In a small room, a stout table lamp casts a weak yellow glow over a simple wooden desk. Tucked under the desk stands a simple wooden chair, devoid of any discernible features besides the person who sits on top of it. The person does not seem to be worth any more note than the chair, simply sitting there silently‒perhaps waiting for something.
Another person walks into the light from an unseen and unheard entrance, carrying another plain chair. The chair is set down on the opposite side of the desk, and in it, perches the new figure, just visible in the dim lamp light. They now seem to be waiting, eyes focused strictly on the person across from them.
A throat is cleared. PERSON 1 speaks.
PERSON 1
Hello.
PERSON 2
Hello.
Silence. PERSON 1 clears their throat again.
PERSON 1
Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves, I really would much rather refer to you in my head as something other than “PERSON 2”.
PERSON 2 chuckles wryly.
KAT
Alright. My name is Kat, and I’d like to thank you for agreeing to speak with me.
PERSON 1
Oh, of course! I do love a good tea-time chat with a like-minded person. You do have tea here, don’t you? I don’t much like coffee anymore.
KAT
Ah, unfortunately, we don’t have tea. I could get a glass of water…?
PERSON 1
In that case, I’d rather not.
KAT
Then we can get started!
PERSON 1
We may. Thank you for having me.
KAT
Of course.
KAT produces a messy stack of papers, riffling through them as though looking for the right page. They seem to find it.
KAT
Here we go.
The paper appears to be a crumpled letter.
KAT
I found this letter under my door this morning. “We have always been so close to history. I am so scared.” Not signed, not handwriting I recognize. Does this message ring any bells?
PERSON 1 looks down, seemingly very interested in the fraying edges of their pink skirt.
PERSON 1
No, I don’t believe so. Sounds very ominous, doesn’t it? “I am so scared”…not even a signature? How odd.
KAT
The part about history is what interests me the most. If history is always so close, is it really the past anymore? When does the present become history?
PERSON 1
Well, I suppose when there’s a story to tell of it. If I’d known that I’d been invited to a philosophical discussion I would have worn pants. Hah!
PERSON 1 pinches their skirt and adjusts it over their crossed legs. KAT wonders why they couldn’t still have a conversation of philosophy in their skirt. Food for thought. KAT is here for answers, though, not speculation.
KAT
Who do you suppose tells these stories?
PERSON 1
The people who live them.
KAT
I’d agree with that. I’d say that the people who tell these stories are the ones who survived them. But what of the people who don’t survive?
PERSON 1
Well, they still lived them, didn’t they? They just don’t get to say their piece.
KAT
What of the people who are living stories right now?
PERSON 1
I don’t know if I follow.
KAT
What happens to the people who are living right now that we can’t hear? Where do their stories go?
PERSON 1
Their stories don’t disappear. They’re still there. A fallen tree in the forest with no one around and all that. Although I do wonder: do they really deserve to be listened to? Why should we listen to every fallen tree?
KAT visibly shifts, uncomfortable. PERSON 1 sits the same as they have all meeting.
KAT
I think we should do our best to prevent trees from falling down in the first place.
PERSON 1
Trees don’t raise our children, though. They don’t keep us alive.
KAT
No they don’t. But they shouldn’t have to if they don’t want to. You know, this long-winded metaphor is actually starting to annoy me. Let’s just agree to say what we mean.
PERSON 1
Agreed.
KAT
Agreed. I’ll start: I am so scared, too.
PERSON 1
Why? There’s nothing to be scared about. This is the Land of the Free, and you are free, aren’t you?
KAT
I am, by the meaning of the word. I don’t feel free, though. I feel trapped.
PERSON 1
But you’re not. Your freedom was fought and won for you, don’t put that to waste.
KAT
…You’re right. I didn’t think I’d ever think so, but on this one topic we can agree. Like-minded people, right?
PERSON 1
Like-minded people, indeed. I think you ought to look at the bigger picture. We’re all just people, truly. We all want what’s best and safest.
PERSON 1 has a kind glint in their eye, but a patronizing smile on their face. KAT does their best not to explode at them; they’re here to connect, for answers.
KAT
What’s best? I don’t feel like this is for the best.
PERSON 1
Well, then you’re not the people who chose the best. That’s okay. You’ll learn. You’ll change.
KAT
What if I don’t want to change? I don’t think I should need to, to be protected. Don’t I deserve to be heard, too?
PERSON 1
I don’t know, do you? History is always so close; somebody will hear you eventually, little tree.
PERSON 1 stands with grace; KAT does their best to appear as though grace is their preferred expression of rage.
KAT
I think you wrote this letter. Why did you write this letter and then talk to me like you didn’t? You’re scared, you know it! You aren’t any different than me. One day, you will realize that you are not exempt from being silenced. One day, you will be trapped in your own silence.
PERSON 1 stares at KAT, shock visible on their features under the light of the lamp. They agreed to a tea-time talk, not a full-frontal assault.
PERSON 1
Oh. Oh, yes, I did write that letter. I thought you truly did know. I am scared. I am so scared. But history will repeat itself, whether I’m part of it or not. I’m going to be trapped again, whether I fight it or not. I’d rather be able to hear myself talk than yell at someone who won’t hear me.
KAT stands now, too. They have reached an agreement, at last.
KAT
I’m only one person. You’re only one person. We each have only one perspective; but we both have so many stories yet to tell. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.
PERSON 1 smiles and steps forward, long pastel skirt swishing delicately.
SUDDENLY, the blinding overhead light turns on. When KAT opens their eyes to brave the white glow, PERSON 1 is gone. The chair is pushed in, the desk is still as plain as ever, the lamp is barely lit in comparison to the overhead fluorescents. Nobody is in the small room but KAT and the faint veil of pink in the corner of their eye. They sit back down in their little wooden chair. Contentment floods their body.
KAT has answers.
THE END
