Outside we hear a car door slam.
Desiree enters the tiny shack.
Looks around to make sure she is alone.
There are threadbare, poorly taxidermied animals haphazardly placed to give a vague hunting lodge feel to the place.
She throws her duffel bag onto the bed.
She takes a slow walk around the place, making sure it seems right to be her final resting place.
One at a time, she starts to take out the various implements with which she might choose to commit suicide and places them on the dining room table, down center.
She takes the time to regard each one carefully.
She says nothing, but we can tell there is a fraught inner monologue.
She takes stock of each weapon, internally weighing the pros and cons and how much clean up for others it might cause.
A bottle of pills.
A length of rope.
A plastic bag and a roll of duct tape.
A rubber hose.
She looks over her shoulder to where she parked the car.
Finally, the gun, followed by bullets in a separate box.
She sits at the table.
She starts to cry.
She walks over to retrieve the duffel bag and quickly stuffs everything back in it, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass.
She pours one shot. Knocks it back.
Shot two. Same deal.
Shot three. Again.
She gets up and paces.
Desiree: (to no one in particular) It’s all your fault! You shouldn’t have left, Caroline!!!
She throws a small taxidermied rodent across the room.
Devra (aviator sunglasses, leather and swagger) walks through the wall and catches it.
Devra: I think you lost something.
Desiree runs to the duffel bag, gets the gun, shakily points it at Devra.
Desiree: Who are you?
Devra: Desiree, I’m gonna need you to put that gun down. It’s not going to go you any good. Can’t hurt me with it.
Devra takes out a vape pen and takes a drag. She gets her smartphone out and checks her messages.
Devra: (looking at her phone) Fuck.
Desiree: I said, who are you?
Devra: Relax, Sylvia Plath. I’m your guardian angel.
Desiree: (beat) You’re my what?
Devra: Your guardian angel. Sent here by god on high to take care of you and make sure you don’t do something with that duffel bag of self-destruction. (beat) This is bullshit. This is a waste of my time. Caroline is not worth all of…this.
Desiree: (still holding the gun) You don’t know her. You don’t know me. You need to leave.
Devra: (sitting down, pouring herself a shot of whiskey) What the fuck do you think I do up there?! I watch your earthly drama unfold. It’s my job. (beat) Except I’m on probation. (beat) Because you had a bad breakup and you want to off yourself.
Desiree: How did you know that?
Devra: You have brought a duffel bag filled with pills, rope and a fucking gun, among other items, to a shack in the middle of nowhere. And this cheap-ass bottle of whiskey. (she takes another shot) And no food. (beat) It’s either suicide or a really fucked up vision quest.
Desiree: (beat. She takes one hand off the gun to wipe away a tear. Puts the gun down.) That’s none of your business.
Devra: Actually, but it is, because, like I said, I’m on probation and if I don’t save you, I get fired. And if I get fired, then I go to purgatory and it’s a whole thing where I’m a shapeless blob with no individuality or freedoms and I eventually evaporate into nothingness and whatever. (beat) So, yeah. I fucked up watching over you. (beat) But I’m here now. You know, to apologize and make amends. (She offers her hand.) Shake?