The Shakes Jennifer didn't get enough sleep last night. She was up until 3 AM writing a book report. She just finished her fourth cup of coffee with cream and extra sugar. She's starting to get the shakes. Bobby fidgets nervously an unnaturally comfortable seat in the waiting room of Dr. Stein's office. He got drunk last weekend and decided it would be a good idea to have sex with a girl who's known among as friends as "The Town Bus." She's a rather large girl whom almost everyone Bobby knows has had a go with. Bobby does his best to resist the urge to relieve the itch centered around his nether regions that introduced itself two days ago. He resists the urge successfully and continues to squirm in his seat. He's starting to get the shakes. Ian looks down at the empty black garbage bag on the floor in front of him. He turns his head to his right and peers into his shadow-ridden closet. He thinks about the girls he met at the park last night. Her name was Mallory and she had such beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. Ian picks up the empty garbage bag and pushes back the rows of garbage bags, hanging neatly and silently in his closet. They're all filled, sonIan has to muster all of his strength to push them to the end of the rack pole. He mounts the empty garbage bag onto a hanger and hangs it next to the rest. Mallory, sweet Mallory wafts into his thoughts again. Ian runs his hand down the smooth black plastic, hanging solemnly, and empty, before him. It tells him it's disappointed. It tells him it's hungry. Ian hasn't killed anyone in three weeks. He purses his lips and looks down at his hands. He's starting to get the shakes.

Head Exploding Blues Richard enters the same bar he's been frequenting for twenty-three years. His coat whips behind him and his hat nearly flies off his head as he rushes to his place at the bar. He looks at Ron, the bartender, who's been making his living on drunken tips and minimum wage his whole #life. Ron looks down at Richard and offers the man a weak smile. "The usual?" Richard just stares down at the whiskey stained oak. "Make it quick, I feel like my heads about to explode." Ron fills up a glass with straight gin and sets it down in front of Richard, who immediately snatched it up and tips it back. Before the liquid can reach his tongue, Richard's brains decorate the ceiling with a new coat of wondrous crimson paint. "I really have to work on my speed," Ron groans as he reaches for the mop.

On Wearing Your Pain Your pain is something you wear Strapped Pinned Stapled Nailed To your chest You can't hide it There's no use Why would you try to tuck away something so Gratuitous Toxic Bloody And Beautiful? It's too big to hide under your bed Too shiny to hide in your dark corners Too smart for you to try to convince it that it doesn't existence So you're stuck with it And since you're stuck with it You wear it Wear it like the Badge of Courage it is Like the Medal of Honor you earned Like the Nobel Peace Prize you worked so hard Just to say That you finally made it

"People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain." -Jim Morrison

Coffee Haus Blues (Unfinished) *Coffee Haus Blues* [Rain and periodic accents of thunder are faintly heard outside THE COFFEE HAUS. The shop is a modest little, one room establishment. On the right is a makeshift bar, an ancient cash register is plopped on top of it and a small tea kettle rests not too far from it. The only other furnishings (aside from hand-painted, wooden signs that read "Fresh Joe!" and "There's No Place Like Home... Away From Home: The Coffee Haus.") are homemade wooden chairs and tables which are scattered neatly about the room.] [Sitting in front of the register is PETER. He fidgets with his cell phone, his chin in his free palm. An air of glumness surrounds him.] Peter's cell phone RINGS. PETER: Hi, mom. [Peter gets up and starts the pace, slowly.] PETER: Yeah, it's already a quarter after eleven, not one customer all night. I'll probably be home early. (Pause) I know it's raining, mom. (Pause) I promise I'll be careful. (Pause) We live three blocks away. I have enough gas, I promise. (Pause) Alright, I love you too. (Pause) I'll be very, very careful, mom. (Pause) I love you too. Bye. [Peter shakes his head and goes back to his seat at the register. He pulls a red handball out from underneath the bar and turns in his seat. Then he starts bouncing the ball up against the back wall.] [Suddenly, the door chime SOUNDS. As the door is opened, heavy rain fall and THUNDER are made more audible than ever.] [Peter looks up as AMELIA, wet with