This, my blood, it is the Hanged King’s.
Notes on the production
For the technical team attempting to stage Jackie And Wilson, consider a minimalistic set to convey the multiple locations and the arcane nature of the setting. I have seen productions attempt to oversell it—furniture in the walls and ceiling, fancy runework, etc.—and they unilaterally fail to understand the point. I hope, dear reader, you do not make that same misjudgement. For the lighting, the task will be herculean. I ask you give the first scene a red colour-scheme, the second a yellow colour-scheme, and the third scene a total white washout. Fortunately, you will not be involved with the lighting of scene four.
I ask you to decide yourself how long the breaks between each scene is. Breaks might be days, months, or no time at all. Such is the nature of time down here. To the actors, do better than me. Be what I couldn’t. Alright, I’ll let you get onto the play now.
This, my blood, it is the Hanged King’s.
Setting
Various, Alagadda
Time
A crucial little while
Characters
JACKIE - Older, a notable performer in the city.
WILSON - Younger, a newcomer and a nobody.
I
Red
(A booth in a quiet corner at a party. Alagadda. The hum and noise rings at the periphery, but it’s marginally quieter here. Lights come up on JACKIE, well dressed and with a gravity around her. Everything about her is measured. She lights a cigarette, glancing around. She wears a particularly ornate theatrical mask, it’s not hers. WILSON enters, a disturbance. His clothes are disorderly, and his mask is cracked. He has a bag around his shoulder. For a moment, JACKIE doesn’t notice him.)
WILSON: Hey, can I…?
JACKIE: Don’t let me stop you.
WILSON: Alright, thanks. (He sits down. Long silence.) What do you dream about?
JACKIE: That’s a new one, aren’t you going to ask my name first?
WILSON: I’m serious, I’m serious. (Beat.) Your name wouldn’t hurt either.
JACKIE: Jacqueline…Jackie. I work a few streets up, in the Mirth hall. Your turn.
WILSON: Wilson. The Mirth, damn! Why do you smoke? I mean, there’s worse things you could be doing here, and no one’d mind.
JACKIE: You’d get it if you smoked. Liquid death. It’s like a fire is breathed into you…it’s a bit like love, in a twisted kind of way. It’s victory-
WILSON: I thought you said it was death.
JACKIE: It can be both. I couldn't care less about whatever they’re smoking out there.
WILSON: Yeah. Yeah. So, wait, you’re an actor?
JACKIE: Ensemble.
WILSON: Well, damn, I’m in the presence of a celebrity! Heh.
JACKIE: And what do you do? No one comes here not to do something.
WILSON: I write. Or, I’m- uh, starting to write. I’ve got a manuscript I’ve drafted and…
(He hastily retrieves a stapled paper manuscript from his bag, and sets it on the table.)
JACKIE: Plays or novels.
WILSON: Huh?
JACKIE: Which?
WILSON: Plays.
JACKIE: Good. Are you new to the Red Court?
WILSON: …Yeah.
JACKIE: Me too, relatively speaking. But it pays at the Mirth, puts you in front of a crowd, as it were.
WILSON: Christ, the things I’d do. I’m prepared to give a lot.
JACKIE: I mean, clearly. Your…your mask?
WILSON: Oh, right. Yeah, I guess so.
JACKIE How does that even happen? Forgive me if I'm overstepping.
WILSON: I got kicked out of a few places, gave a few notes unsolicited. Plugged the play to the wrong executive, you know how it is.
JACKIE: I'm not totally sure I do but sure. I suppose you asked a few girls what their "big dreams" are too.
WILSON: No, absolutely not! (Beat.) This is me kinda' out on a limb, actually.
JACKIE: Really? What do you do with the rest of your time, then?
WILSON: Um…oh! I go out on these long walks, let the fog and the noise kind of subsume me, and just drift off. Looking for answers, I guess. Looking for myself. I have terribly vivid dreams, and I’ll just talk to myself. The passersby must think I'm a mad man. It's how I let it all out, I guess. (He begins to trail off.) Something about the feeling of the mask, and these clothes, and the way the city contorts in on itself— and the colors, and the…
(JACKIE leans in.)
