IMPRISONED 

Written by Allie Bell 

Produced for Ottawa Fringe by Red Rabbit Theatre Company

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Synopsis - Follow along from behind the prison bars of the brains of two men, inexplicably intertwined by the most dastardly crime.

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SALVATORE

All I have is my memories. But, I remember them well. Each and every one a smiling, happy little entity. Each boy an enigma of beauty and innocence. Their initial prevalence of imperfect representation… was so. So intriguing. So attractive. Welcoming. All of them with something. But I wonder. I wonder if I should share our time together. It is only me. Here, alone, in this white room. But maybe I should keep them for only me. 

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I do remember when it all began, and I remember every detail of every action. I remember each one needed me. I remember each one wanted what I offered. I remember I irrefutably affected each one. I remember being there for each one. I remember how each one wanted me. I remember how each one developed. And I remember the seed from which each one grew. (Pause)

I am not where I need to be. Here, in this hell, is not where I should be. But they found my pictures. My trophies. Mementoes. My memories. That’s how this all started. But now they’re keeping me here. I can’t do my work from here. Los cerdos torcidos están robando mí. I need to get out. I am compelled to save lives. I am here to hear those who remain unheard. My boys need me. And, I understand, I must forgive those who do not believe in me. I just wish people did. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be in here. I don’t like it in here. It’s better than the other place I used to be but… Time. I don’t like the time. It’s different. Not linear. Days drag into weeks. The same, each hour, each portion of each day, the same. I reflect a lot. 

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I liked to show them their unrealized self confidence. It is my job. They’ve been left behind. They are discarded treasures. I love them. I am compelled to help them escape. 

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At first. I mean for a while. I just watched. I stood back and I watched them. In the playgrounds. On the street. I watched them. My favourites were the ones who took their clothes off in youthful defiance. I watched them prance through the grass. Their red faced mothers chasing them with a towel, or their shirt. Sometimes a diaper. I liked to watch them. But they didn’t need me. They had good families, a chance, so I just watched them. Back then. It was enough. 

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But a resistance began to build. A resistance inside me. Just watching became not good enough. It became a step toward something better. After the watching, came the approach. In the beginning the approach started a friendship which blossomed into a relationship. That’s what I had. At first. Friendships. I would watch until I found one who was right. For a friendship. It’s a thirst I have quench. I needed the friendship. And for a while the friendships were good enough. I drank in the companionship. And I was satisfied. I would remain in friendships until they aged. I do not like it when they age. That’s when boys fade from perfection into failure. 

Until. Eventually. The relationships weren’t good enough. The thirst became unquenchable. Impossible to settle.  I would wake up hearing a voice. In the silence of a night everything would get louder. Then day would come. I would be mopping. Back and forth. Back and forth. Each strand drenched in muddied water was like a strand of hair. Unwashed vacancies became images. I would think. I would picture. Images became faces. Faces with voices. Voices. I would hear the voices. Boys who needed me. I could hear them crying. Everywhere I walked.  They called to me.

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So I created a place. A safe haven. A place where I could take them after I liberated them. My rescuee’s. Each one with me for a different reason. All escaping their own shambled place. They were all perfect, and perfectly different from the one before.