rain, steps into the shop.] PETER: It's pretty bad out there, huh? [Amelia pulls her hair from her face and nods.] AMELIA: I've seen worse. PETER: Yeah. Do you want a towel or something? I have one back here. [Peter reaches behind the bar but Amelia holds up her hand.] AMELIA: No, no. It's fine. I was just hoping for some green tea. PETER: Oh. Okay. Well, I'll get that for you. [Peter pulls a teacup from behind the bar. He takes the kettle and pours in some water. Takes a teabag from the bar along with a tray. The teacup, teabag are placed neatly on the tray.] [Amelia goes and takes a seat at a table.] PETER: Milk? Sugar? AMELIA: No milk. And I'm sweet enough already, thanks. PETER: (chuckling) No milk, no sugar. Got it. [Peter smiles and takes the tray over to Amelia's table. Setting it down in front of her, he turns to go back to his station.] AMELIA: Where do you think you're going? PETER: Back... To work? AMELIA: Well can't you take a break to sit here and talk to me for a minute? PETER: Well, technically my break was two hours ago. But I don't see why not. [Peter takes a seat across from Amelia.] AMELIA: Good. So what's your story? PETER: My story? AMELIA: Your story. PETER: Well, my name's Peter an- AMELIA: Hello, Peter. I'm Amelia. [Amelia stretches her hand over the table. Peter hesitates for a moment and they shake.] PETER: Hi, Amelia. AMELIA: Hi. Now, go on. Your story. PETER: Right. My story. Uhm... [Peter looks down, trying to think of what to say next.] AMELIA: Why don't you start by telling me what you're worried about. What weighs on Peter's mind? PETER: Are you trying to psychoanalyze me? AMELIA: No. We're just talking, Peter. PETER: Okay... What worries me. Umm... Well, my girlfriend of four years recently told me to go fuck myself. AMELIA: She told you to go fuck yourself? Is that verbatim? PETER: Yeah, and no. Not really. Well she sent me this text message. AMELIA: She broke it off over text?! PETER: Yeah. Well, it was actually a picture message with a caption. AMELIA: What was the photo of? PETER: It was of her. And of this guy Ryan. He's a football player but he looks like a cast member from Jersey Shore. Fluorescent light-burned skin, gargantuan muscles. A fully manifested stereotype, pretty much. Anyway, in the picture, she was... Kissing him. AMELIA: Oh. PETER: Well, not really kissing him. Kissing him... Uh... Down there. [Peter gestures, pointing downward.] AMELIA: Oh, you can't be serious. PETER: I wish I wasn't it. And, get this, the caption was, and I kid you not, "We're over. I found someone bigger and better." Bigger was in all caps. AMELIA: Wow... Sounds like a classy girl. You really know how to pick 'em, don't you? PETER: Don't I know it. AMELIA: This might sound stupid but are you still in the grieving stages? PETER: Well things were going downhill for a while. The fellatio, picture message break-up was the only logical endpoint, I guess. AMELIA: You went out with her for four years though, right? PETER: Yeah. But when I got home, my mom had her special apple pie waiting for me. I was pretty much over it by the time the food hangover wore off the next day. AMELIA: (laughing) Well you move fast, don't you? I admire that. PETER: Yeah. I'm still not exactly feeling great about it, but we all have to accept the fact that whores are a part of society as much as doctors and scientists are. [Amelia's smile vanishes. She takes on a look of sorrow.] AMELIA: Yeah... PETER: That was just a joke, Amelia. AMELIA: I just hate that word. PETER: What word? AMELIA: The one that's thrown around like it's nothing everyday. The one that used to mean prostitute but now denotes any girl who isn't afraid to have sex. PETER: Oh. AMELIA: Yeah. It's my father's favorite word. PETER: Well, I'm sorry I offended you then. AMELIA: No, don't mind me. I'm sorry I just brought the conversation down. It's just I don't like thinking about that man. PETER: Yeah. Umm... Do you want to talk about it? AMELIA: We just met, Peter, I'm not about to just spill my guts about this. PETER: Oh, well, I don't mind. At all. Didn't you start the conversation by asking me what was weighing on my mind? AMELIA: I did. PETER: Well, it seems like your father weighs on your mind. And I think it's your turn to talk. AMELIA: Well, when I hear that word, he does. Fine then. My turn. My father is no good, alcoholic, ignorant, dip shit prick who likes to touch little girls. [Peter's eyes widen slowly as silence befalls the shop. The rain outside grows a little bit louder.] AMELIA: I'm sorry... I... I just don't have a filter sometimes. I should, I should go. Thanks for the tea, how