCE.
I’ve struggled with fear, with separation, with the daunting reality of
facing life without you. There were days I felt so lost that I couldn’t see a
way out.
SILENCE.
So here, in this quiet, I speak my apologies into the space between us,
hoping somehow, they reach you. I have to believe that somewhere, beneath the
stillness, you can feel me, hear me; that you remember the moments we shared
together.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
I used to relish moments of quiet, but now it’s a constant reminder of
his absence. I talk to him, to the empty space on the sofa he once filled, but
my own voice is a reminder of how alone I am. They say grief is the price we
pay for love, but no one warns you about the weight of it, how it can crush
you, leave you gasping for air in the middle of the night.
TO GUY:
Dinner for one, a solo walk, and lying next to an empty half of the bed
are normal for me now. Although hope and despair have become my new housemates.
(PLAYING WITH HIM)
Hope wanders about with a suitcase full of “what ifs” and “soon maybes,”
while despair tends to slouch in the corner, mumbling “what’s the point?” into
his tea. They don’t get on, you see. I’m caught in the middle. Oh yes, and
guilt.
LAUGHING INTO A HAND MIRROR FROM HER BAG.
Every time I laugh or enjoy a moment of sunshine, guilt is there,
reminding me, “Should you be feeling this when Guy is lying there?”
But in the midst of this crowd, there’s love. It’s what turns my feet
towards the hospital each day, even when hope and despair are having one of
their squabbles. And when you wake, we’ll laugh about this, won’t we?
SHE SHOWS HIM THE MIRROR TO HIS FACE FOR A MOMENT BEFORE PLACING IT BACK
IN HER BAG.
About how I became such good friends with loneliness, hope, despair, and
guilt.
But mostly, how love never once left the room.
SHE REARRANGES THE FLOWERS ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE.
As for me, apparently I’m glue that holds things together. Or so I’ve
been told. Glue that feels decidedly less adhesive these days. All the while,
cooking meals that go uneaten and maintaining routines that feel increasingly
hollow.
SILENCE.
But that’s okay, because this is all an opportunity for “personal
growth”, or so says my cognitive therapist. Personal growth, now there’s a term
that always seemed a bit lofty to me, something for selfhelp books…
Yet, here I am, a walking case study. It’s funny, isn’t it? Not “ha-ha”
funny, more like “Alanis Morissette ironic” funny, how personal growth’s most
profound lessons are often those we’d never choose.
(PACING UP AND DOWN)
I’ve become somewhat of a philosopher, you see. Not by choice, but by
circumstance. Contemplating the nature of existence between hospital visits and
microwave meals.
I’ve wrestled with questions I never thought to ask, faced fears I
didn’t know I had. And in the midst of it all, I’ve discovered strengths – like
being able to cry on a crowded bus without garnering too much attention.
I’ve also mastered the art of solitude. Except, of course, being near
the ticking of that very annoying cuckoo clock you brought back from Geneva.
SHE INSPECTS THE VITAL SIGNS MONITOR.
I’m convinced it speeds up just to taunt me. But it’s not all
existential dread and ticking clocks. No, this journey’s had its share of
revelations. Like learning that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s an action, a
choice made in the quiet moments, in the steadfast refusal to give up hope.
SHE SITS DOWN.
So here I stand, or rather sit, a somewhat unwilling pilgrim on the path
to self-discovery. I’ve learned to navigate the world on my own, to find joy in
the small victories, and to keep talking, even when it feels like I’m only
speaking to the walls.
Because one day, I hope, you’ll talk back. And I’ll keep dreaming, for
both of us, until you’re here to dream with me once more.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
A driver collided with our world. Guy, my husband, managed the
extraordinary feat of stepping off the pavement at just the wrong moment. A
car, too fast, too distracted, turned our life into this drama. Only, in our
version, the hero doesn’t wake up with a start. No, my Guy is more the silent
type these days. The doctors use terms like “traumatic brain injury” as if I
might find comfort in the certainty of a label. I don’t.
TO GUY:
Our future, now I see, is not a place or an event.
It’s us, simply being, together.
(HOLDING HIS HAND)
A future where every day is an adventure because it’s shared with you.
Perhaps our grandest adventure lies not in the peaks we conquer but in
the valleys we navigate together, in the everydayness of our shared life.
So, I will dream a different dream for us. One where our future is not
measured by the stamps in our passports but by the mornings we wake up next to
each other, by the nights we fall asleep mid-conversation.
Though lately, it’s been more of a monologue than a dialogue.
SILENCE.
Guy, bless you, you haven’t been much for conversation since the
accident. But does that stop me? Of course not. I’ve become quite adept at
talking to myself. With you listening, of course, my darling.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
I tell him everything and anything. How the azaleas he planted are
blooming, or how Mrs. Jenkins next door has taken to singing opera in the early
hours.
(MORE)
It’s our little soap opera, broadcast directly to his bedside.
I’d like to think he’s entertained, that somewhere in the silence, he’s
laughing with me. But it’s not just the trivialities of our days I share with
him. It’s the “I love yous”, the “we miss yous”, the “please come backs”.