JACKIE, snapping him out of it: Are you who you say you are?
WILSON: Does it matter?
(She smiles.)
JACKIE: I think this is what I dream about, Wilson. Just this, forever. To be…somewhere else. Even these grimy old couches in this grimy old manor. I dream about being not of this world.
WILSON: I was gonna say the same thing.
JACKIE, laughing: No you were not.
WILSON: I absolutely was!
(She takes the manuscript - his play - off the table, and turns to leave.)
WILSON: So- wow, you’ll read it?
JACKIE: I’m not a real celebrity, Will. I get by as a B-lister, you’ll know where to find me. (She goes to exit.)
WILSON: I wasn’t going to say that. (JACKIE stops and turns to him.) Your dream? It’s probably better than mine, so I wanted to have said it but, uh, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to. When I dream, closing my eyes and fading away, I dream of being free. Free to start a fire, free to love and let love. Free to create, which is all I do these days. Where we aren’t slaves to the world, the world is subordinate to us. Or better yet, the world is a big white blob and we color it by just being. So, that’s what I dream. It never woulda’ left my conscience otherwise.
(Long silence, looking at one another. JACKIE turns away again to exit. Lights go down, actors prepare for Scene 2.)
II
Yellow
(Jackie’s apartment. It’s well furnished and organized, maybe too much so. Like no one lives there. There’s a couch in the center of the room, a table in front of it, shelves of books, a desk at L, and a cozy atmosphere. The desk has a phonograph on it, and the bookshelf has a section of records. WILSON’s play is strewn on the desk. JACKIE is sitting on the couch, noticeably more relaxed than in scene 1. Her mask is less extravagant, it’s now elegant and minimalistic. Her nails are painted black. There’s a knock at the door, and she opens it to greet WILSON. The cracks in his mask have been filled in with an off-color caulk. He has freshened up somewhat externally, but there are bags under his eyes. He’s beaming, and moves with an excited air)
JACKIE: Hello again! Come on in, come in. Take a seat.
WILSON: Hi! Uh- Alright, right. (He sits on the couch, she sits next to him)
JACKIE: So, how are you, welcome.
WILSON: Oh, thank you for having me on such short notice, I’m…I’m great, actually. Or better than I was.
JACKIE: That’s good to hear, that’s good. Is that why you’re here?
WILSON: Heh, yeah. I’m not particularly slick, then.
JACKIE: Not really, no.
WILSON: OK, Ok, I…Ok, um, I…I GOT BOOKED!
JACKIE, genuinely happy: Will, that’s great! Where?
WILSON: In the reds, one of the outer circuit theatres, I forget the name. But they’re gonna’ shop it.
JACKIE: Good work— Wait, I’ll go get drinks. Let’s celebrate, shall we?
WILSON: Uh…Ah, go on then. We’re stars, you and I! Shit!
(JACKIE retrieves a decanter of whisky and two tumblers, setting them on the table and sitting back down. She pours them out)
WILSON, lifting his glass: Here’s to art, and our success!
JACKIE: And to all that we give for them.
(They toast.)
WILSON: GOD! I could run a marathon, Jack, or go to the Virtue Hall, or, uh, I don’t know. Hey, wait, can I try something?
JACKIE: OK, shoot.
WILSON: Can you give me, um…give me your best “upset look.”
(JACKIE does so. It’s pretty good. WILSON examines from a few angles.)
WILSON: Alright, cool. Now, give me, like, “hurt and shocked.” (She does so, he inspects) OK, could you make it a bit more subtle? (She does) Alright, good. Awesome. You’re giving me lots of ideas.
JACKIE, playing along: What was that all for? Like, which–
(He looks to deflect, and notices the phonograph)
WILSON: Ooh, let me put some music on. (He gets up. Beat.) Where are the records?
JACKIE: Over…there. On the shelf. (He starts rifling through them, mumbling)
WILSON: Um, huh. Is this all classical?