much was that? [Amelia gets up abruptly and starts rummaging through her coat. Peter gets up and moves to her side.] PETER: No, no. Please. Stop, just sit down. I just want to talk. AMELIA: But I can't. I can't deal with this shit. PETER: Just breathe. What's it gonna hurt if we just talk? Just sit down. Please. AMELIA: Yeah, but I can't. I just- PETER: You brought it up though. I think you would feel a lot better if we just sat and talked for a second. [Amelia takes a deep breath and sighs. She relaxes her arms, moves slowly into her chair and looks to Peter.] AMELIA: Fine, Peter. Let's talk. [Peter moves back around to his seat and looks into Amelia's eyes.] PETER: Thank you. Now. Your father. AMELIA: Yes. My father, the pedophile. PETER: Did he touch you? AMELIA: What do you think? PETER: Well... What are things like now? AMELIA: I just moved back home. I was living my university's dorm but I had to come home because my mother's sick. The pedophile doesn't make nearly enough for us to keep our house so I'm going to be working until my mom gets better. PETER: Now I know why you asked me what weighs on my mind. You've got a lot on your plate, Amelia. I don't even know what to say. AMELIA: What is there to say? #life sucks then you die. That's the way it looks right now, at least. PETER: No, things will get better, Amelia. Trust me. AMELIA: I hope so. [A slight pause as Peter looks down, solemnly. Amelia stares off into space, deep in thought and frustrated.] PETER: Have you ever told anyone? About your father, I mean? AMELIA: A few people. Most think I'm crazy for never turning him in. PETER: Why haven't you turned him in? AMELIA: Because there's no real proof. Yeah, sure, he's not the most savory person. He's a drunk. He's an asshole. He's ignorant beyond all recognition but, as far as proof goes... I've got none. PETER: But still, don't you want him out of your #life? Don't you want him to pay for what he did? AMELIA: Of course I do, are you kidding? I'd love nothing more than to see that prick fry. But he won't. People like him never really get what they deserve. He's an escape artist. A chameleon. You call the cops, they come and suddenly he's the most upstanding man in the world. The cops would leave with smiles on their faces, laughing about how ridiculous it is to think that such a charismatic, loving guy would ever hit his wife or touch his daughter. It makes me sick. PETER: Sounds like he hits all the criteria of a sociopath. AMELIA: That's because he is. There's no tying down a person like that these days unless your evidence is solid as stone. PETER: Well, you said you recently came back home, right? AMELIA: Yeah. And I've been staring at razors like they're my best friends again. PETER: You cut yourself? AMELIA: All the way through high school. Never saw the point of drugs. And the sight of my own blood is sort of... Comforting for me. If that makes any sense. PETER: You really shouldn't do that to yourself though. AMELIA: I know. And I'm past that. That was the old me. I'm stronger now. PETER: Good. I'm glad to hear that. AMELIA: Yeah. But since I'm being so honest with you, I've been thinking things lately. PETER: About what? AMELIA: About how using the razors in a different way might help me. PETER: What do you mean? AMELIA: I... I don't know. You're really going to think I'm crazy now. PETER: Just tell me. Don't even think abou- AMELIA: (leaning in, whispering) I want to cut my father's fucking throat. PETER: (disapproving) Oh, Amelia... AMELIA: Well, I was considering making it look like an accident. Like maybe putting something in his booze that would be undetectable. He'd pass out and never wake up. And everything would be over. My pain, my mother's pain. It would be like the Sun coming out for the first time. [Peter looks down at his hands and starts fiddling his thumbs nervously.] PETER: I... I honestly don't know, Amelia. This is some serious stuff. I wasn't expecting this from you. AMELIA: (matter-of-factly) Who would? You just met me. We had a nice conversation that degenerated into me telling you that I plan on killing my rapist, alcoholic father. Now it's time for me to go. [Amelia gets up slowly, removes a five dollar bill from her coat and slaps it down on the table.] AMELIA: Thanks for the tea. And for listening to my crazy talk. I appreciate it more than you know. [Peter grabs her money and stands up, moving closer to her.] PETER: I can't take your money, Amelia. AMELIA: Just take it. I'm leaving now. Goodbye, Peter. It's been... Fucked up. [Peter puts his palm to his forehead as Amelia dashes for the door. Just as she