Smoked

On the ticket, it says: “SMOKED contains elements of violence, adverse behavior, and sexuality, for which you are solely responsible, along with sharp instruments and intense physical contact. We expect you in attire you won’t mind getting wet, creased, or stained, though, truthfully, you are never sorry quite enough.

 

Do not be so cowardly as to refuse what the HUMAN asks of you; you have been preparing for this all along.”

 

In the theater a woman’s whisper fills the room, warning, “Ten minutes until our play begins. Take your last easy breaths, and don’t lie by pretending you did not foresee what is to come.”

 

Darkness. Heavy breathing. Is it a wild beast, or merely someone who has just finished running?

 

I yearn for oblivion. I never imagined I’d say this, my thoughts are only a repetition of his thoughts now. That week after, he was slightly better, weaving altogether different stories. Talking as if he’s a real person feels strange, but I’m grateful you impose this, for the alternative is far more terrifying. I don’t know. Truly, I don’t. I wish, with all my being, that one day I might awaken without longing for my former mind.

 

And scene!

 

First.

 

Did you kill today? (One of the people sitting in the chairs placed on the stage has his chin between the two hands of HUMAN who immediately begins)

 

I did. (HUMAN raises his hands, exposing the murder weapon. His sharp features blur momentarily, and if you listen intently, you can hear the desperation of a man trying to justify himself in his voice as his hands drop, heavy at his sides)

 

Look, I have a baby, and I must meet the baby’s needs. If I delay offering him my poisoned milk by even a minute, it’ll bring this place crashing down. (A baby’s wail—more like a death cry—pierces the air. HUMAN bursts into a laugh, wild and frenzied. The infant’s shriek and the man’s laughter fill the space as the lights extinguish. Darkness)

 

(When the light returns, only HUMAN’s face is visible, pale as moonlight. His hand emerges from the shadow, gripping a dagger. The baby still cries, but HUMAN no longer laughs. The unsettling expression he wears while circling the nearby chairs and tossing the dagger between his hands suggests even the thrill of this game has ceased to amuse him)

 

(Finally, he approaches someone from behind, pressing the dagger against their throat) You have five seconds to scratch my skin with this. Just a small cut. Draw a little blood. My baby is foolish enough to be deceived by such tricks. (He extends his wrist, then sucks on the minor cut left by the dagger, pacifying the baby as its cries taper off. His face, now tainted with mockery, suggests he has grown accustomed to the pain) 

 

I told you. Simple-minded. (A shrug. An eyebrow raised. Gestures of feigned nonchalance)

 

Curious, aren’t you, how he was born? (He catches someone's gaze, as nothing forces one to confront themselves more than realizing a stranger has taken notice)

 

I did not merely kill today. Nor was it only today that my guilt rose to scour the rust from your ears. If you knew how those who have melted into action feel… I mean, you think you know, but– Would you truly understand if you did? I will tell you. I will, though even if you understand, you won’t believe me. Even if you do believe, you’ll forget. Yet at least the dividends of my lost time will bring some satisfaction to my baby, to the voice in my mind, that voice you hear, that cursed voice, for it will find some fleeting contentment. What hunger could not be sated by a crowd like this?

 

When he was born, I did not yet know the greater pain of bearing no responsibility. The greater pain. Because, even if you do not see it now, it travels from me to you, you, you, you... (His gestures are sharp, almost defensive, pushing four people into retreat)

 

A  greater pain, the greatest, the unbearable agony that you choose over the wailing of an oversized infant that cannot be consoled. How could you not know such a thing? Have you never encountered it?

 

(He leans over, supporting himself on the edge of someone's chair) I ask this question to myself. Silence. I have not finished speaking.

 

(Straightening, he seems stronger than the man uttering those words moments before) But I do not blame– (A terrible, hollow laugh) Fell for it again. (A baby's cry echoes from afar. A deeper wound appears on HUMAN’s arm, illuminated by a light that highlights the crimson)

 

(He paces, thoughtful, with expressions and gestures that betray his turmoil) What do I say? What do I say? Ah! I am not surprised I did not pause and examine that feeling, even if I encountered it. Even if, one day, I were too powerless to cut any part of any body, I would find a way to absolve each piece of myself of guilt that begs for release.

 

Constantly, ceaselessly, he reminds me that one day she will die, and I won’t even have a choice. I cannot tell Dunya. I cannot speak of such a thing about Vera... The rising cries of children... Vera's last breath... I am so weary. I have not left an article unread on dreams, believe me. I don’t know what to do. Even avoiding sleep is no answer; I have never wished for disappearance so ardently.

 

Mid.

 

What do I do to get rid of the baby? Huh? Should I kill it too? No, I don’t want it to die. Keeping it alive makes life easier, trust me. Sometimes, to keep living, you need that the only thing that doesn’t get fucked is the back of your ear. Otherwise, shoot it, go on. Yes, you would shoot it, you do; that’s another matter.