JACKIE: There should be jazz? Keep looking, I’d say.
WILSON: Oh, yeah, nice. (He takes a record and walks to the desk, removing it from its casing. He notices his play on the desk) So what’s been happening with you?
JACKIE: It’s been good. The show got an extension, so I’m still in business. My face stays in the paper, as it were.
(Beat.)
WILSON: Oh yeah that’s, that’s good. OK, there. (The record starts playing smooth jazz. WILSON starts humming along, snapping in time and dancing over to the couch) Come on, up ‘ya get.
JACKIE, laughing: No. No way.
WILSON: COME ON!
(He pulls her up off the couch despite her protests. They start apart, as JACKIE begins to feel the music. She dances better than him. Eventually, they pull into one another and slow dance. There’s a burst of excitement, he spins her, she spins him, and they turn the room in their jilted dance. Finally they break out, laughing, and landing back on the couch)
JACKIE: Christ, Will, no more of that, we’ll break something.
WILSON: Look at some of this stuff. Who’ll miss it! Sorry, that’s…that comes off rude, I don’t mean it that way. I’m easily set off these days. But all these books, who’s read ‘em? Who has the time?
JACKIE: They’re plays. Classic plays.
WILSON: Right, so old plays, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. If I had a button in front of me that deleted every old play (he looks over at her)…well, I’d hesitate.
JACKIE: That’s reductive, I think. Fashion keeps changing, but our nature doesn’t. We always come back here. (Long silence.) When I picture a world ideal, Wilson, do you know what I see? It’s a world where the sun rises and everything is equal, and your breath and mine get in-sync, and our veins mix in and we can all sink into one another. One heart, one nature. (She takes his hand) Like waves on the beach, folding back from whence they came. Like the tiger eats the gazelle, but it isn’t truly lost. Like poetry. I wish the world was poetry…
WILSON: Huh. I think I see a world that’s loud. A huge ball of static, the harsh wind of this mountain we’re climbing. Maybe the world would just be a giant mountain range, it keeps getting bigger forever, ya’ know? (They get closer) And in this world of mountains I’m making, I imagine everyone, even the birds, have to climb fair and square. It’s good because, once you scale your mountain, the winds against you in the pit of the night, and the next comes into view…you’d see the sunrise on the horizon behind it.
JACKIE: You really know how to trail off.
WILSON: Heh. It’s as easy as lying. (He reaches for the decanter)
JACKIE: Hey, slow it down.
WILSON: Yeah. Yeah, sorry. There’s just— There’s a lot of edge I’m tryna’ take off.
(Long silence.)
JACKIE: So…your play, how much are they changing?
WILSON: What?
JACKIE: Well, it’s hardly going to stay the same. It’s too open for the Mirth, and it’s too big for anything else on the red circuit-
WILSON: Too open?
JACKIE: Too, too non-traditional. Too experimental.
WILSON, pushing her off of him: Jesus, too artsy? It’s too artsy for the theatre?!
JACKIE: Don’t be that way, Wilson, everything gets flattened out.
WILSON: FLATTENED? Oh, I see, downsized and jaded. Aged until…until it’s dust and…don’t be what way, Jackie?
JACKIE: You truly, deeply believe you’re above it, don’t you? You’re not exactly the savior of theatre, Wilson. This is how it works.
WILSON, stricken: Oh, yeah, I see. Sure, it is. Like…I went to your show, because I like you. I went and just watched. Soulless. Hopelessly soulless, just going through the motions, just–
JACKIE: Oh, real kind, sure you did.
WILSON: Robotic, Jackie. Just so robotic! I don’t understand how you sell your soul for the same nothing show and nothing apartment and…
JACKIE, fighting back emotions: Get the hell out of my house, Wilson. (She goes to the desk and throws his manuscript at him. He doesn’t budge) I said, get THE HELL OUT–
(Black, viscous blood shoots from her fingertips, floating upwards into the air. Long silence.)
JACKIE: This place takes just as much as it gives.
(Lights go down, actors prepare for Scene 3.)