reaches for the handle, the door FLIES open. The rain is louder than ever as a young man, CHRISTIAN, stumbles in and falls flat on his face in front of Amelia. Amelia immediately bends down to help him up. Peter rushes to the scene.] AMELIA: Oh my god, are you okay? *Coffee Haus Blues* [Rain and periodic accents of thunder are faintly heard outside THE COFFEE HAUS. The shop is a modest little, one room establishment. On the right is a makeshift bar, an ancient cash register is plopped on top of it and a small tea kettle rests not too far from it. The only other furnishings (aside from hand-painted, wooden signs that read "Fresh Joe!" and "There's No Place Like Home... Away From Home: The Coffee Haus.") are homemade wooden chairs and tables which are scattered neatly about the room.] [Sitting in front of the register is PETER. He fidgets with his cell phone, his chin in his free palm. An air of glumness surrounds him.] Peter's cell phone RINGS. PETER: Hi, mom. [Peter gets up and starts the pace, slowly.] PETER: Yeah, it's already a quarter after eleven, not one customer all night. I'll probably be home early. (Pause) I know it's raining, mom. (Pause) I promise I'll be careful. (Pause) We live three blocks away. I have enough gas, I promise. (Pause) Alright, I love you too. (Pause) I'll be very, very careful, mom. (Pause) I love you too. Bye. [Peter shakes his head and goes back to his seat at the register. He pulls a red handball out from underneath the bar and turns in his seat. Then he starts bouncing the ball up against the back wall.] [Suddenly, the door chime SOUNDS. As the door is opened, heavy rain fall and THUNDER are made more audible than ever.] [Peter looks up as AMELIA, wet with rain, steps into the shop.] PETER: It's pretty bad out there, huh? [Amelia pulls her hair from her face and nods.] AMELIA: I've seen worse. PETER: Yeah. Do you want a towel or something? I have one back here. [Peter reaches behind the bar but Amelia holds up her hand.] AMELIA: No, no. It's fine. I was just hoping for some green tea. PETER: Oh. Okay. Well, I'll get that for you. [Peter pulls a teacup from behind the bar. He takes the kettle and pours in some water. Takes a teabag from the bar along with a tray. The teacup, teabag are placed neatly on the tray.] [Amelia goes and takes a seat at a table.] PETER: Milk? Sugar? AMELIA: No milk. And I'm sweet enough already, thanks. PETER: (chuckling) No milk, no sugar. Got it. [Peter smiles and takes the tray over to Amelia's table. Setting it down in front of her, he turns to go back to his station.] AMELIA: Where do you think you're going? PETER: Back... To work? AMELIA: Well can't you take a break to sit here and talk to me for a minute? PETER: Well, technically my break was two hours ago. But I don't see why not. [Peter takes a seat across from Amelia.] AMELIA: Good. So what's your story? PETER: My story? AMELIA: Your story. PETER: Well, my name's Peter an- AMELIA: Hello, Peter. I'm Amelia. [Amelia stretches her hand over the table. Peter hesitates for a moment and they shake.] PETER: Hi, Amelia. AMELIA: Hi. Now, go on. Your story. PETER: Right. My story. Uhm... [Peter looks down, trying to think of what to say next.] AMELIA: Why don't you start by telling me what you're worried about. What weighs on Peter's mind? PETER: Are you trying to psychoanalyze me? AMELIA: No. We're just talking, Peter. PETER: Okay... What worries me. Umm... Well, my girlfriend of four years recently told me to go fuck myself. AMELIA: She told you to go fuck yourself? Is that verbatim? PETER: Yeah, and no. Not really. Well she sent me this text message. AMELIA: She broke it off over text?! PETER: Yeah. Well, it was actually a picture message with a caption. AMELIA: What was the photo of? PETER: It was of her. And of this guy Ryan. He's a football player but he looks like a cast member from Jersey Shore. Fluorescent light-burned skin, gargantuan muscles. A fully manifested stereotype, pretty much. Anyway, in the picture, she was... Kissing him. AMELIA: Oh. PETER: Well, not really kissing him. Kissing him... Uh... Down there. [Peter gestures, pointing downward.] AMELIA: Oh, you can't be serious. PETER: I wish I wasn't it. And, get this, the caption was, and I kid you not, "We're over. I found someone bigger and better." Bigger was in all caps. AMELIA: Wow... Sounds like a classy girl. You really know how to pick 'em, don't you? PETER: Don't I know it. AMELIA: This might sound stupid but are you still in the grieving stages? PETER: Well things were going downhill for a while. The fellatio, picture message break-up was the only logical endpoint, I