JANE PLAYS A RECORDING OF A MESSAGE FROM HER PHONE:
“HEY GUY, REMEMBER ME? IT’S YOUR SISTER, LEXI. SORRY I CAN’T BE THERE IN PERSON, BUT
YOU’RE NOT VERY INTERESTING THESE DAYS… YOU KNOW I’M JOKING… I MISS YOU,
YOU KNOW, GUY…”
JANE (CONT’D):
It’s the reassurance that no matter how long this nightmare lasts, I’ll
be here, making sure the love finds its way to him.
And it’s not a solitary endeavour, oh no. The outpouring of love and
support has been overwhelming. Cards, calls, visits, each a lifeline, a chorus
of voices joining mine in this one-way conversation.
It’s heartening, really, how it can take tragedy to draw out such
warmth. They say people live on in our memories, and I find that to be
painfully, beautifully true. Guy’s here with me, not just in this room,
surrounded by machines and the antiseptic smell of hospitals, but in who I am.
Our stories, our memories, they’re what bind us, weaving the fabric of
our life together. And so I talk to him, recounting our shared past, our
dreams, our arguments over trivialities, as if by sheer longing, I can bridge
the gap between us.
TO GUY:
Here in this silence, I’m confronted by words unsaid, of arguments
paused mid-breath. Our last argument, the one before… this, it lingers.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
I argue with shadows, defend myself to the echoes.
It’s a peculiar form of madness, isn’t it?
Quarrelling with a memory. How do I argue with a man who can no longer
answer back? How do I resolve conflicts that have become monologues?
TO GUY:
I believe in us, in the “us” that survives beyond the harsh words and
cold silences.
SILENCE.
I don’t know how to do this without you, Guy. They say time heals, but
it feels more like I’ve become used to the pain. You know, I keep asking
myself, would I be here, if things had ended differently between us? If we had
let go when every argument felt like the last straw, if we had agreed that
maybe love wasn’t enough to fix what was broken?
And now, here I am, clinging to your hand, praying for a miracle that
feels like it might be too late to even want. The guilt… it’s crushing me.
Because part of me wonders if I’m here just trying to make up for all the ways
I failed you. I’m tired, Guy. Tired of carrying this guilt. How I stormed out,
leaving so many angry words hanging in the air between us. If I had known it
would be the last time, would I have stayed? Or tried harder to understand, to
forgive?
SHE TAKES A BRUSH OUT OF HER BAG AND STARTS TO BRUSH HIS HAIR.
But here I am, every day and night, talking to you, hoping you can hear
me, hoping you can forgive me for the days I thought leaving was the easier
choice. I wish it hadn’t taken this to make me realise so clearly, I love you.
But what if it’s too late? What if all these nights, all these whispered
apologies and confessions of love, are just echoes in an empty room? What if
you can’t hear me, can’t forgive me? It’s my biggest fear; that I’ve lost you,
not just to this coma, but to the mistakes and misunderstandings that we let
come between us.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
They tell me you’re gone, that even if you wake, the man I loved won’t
be coming back. So, I smile, I nod, I go through the motions of living. But
inside, I’m numb. I go to work, I meet friends, I smile at them, and all the
while, I feel nothing. They say I must move on, that life has to go on. So,
I’ve tried, Guy. I’ve tried to step forward, one foot in front of the other,
but with each step, I’m like a ghost wandering in the shadows of other people’s
lives.
TO GUY:
Love is the determination to hold on to each other when everything else
is trying to pull you apart. I thought we had that kind of love, Guy. I still
want to believe we do.
But I need a sign, something to show me that you’re still in this with
me. Please, Guy, fight. Fight to come back to me. Don’t make me beg.
I know I should be strong for us. And I am, Guy, I am. But I need you to
fight too. Fight to wake up, to come back to me, to us. I can’t imagine a life
without you in it.
SILENCE.
I’ll be back tomorrow, darling. And every day after that. You’re not
alone, Guy. You’ll never be. I’ll be right here, waiting for you… always. I
love you.
TO THE FOURTH WALL:
In the midst of all this, the silence, the waiting, the not knowing… I
found myself seeking… no, craving some semblance of life.
SHE STANDS BY HERSELF WITH HER BACK TO GUY.
A connection, a spark, something to remind me that I’m still alive, that
there’s still a world outside these hospital walls.
I want to have children and the cuckoo clock keeps ticking faster. And
so, I made a decision, one evening, to not be alone. To be with someone who
isn’t you. It wasn’t about love, or even desire, not really. It was about
feeling something, anything, other than this crushing emptiness. I told myself
it was a moment of weakness, too many proseccos, a fleeting lapse in judgement,
but…
TO GUY:
I tried, you know. After the accident, after the silence and the waiting
became too much, I tried to move on. To forget about you, about us. I thought…
I thought it was the right thing to do, to live again, to be part of the
world that kept spinning without you.
SILENCE.
I’m sorry…
JANE LEAVES. GUNTER, WHO HAD BEEN MOTIONLESS IN THE BED NEXT TO GUY, STIRS, AND THEN, WITH A
SURPRISING BURST OF ENERGY, GETS OUT OF BED.