Interlude
(The lights come up. JACKIE and WILSON enter at the same time. WILSON is holding a notebook he writes in relentlessly, rubbing his eyes. JACKIE has a bag slung over her shoulder. They wander, moving across the stage, going about their tasks. The music swells. WILSON moves in sweeping arcs, writing with increasing fervor, neglecting the world around him. JACKIE starts to fall into an almost-waltz. It looks like she's being thrown around and beaten across the stage, with crescendo'ing violence. They cross each other, and lock eyes, and pause. Then, they continue, falling into a lonely partner dance. There are turns, and clapping, but they do not acknowledge one another. It gets intense, painful. Warm colors rise and attack the stage. Finally, WILSON falters, tripping over his ankle. His notebook falls to the floor ahead of him. JACKIE is directly upstage of him, the notebook directly downstage. He picks himself up, spotlight.)
WILSON: When I, uh, dream? Closing my eyes, fading away, moving back into the end, I'm here. At the edge of a cliff, endless darkness out ahead of me. Every time. I can feel the dust collecting on my feet, I can hear the wind beckoning me. I guess it's not really a cliff as much as whatever's out there is a pit. A pit that something or, or someone is supposed to fill. I walk to the edge, and I look down, and, um. I see myself. My reflection, I guess. (He looks up.) You threw me out of your apartment, and I can't tell if that was right, or if I did something wrong. I mean, I was gonna’ put you in it. And I guess that doesn’t matter, but– but to me it does, I think. We keep meeting. And I wish we didn't, ya' know, so I could bury whatever part of me just has to cling. I'm not so lucky. I imagine you'd see it as a statistical anomaly, a gala here, a street corner there. Part of me thinks…no, that's…that's stupid. But, look, I like you. I really like you, I like how you're just there, unshakeable, and how clear you see things and… (He turns around, and points at JACKIE)
When I used to look at you, I'd see a version of myself. And I liked that. I think I still do. But now, I see myself in this. (He turns again to the front, pointing to the notebook. JACKIE disappears.) In my dreams, I put both of my feet right up to the end, and I hold my breath, arms outstretched, and I fall. It swallows me. (He raises an arm to the sky) And whatever is unsaid is held forever. The rest is silence.
(Blackout.)
III
White
(Rehearsal room, somewhere in the Red Court. There’s a bookshelf of plays, all color coded. WILSON stands alone against the wall, with a manuscript in the crook of his arm. He looks lost. His eyes dart aimlessly, sluggishly, around the room. There’s gold trim around his mask, it isn’t particularly impressive. He looks up at the door out. JACKIE, on a whim, enters. She’s pale. Her mask is featureless. They acknowledge each other. Long silence.)
WILSON: Jackie.
JACKIE: Wilson.
WILSON: How…how are you?
JACKIE: Jesus, how old are we?
WILSON: Alright. I’m sorry.
(Beat.)
JACKIE: I’m good. I’m trying– I’m tired, Wilson.
WILSON: Tired?
JACKIE: Yes. I’m so tired, and I don’t know how I walked in here when I had a million other routes to wherever the hell I was walking to, and…and…
WILSON: I see. I see.
JACKIE: Are you here, Will?
WILSON: What?
JACKIE: Right now, are you here. You don’t look well.
WILSON: Excuse me? No, maybe I’m not, Jack. I don’t…I don’t know. It’s all so simple.
JACKIE: Yeah?
WILSON: I think so. I’m…I’m tired too, I think. I haven’t been able to sit and…I don’t have the words. Why aren’t you leaving?
JACKIE: I can’t. We keep meeting. And I’ve got more words, more thoughts. I can’t seem to run out. So I can’t seem to leave, sue me. I don’t forgive you.
WILSON: I know.
(Long silence.)
JACKIE: So. How’s the workshop?
WILSON: It was OK. I’m undecided.
JACKIE: And that’s why you’re alone in your rehearsal space?
WILSON: Call it that. Heh. I…They made the changes they wanted to make. I look in the…in the mirror, and don’t recognize myself. What does that say? About me? I guess I’m here just looking for an answer. It’s what I am. It’s what I’ve become.