guess. AMELIA: You went out with her for four years though, right? PETER: Yeah. But when I got home, my mom had her special apple pie waiting for me. I was pretty much over it by the time the food hangover wore off the next day. AMELIA: (laughing) Well you move fast, don't you? I admire that. PETER: Yeah. I'm still not exactly feeling great about it, but we all have to accept the fact that whores are a part of society as much as doctors and scientists are. [Amelia's smile vanishes. She takes on a look of sorrow.] AMELIA: Yeah... PETER: That was just a joke, Amelia. AMELIA: I just hate that word. PETER: What word? AMELIA: The one that's thrown around like it's nothing everyday. The one that used to mean prostitute but now denotes any girl who isn't afraid to have sex. PETER: Oh. AMELIA: Yeah. It's my father's favorite word. PETER: Well, I'm sorry I offended you then. AMELIA: No, don't mind me. I'm sorry I just brought the conversation down. It's just I don't like thinking about that man. PETER: Yeah. Umm... Do you want to talk about it? AMELIA: We just met, Peter, I'm not about to just spill my guts about this. PETER: Oh, well, I don't mind. At all. Didn't you start the conversation by asking me what was weighing on my mind? AMELIA: I did. PETER: Well, it seems like your father weighs on your mind. And I think it's your turn to talk. AMELIA: Well, when I hear that word, he does. Fine then. My turn. My father is no good, alcoholic, ignorant, dip shit prick who likes to touch little girls. [Peter's eyes widen slowly as silence befalls the shop. The rain outside grows a little bit louder.] AMELIA: I'm sorry... I... I just don't have a filter sometimes. I should, I should go. Thanks for the tea, how much was that? [Amelia gets up abruptly and starts rummaging through her coat. Peter gets up and moves to her side.] PETER: No, no. Please. Stop, just sit down. I just want to talk. AMELIA: But I can't. I can't deal with this shit. PETER: Just breathe. What's it gonna hurt if we just talk? Just sit down. Please. AMELIA: Yeah, but I can't. I just- PETER: You brought it up though. I think you would feel a lot better if we just sat and talked for a second. [Amelia takes a deep breath and sighs. She relaxes her arms, moves slowly into her chair and looks to Peter.] AMELIA: Fine, Peter. Let's talk. [Peter moves back around to his seat and looks into Amelia's eyes.] PETER: Thank you. Now. Your father. AMELIA: Yes. My father, the pedophile. PETER: Did he touch you? AMELIA: What do you think? PETER: Well... What are things like now? AMELIA: I just moved back home. I was living my university's dorm but I had to come home because my mother's sick. The pedophile doesn't make nearly enough for us to keep our house so I'm going to be working until my mom gets better. PETER: Now I know why you asked me what weighs on my mind. You've got a lot on your plate, Amelia. I don't even know what to say. AMELIA: What is there to say? #life sucks then you die. That's the way it looks right now, at least. PETER: No, things will get better, Amelia. Trust me. AMELIA: I hope so. [A slight pause as Peter looks down, solemnly. Amelia stares off into space, deep in thought and frustrated.] PETER: Have you ever told anyone? About your father, I mean? AMELIA: A few people. Most think I'm crazy for never turning him in. PETER: Why haven't you turned him in? AMELIA: Because there's no real proof. Yeah, sure, he's not the most savory person. He's a drunk. He's an asshole. He's ignorant beyond all recognition but, as far as proof goes... I've got none. PETER: But still, don't you want him out of your #life? Don't you want him to pay for what he did? AMELIA: Of course I do, are you kidding? I'd love nothing more than to see that prick fry. But he won't. People like him never really get what they deserve. He's an escape artist. A chameleon. You call the cops, they come and suddenly he's the most upstanding man in the world. The cops would leave with smiles on their faces, laughing about how ridiculous it is to think that such a charismatic, loving guy would ever hit his wife or touch his daughter. It makes me sick. PETER: Sounds like he hits all the criteria of a sociopath. AMELIA: That's because he is. There's no tying down a person like that these days unless your evidence is solid as stone. PETER: Well, you said you recently came back home, right? AMELIA: Yeah. And I've been staring at razors like they're my best friends again. PETER: You cut yourself? AMELIA: All the way through high school. Never saw the point of drugs. And the sight of my own blood is sort of... Comforting for me. If that makes