 

There is something peculiar about addressing humanity when confronted by your expressions like this. Who am I to address humanity? We will not debate that today but allow me to say: Not even my muse wishes as strongly as I do to share my experiences with you. You, whom I call... (A dismissive gesture, perhaps a clap) humanity. Yet I will do it, for there is no escape.

 

What did that cowardly philosopher say? “Worst of all,” he said, “There is always continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man” Listen well, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” If you asked Hobbes, he would have said it was stupid of me to kill. Are we in the state of nature? How do I breach that contract ensuring my security?

(The sound of gunfire, as if from within the walls, jolts the audience) Like this.

Are you scared, frightened to hear its cry again? How delightful it would be if you begged me to harm someone now. But no, seize what you have and direct it at me, for that is what you know. You find joy in it. You are satisfied, and content, as your groans fill my ears. Because you have a baby too.

But hush, don't reach an orgasm around babies and leave a lasting scar on their memories. That would be impolite.

 

Let me map out a calendar for you now instead; it will be delightful.

 

I once knew a man. A long time ago. This place was peaceful, and silent with shadows not dark enough. Then a bomb exploded, scattering dandelions into the world on a scream, finding new homes. I knew that man. Before he turned to ash, before he was crushed by a tank in a square, before his soul was exploited. Well, you know... Before a bullet met his head. I knew him so well that my hands, my whole being, were stained. We are a flock too oblivious to run naked into the rain when it falls. Why? “Red gloves look elegant,” don’t they? How cheerful and free you become splashing your filth onto each other, escaping loneliness. And there, in the center, a corpse; perhaps we even pity the blood seeping into the ground if we cannot pull those gloves up to our elbows... Being half-victim, half-accomplice is easy, so easy, but wearing your guilt like those gloves will not cleanse you of the sound that soon follows.

 

Ah... I must feed him, or we will go deaf. (The nearly dried blood on the dagger is now wet with HUMAN’s blood again)

 

You know, they always tell you in the first screenwriting classes to make what you write personal. Perhaps the reverse is true; I may succumb to what I critique, but I believe there is value in collective pain, sorrow, regret, guilt, and even the burden of not feeling guilt. What do you say? There are things I cannot explain to you, or Dunya, as I’ve mentioned. I can tell just by looking at my fingers. Lately, they have been trembling, shortening rapidly... Perhaps... Perhaps I should channel this into a broader frame. Have you seen Kurosawa’s Dreams? There’s an analogy… something about how flowers root and how others bloom… I mean… And something else… how they’re deformed by human wars… (His head shakes suddenly, eyes fixed on a spot on the ground, realizing something) But anyway, my thoughts sped up a bit. Don’t you have a place to direct me with your questions again?

 

Last.

 

He does all this to bind me to him. I won’t push the blame on him now, because that would be too natural a reaction; I’d even doubt my humanity if I did otherwise. But while putting a pleasurable spin on opening this wound, he wants me to scratch at this itching guilt with this dagger.

Sometimes I delay a little. Sometimes, I kill someone. That’s the most natural thing in these situations. Neither a revolution nor a scandal. You’ve forgotten just how dirty hands can get when crafting the codes of behavior. If only those damned social norms could scratch this itch of mine, I might have had a bit of respect for them. But I chose to kill. Do these struggles of mine seem aimless to you? If only you’d think– Just once think about what each of your breaths has cost! Because nothing resolves even when stepping beyond those cursed boundaries of behavior rules… Because humans! Humans aren’t always what they do. No, it isn’t that simple, look at this, just look. (His hands move over the faces of the people, quick, sometimes touching, sometimes letting a little air pass between)

 

Am I mad, tell me? Do you see something? Do you see these stains of blood, or am I—someone who didn’t lose his sanity even when choosing to become a killer—now seeing things simply because I’ve killed?

 

I wash—I even showered before coming here, would you believe it? Smell it, go on. (He leans in, pressing his armpit near someone’s face)

 

But I cannot rid myself of this damned blood.

 

(Calm down, calm down… He roams the stage, furious as if he might grab someone by the collar at any moment, breathing deeply, voice rising and falling) If I had tried to save him, would it have turned out this way, I wonder? 

 

(His voice shrinks to a whisper, thin as a pain) If I had tried to save him, would it have turned out this way? That’s not what I want to ask, nor what I want you to answer.

 

(His head lifts suddenly, eyes wide with a gleam beneath a transparent mask, expression changing moment as shadows and light cross his face) Let’s accept for a moment: no matter what you did, you couldn’t stop that moment. (Drooping shoulders, misty eyes, tears gleaming under the mask) But we can’t pretend as though being blameless is an option, you bastard... (He shouts, but at whom? Maybe this is the first time he is so indifferent to the audience) You’ve killed too. You. All of you. Me. And we cannot be cleansed.

 

To live... To exist or to create yourself... To make others exist. Living was our greatest mistake. (He spreads his arms wide as water begins pouring from the fire sprinklers above, drenching him)