JACKIE: Are you still drinking?
WILSON: Are you still smoking?
(Beat.)
JACKIE: Maybe we’re not the same at all. Christ, maybe we’re too much alike. You know what I’ve been doing? (She pulls up a chair, placing it C) Workshop to workshop, room to room, like a ghost. I had a class on clowning, clowning. Red rubber nose, huge characters. The lady said to view the world like a baby. We took turns making a new uses for a chair. (She dramatically acts each one, over enthusiastically, violently) Here it’s a shield for my mimed sword. Here, set it down and it’s the front seat of a car. Here, I set it on my head and march around and it’s an elaborate headdress or I’m a queen or something. But Wilson, it remains what it is. No one gets to decide that the…that the chair isn’t what it is. Or, I don’t. And I kept thinking - which class sent me spiraling down and out. No one class, or book or whatever, can get me back. Was it the play? Was it something I did? It’s a chair Wilson. Look at it. If I could find that inflection point where the slope peaked, just locate and destroy it, how much I would give to win again. Here, it’s a tapper. Here you put it to a microphone and it sings. Here, you put me nose to grindstone and I will clown for you but…
WILSON: But it’s a chair.
JACKIE: Right.
WILSON: If I could go back in time, Jack, do you know what I’d do? I wouldn’t go fixing tragedies or rigging the stock market. I’d go, back, and I’d fix all those mistakes that taught me to be who I am. The thousands of tiny awakenings. I’m not perfect today, I don’t mean that, but I’m so much better than I was years ago. Or I seem so much better, I act so much better. There’s…there’s ideas always rattling around, always, in my head? I’d be on top of the world, and I’d never stop. I’d never, stop. I’d have my cake and, damn it, I’d eat it too. And I wouldn’t regret. I wouldn’t regret anything. I’d fix what I did to all those people. (Beat.) Hell, I imagine I’d fix this. (Silence. They don’t break eye contact.) Sorry, God, I mean to–
JACKIE: I’m wounded, Wilson.
WILSON: What?
(She reveals her stomach, which has a large gash across its length. It’s spurting coagulated, somewhat dried black blood. WILSON stares.)
JACKIE: I’m wounded. I look on my very soul and it’s leaking.
WILSON: Shit…I– how…?
JACKIE: I don’t know. It wasn’t me, Jesus. I tripped somewhere, over extended somewhere else. It was hairline an age ago.
WILSON: Is that anything related to the… (He gestures to her hands. She looks down at them.)
JACKIE: Probably.
WILSON: Jesus, Jack, that’s…I mean, that’s…(He begins to hyperventilate.)
JACKIE: Do you know what I would do, if I could go back in time? I wouldn’t have given up my soul. I wouldn’t have given it up a thousand times. At every meeting, with every open call, in every performance, a million little deaths. Bending, and pushing, and breaking, and breaking, and breaking, and giving!
WILSON: Then what are you doing? Why are you here?
JACKIE: Because I want it back, Wilson. Because my show at the Mirth was discontinued. Because I need to find a new path. Because I’m a masochist. I…I don’t know.
WILSON: I don’t think…that’s not right; you need to go sort yourself out! Christ, I– I don’t know, um. I’m sorry about the Mirth.
JACKIE: Are you? Or are you happy that you won’t– that you won’t have to evict me from it yourself?
WILSON: That part of me…is dead.
(WILSON manages a smile. It’s unclear if he believes it. Suddenly, they both start laughing. It becomes hysterical. They embrace, WILSON tears up. His eyes dart between the windows, and then he begins to cry/laugh unabashedly.)
JACKIE: There are two options, the way I see it. Either, I’m wasting, and it’s eating me alive.
WILSON: Like a deer.
JACKIE: Exactly, exactly. The other option is that…(She hadn’t considered this before.) is that the hole in my stomach lets the light in. The spirit needs somewhere to enter. It’s the path…home.
WILSON: I don’t like that. I…no. That’s not it.