any sense. PETER: You really shouldn't do that to yourself though. AMELIA: I know. And I'm past that. That was the old me. I'm stronger now. PETER: Good. I'm glad to hear that. AMELIA: Yeah. But since I'm being so honest with you, I've been thinking things lately. PETER: About what? AMELIA: About how using the razors in a different way might help me. PETER: What do you mean? AMELIA: I... I don't know. You're really going to think I'm crazy now. PETER: Just tell me. Don't even think abou- AMELIA: (leaning in, whispering) I want to cut my father's fucking throat. PETER: (disapproving) Oh, Amelia... AMELIA: Well, I was considering making it look like an accident. Like maybe putting something in his booze that would be undetectable. He'd pass out and never wake up. And everything would be over. My pain, my mother's pain. It would be like the Sun coming out for the first time. [Peter looks down at his hands and starts fiddling his thumbs nervously.] PETER: I... I honestly don't know, Amelia. This is some serious stuff. I wasn't expecting this from you. AMELIA: (matter-of-factly) Who would? You just met me. We had a nice conversation that degenerated into me telling you that I plan on killing my rapist, alcoholic father. Now it's time for me to go. [Amelia gets up slowly, removes a five dollar bill from her coat and slaps it down on the table.] AMELIA: Thanks for the tea. And for listening to my crazy talk. I appreciate it more than you know. [Peter grabs her money and stands up, moving closer to her.] PETER: I can't take your money, Amelia. AMELIA: Just take it. I'm leaving now. Goodbye, Peter. It's been... Fucked up. [Peter puts his palm to his forehead as Amelia dashes for the door. Just as she reaches for the handle, the door FLIES open. The rain is louder than ever as a young man, CHRISTIAN, stumbles in and falls flat on his face in front of Amelia. Amelia immediately bends down to help him up. Peter rushes to the scene.] AMELIA: Oh my god, are you okay? [Suddenly, the door chime SOUNDS. As the door is opened, heavy rain fall and THUNDER are made more audible than ever.] [Peter looks up as AMELIA, wet with rain, steps into the shop.] PETER: It's pretty bad out there, huh? [Amelia pulls her hair from her face and nods.] AMELIA: I've seen worse. PETER: Yeah. Do you want a towel or something? I have one back here. [Peter reaches behind the bar but Amelia holds up her hand.] AMELIA: No, no. It's fine. I was just hoping for some green tea. PETER: Oh. Okay. Well, I'll get that for you. [Peter pulls a teacup from behind the bar. He takes the kettle and pours in some water. Takes a teabag from the bar along with a tray. The teacup, teabag are placed neatly on the tray.] [Amelia goes and takes a seat at a table.] PETER: Milk? Sugar? AMELIA: No milk. And I'm sweet enough already, thanks. PETER: (chuckling) No milk, no sugar. Got it. [Peter smiles and takes the tray over to Amelia's table. Setting it down in front of her, he turns to go back to his station.] AMELIA: Where do you think you're going? PETER: Back... To work? AMELIA: Well can't you take a break to sit here and talk to me for a minute? PETER: Well, technically my break was two hours ago. But I don't see why not. [Peter takes a seat across from Amelia.] AMELIA: Good. So what's your story? PETER: My story? AMELIA: Your story. PETER: Well, my name's Peter an- AMELIA: Hello, Peter. I'm Amelia. [Amelia stretches her hand over the table. Peter hesitates for a moment and they shake.] PETER: Hi, Amelia. AMELIA: Hi. Now, go on. Your story. PETER: Right. My story. Uhm... [Peter looks down, trying to think of what to say next.] AMELIA: Why don't you start by telling me what you're worried about. What weighs on Peter's mind? PETER: Are you trying to psychoanalyze me? AMELIA: No. We're just talking, Peter. PETER: Okay... What worries me. Umm... Well, my girlfriend of four years recently told me to go fuck myself. AMELIA: She told you to go fuck yourself? Is that verbatim? PETER: Yeah, and no. Not really. Well she sent me this text message. AMELIA: She broke it off over text?! PETER: Yeah. Well, it was actually a picture message with a caption. AMELIA: What was the photo of? PETER: It was of her. And of this guy Ryan. He's a football player but he looks like a cast member from Jersey Shore. Fluorescent light-burned skin, gargantuan muscles. A fully manifested stereotype, pretty much. Anyway, in the picture, she was... Kissing him. AMELIA: Oh. PETER: Well, not really kissing him. Kissing him... Uh... Down there. [Peter gestures, pointing downward.] AMELIA: Oh, you can't be serious. PETER: I wish I wasn't it. And, get