GEORGIE sits in a white bean bag chair on a white shag carpet.
She finds the chair uncomfortable and it takes her a while to settle into it.
She is wearing a flattering cocktail dress.
There is a white fluffy box next to her, filled with airline-sized mini alcohol bottles with white labels, filled with vodka.
She opens one and takes the shot. Throws the empty bottle over her shoulder.
She opens a second bottle and takes the shot. Throws the empty bottle over her shoulder.
GEORGIE: The thing they don’t tell you about depression is that it sneaks up on you. In the moments that you’re really happy and almost convinced that everything is going to work out, depression waits for those moments and as soon as you start to come down from the happiness, it knocks you on your ass and whispers shit like “You are never going to be good enough. You will die alone. All of your friends actually hate you–they just tolerate you in real life.” And it goes on and on and on.
You want to stay in bed forever. You wrap your comforter around you like a cocoon and hope that no one will notice that you start cancelling all your plans. That no one will notice you withdrawing. That no one will ask “How are you, really?” You hoard snacks under the covers so you don’t have to get up to go to the kitchen.
You spend most of the day sleeping and you never feel rested. Darkness and numbness start to feel like the same sensation. You cease to be human and become a vibration.
She opens another bottle, sips this one more slowly and during the following.
I remember being four years old and realizing I was going to die someday. My mother and I were stringing Kix and Cheerios on floss to use as garland to wrap around our Christmas tree. We were living in a motel. I pricked my finger and started to bleed. And I wondered what would happen if I just kept bleeding, if the blood started to cascade out of me until there was no more blood left inside my body. And I started crying. My mother picked me up and I asked her “Mama, am I going to die?” And she said, “Yes, sweetheart, but hopefully not for a very long time.”
She throws the bottle.
Hopefully. Hopefully. She shouldn’t have said hopefully. That’s what made it odd, “hopefully.” Most parents would said “You’re going to die, but not for a very long time.” She added the hopefully so she wasn’t lying to me.
I can’t remember how I did it. How I killed myself. It’s the strangest thing. I remember being depressed, and wanting to end it all and hoping that I did it right the first time because I would be mortified if I didn’t and I woke up in a hospital and someone called it “a cry for help.”
But I can’t remember how I did it.
I remember dying. It was like being sucked through a cosmic vacuum. It wasn’t unpleasant. Like going up a water slide backwards.
I didn’t want it to be messy.
What did I end up picking?
She looks around.
I guess this is heaven. Or limbo? Purgatory?
I didn’t think there was going to be anything after…
I thought I was going to cease to exist.
At least there’s booze.
She opens another bottle.
VERONICA enters, retrieves the discarded bottles and replaces them with new ones.
She adjusts GEORGIE’s posture in the bean bag chair.
GEORGIE: Excuse me?
Never ending vodka and a serving woman who cares about your posture. At least it isn’t Hell. Right?
She looks around again.
A dull rumbling gets louder until it’s almost deafening.
GEORGIE grabs her head in pain.
GEORGIE: I remember how I did it! But, that means–oh, shit! I’m not quite dead yet, am I?
She peels back the shag rug to reveal a screen where she can see herself in a hospital bed.
GEORGIE: Fuck my life.