JACKIE: I think I’m starting to get it. Maybe I need to just–
(She notices the shelves of plays, looks at WILSON, and gets up with a start towards the bookshelf.)
JACKIE: Oh Jesus, Wilson, I reckon you were right. Down with it! (WILSON begins interjecting, “No, that’s not what I meant,” “what are you talking about,” etc.) If I could go back in time I swear I’d burn it all down! Who’s going to miss it? WHO?!
(She begins throwing the plays out from the shelves onto the ground, they fall in a pile. WILSON gets up, clearly deeply stressed, but doesn’t interfere.)
WILSON: Jack. Jacqueline, what is this?
JACKIE: I say we rip up the canon, bury their muses. That’s what it is! That’s what it’s all about! No more classes, no more stages, the real high art, just– just stop and smell the roses for a second. (She pulls out a cigarette lighter. WILSON crowds behind her.)
WILSON: Alright, let’s—
JACKIE: Are you not with me on this? Come on, it’ll be fun! (WILSON looks at JACKIE, before going and throwing plays from the shelves.) Thank you! Look at them, WORDS, WORDS, WORDS! USELESS! We’ll just run off somewhere, or break something, or see a sunset. What I would give to see a sunset!
(Finally, the bookshelf is empty. JACKIE doesn’t move, and stares at WILSON. Long silence.)
JACKIE: Go on, throw it in the pile.
WILSON: Excuse me?
JACKIE: The manuscript, Wilson. Everything has to go, it’s a goddamned fire sale!
WILSON: No, I– no. No way. I–
JACKIE: You can’t? You can’t? You hate it, I hate it. I can see it in your eyes, you’re exhausted with it, it puts you to illness.
WILSON: Well, look, I– Jackie, I can’t do that, you know I– it’s so easy for you to send it to ash but I don’t…I don’t…
JACKIE: Wilson, come on. You can do it Wilson. Into the fire! Into the fire! Into the fire!
WILSON: Um. God, screw off! Stop it, stop it!
JACKIE: Into the fire! Into the fire! Into the–
(WILSON gags, before turning around and stress vomiting. It goes on longer than it should. JACKIE slowly walks towards him, putting a hand on his back.)
JACKIE: Jesus, Will, it was…it was just a joke! It’s not like that, I was just…I was joking, Wilson. Heh. It was… do you need help with…? (He shakes his head no, with heaving breath. He wipes his mouth and goes to exit.) Alright. Do you want me to– (He signals no.) It was just a joke Wilson! That’s it!
(WILSON exits. JACKIE watches the door for a time, before turning and looking at the large pile of plays on the ground. She kneels, takes one of the books, reads its title. She sparks her lighter, and presses it against the book. It catches, and she places it onto the pile.
Her face is expressionless.
Blackout. After a time, the sound of a door slamming.)
IV
Black
(A rooftop in the Red Court. One ghost light DC lights the stage. It is turned on by WILSON, sitting and looking at the city below. It is quiet. He winces and rapidly blinks, he looks as though he hasn’t slept in days. The mask he wears is abrasively ornate. He speaks with great effort during this scene. JACKIE enters at the back. She is a silhouette in the darkness.)
JACKIE: So why here.
WILSON: I come here…a lot. It’s close to where we met, at that party? Look it’s– (He points) it’s just there.
JACKIE: That’s thoughtful. You said you frequent?
(She approaches, entering the light. Blood has pooled around her eyes. Her mask now looks tacky, as from a costume shop. It has a spiderweb across it.)
WILSON: Yeah. I dangle my feet off, and I look down, and I think about…just…falling. (He makes a whistle that gets gradually quieter, before a “boom” sound.)
JACKIE: So why don’t you?
WILSON: Heh. Sometimes I fear I’ll fall up. Isn’t that awful?
JACKIE, sitting down on the other side of the ghost light: It’s not great, no. It’s peaceful, though?
WILSON: It is. Lots of time to think. I watch the hordes of people go by blissfully, absent-minded, drunk on it all.
JACKIE: They’re enviable.
WILSON: That they are. I heard about your coma.