this, the caption was, and I kid you not, "We're over. I found someone bigger and better." Bigger was in all caps. AMELIA: Wow... Sounds like a classy girl. You really know how to pick 'em, don't you? PETER: Don't I know it. AMELIA: This might sound stupid but are you still in the grieving stages? PETER: Well things were going downhill for a while. The fellatio, picture message break-up was the only logical endpoint, I guess. AMELIA: You went out with her for four years though, right? PETER: Yeah. But when I got home, my mom had her special apple pie waiting for me. I was pretty much over it by the time the food hangover wore off the next day. AMELIA: (laughing) Well you move fast, don't you? I admire that. PETER: Yeah. I'm still not exactly feeling great about it, but we all have to accept the fact that whores are a part of society as much as doctors and scientists are. [Amelia's smile vanishes. She takes on a look of sorrow.] AMELIA: Yeah... PETER: That was just a joke, Amelia. AMELIA: I just hate that word. PETER: What word? AMELIA: The one that's thrown around like it's nothing everyday. The one that used to mean prostitute but now denotes any girl who isn't afraid to have sex. PETER: Oh. AMELIA: Yeah. It's my father's favorite word. PETER: Well, I'm sorry I offended you then. AMELIA: No, don't mind me. I'm sorry I just brought the conversation down. It's just I don't like thinking about that man. PETER: Yeah. Umm... Do you want to talk about it? AMELIA: We just met, Peter, I'm not about to just spill my guts about this. PETER: Oh, well, I don't mind. At all. Didn't you start the conversation by asking me what was weighing on my mind? AMELIA: I did. PETER: Well, it seems like your father weighs on your mind. And I think it's your turn to talk. AMELIA: Well, when I hear that word, he does. Fine then. My turn. My father is no good, alcoholic, ignorant, dip shit prick who likes to touch little girls. [Peter's eyes widen slowly as silence befalls the shop. The rain outside grows a little bit louder.] AMELIA: I'm sorry... I... I just don't have a filter sometimes. I should, I should go. Thanks for the tea, how much was that? [Amelia gets up abruptly and starts rummaging through her coat. Peter gets up and moves to her side.] PETER: No, no. Please. Stop, just sit down. I just want to talk. AMELIA: But I can't. I can't deal with this shit. PETER: Just breathe. What's it gonna hurt if we just talk? Just sit down. Please. AMELIA: Yeah, but I can't. I just- PETER: You brought it up though. I think you would feel a lot better if we just sat and talked for a second. [Amelia takes a deep breath and sighs. She relaxes her arms, moves slowly into her chair and looks to Peter.] AMELIA: Fine, Peter. Let's talk. [Peter moves back around to his seat and looks into Amelia's eyes.] PETER: Thank you. Now. Your father. AMELIA: Yes. My father, the pedophile. PETER: Did he touch you? AMELIA: What do you think? PETER: Well... What are things like now? AMELIA: I just moved back home. I was living my university's dorm but I had to come home because my mother's sick. The pedophile doesn't make nearly enough for us to keep our house so I'm going to be working until my mom gets better. PETER: Now I know why you asked me what weighs on my mind. You've got a lot on your plate, Amelia. I don't even know what to say. AMELIA: What is there to say? #life sucks then you die. That's the way it looks right now, at least. PETER: No, things will get better, Amelia. Trust me. AMELIA: I hope so. [A slight pause as Peter looks down, solemnly. Amelia stares off into space, deep in thought and frustrated.] PETER: Have you ever told anyone? About your father, I mean? AMELIA: A few people. Most think I'm crazy for never turning him in. PETER: Why haven't you turned him in? AMELIA: Because there's no real proof. Yeah, sure, he's not the most savory person. He's a drunk. He's an asshole. He's ignorant beyond all recognition but, as far as proof goes... I've got none. PETER: But still, don't you want him out of your #life? Don't you want him to pay for what he did? AMELIA: Of course I do, are you kidding? I'd love nothing more than to see that prick fry. But he won't. People like him never really get what they deserve. He's an escape artist. A chameleon. You call the cops, they come and suddenly he's the most upstanding man in the world. The cops would leave with smiles on their faces, laughing about how ridiculous it is to think that such a charismatic, loving guy would ever hit his wife or touch his daughter. It makes me sick. PETER: Sounds like he hits all the criteria of a sociopath. AMELIA:...