JACKIE: You and every producer in the reds, Wilson.
WILSON: Do you wanna talk about it?
JACKIE: Not particularly, no. (Silence.) But it had me reevaluating everything. Everything that I want, that I dream about. I’m leaving. Soon.
WILSON: What? Why?
JACKIE: Because this isn’t what it’s all for, is it? What I really want these days is a sunset, or a field, or something. Meeting someone at a party or dancing to old jazz records–
WILSON: Or burning old plays?
JACKIE: Or watching clouds. I think…if I spend a single day more here, I will die. Worse than that, I mean, there’ll be no one to mourn.
WILSON: Hey, stop that. I…I don’t, um, want you to leave. So don’t, please?
JACKIE: Wilson.
WILSON: Because, because look. I’m really not comprised of a lot. It’s what I do…and you. You’re really all I got, Jack. I don’t know what I, what I become. So you can’t go, don’t.
JACKIE: You’ll live. Come on.
WILSON: Yeah, ok so I’ll live. But– I walked out.
JACKIE: Of…?
WILSON: The opening. At the Mirth. My opening. The best moment of my life. Watching it…it was like my spirit had been sucked out and bastardized. Every actor, every light cue, every single piece of blocking. Twisted. I walked before intermission. I didnt turn back, and I came to this roof, and I’ve just…contemplated.
JACKIE: Soulless?
WILSON: Robotic. Poisonous. And it’s who I am. You can’t separate that performance from me, ya’ know? My names in the headline. So the point, the point is. Heh. I don’t know what’ll happen if I just keep going.
JACKIE: You’re focusing really hard on the words, Will.
WILSON: Yeah. This…the brain fog. It’s gotten bad. There’s no spark in the words, I just…I just grab for them. Like pinching grains of sand in a sieve. Like holding onto water.
JACKIE: So, while you’re up here. What do you dream about?
WILSON: Look at this. Us and our dreams. (Beat.) Black water. Endless, in every direction. You and I being lifted upwards, always. It’s peace, and nothing more. Higher and higher.
JACKIE: And the hope would build.
WILSON: Yes, the hope would build.
(Long silence.)
JACKIE: If it makes you feel any better, burning those plays didn’t fix it. It gave me nothing the next day but emptiness. I didn’t burn the ones in my apartment, but I haven’t read them since. I thought maybe the answers would be out on the street, a total nobody struggling, but it wasn’t there either. Makes you wonder where the hell else it could be. Makes you wonder if it exists at all. And then, I was walking, and walking, and thinking and thinking, and it was colder then. Like being thrown under icy water, or resting your head in the snow. And I fell into the coma. I don’t know why I fought myself back awake, but I suppose it’s because I wasnt supposed to die lost.
WILSON: I just…I just can’t take it. I wish so badly that I could. I thought I could, and I held on for so long with this belief that I was better than everybody. I came here to escape. I hurt a lot of people. I wonder if, if I took off my mask right now, and you weren’t there, would there be a face under it?
(JACKIE wipes blood from her eyes, and dabs it in WILSON’s palm, and then her own. She holds her hand out over the threshold, and it begins to float into the air. WILSONs does the same.)
JACKIE: This, my blood, it is the Hanged King’s.
WILSON: This, my blood, it is the Hanged King’s.
JACKIE: Wilson?
WILSON: Yeah?
JACKIE: Was it ever really love to you?
WILSON: Does it matter?
(Long silence. They stare at the blood as it swirls and ascends higher and higher in the air. The floating blood congeals into one singular, rising column. WILSON reaches up and puts out the ghost light.)
Item #: SCP-8701
Object Class: Safe
Secure Containment Procedures: Investigation into the mechanisms of SCP-8701 are underway, particularly any connections to thaumaturgical memetics it may represent. SCP-8701-1 is kept in a standard containment locker.
Description: SCP-8701 is a not-yet-understood process by which denizens of Alagadda are distilled and transformed into works of literary media, particularly those associated with the citizen in question. The catalyst for this transformation is not understood at this time.
SCP-8701-1.