S H O R T I M A G I N E D
M O N O L O G U E S .
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JULIAN LENNON, ON THE EVE OF HIS PARENTS’ DIVORCE, SITS THROUGH A NEW SONG BY UNCLE PAUL.
BY MICHAEL ROTTMAN
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Okay, what’s going on?
Why is everyone staring at me? What is it now? I don’t need another bomb exploding. My life is fucked. I want to go in my room and turn off the lights, kick the walls and rip out pages from my Noddy books.
Oh fantastic, Stupidface is here. Why’s he at the piano? What’s this chair in the middle of the room? Oh Mum, don’t make me sit. Can’t they see this is–
“A little something to ease the pain?” Mum, what is he…?
No… no… not a song. God, not a song. Is he for fucking real? Please let it be an instrumental–
I’ve never wanted to die more than right now. Stop staring at me, all of you. Please stop staring. Stop using that face. I’m not a cancer patient. You all have that face! Rrrgggh!
Remember to let who into my heart? That crazy woman who cooks me piles of rice in the shape of vulvas? I’m not talking to her again. Or does he mean Mum, who’s started lighting fires in the backyard?
Jesus, he looks like a Saint Bernard when he sings, hasn’t anyone ever told him that? Stop with the eyes already, I’m not a 17-year-old tart. And my name is Julian. JULIAN. It’s girly enough already. What are the boys at school going to think of “Jude”? I guess mangling my name was worth it if it saves you two syllables. Lazy bastard.
Mum… ow… stop. She’s practically strangling me. When’s the last time she showered? I wonder if I can get a kitten out of this.
I’m in hell. No question. This smile is burning a hole through my head.
“The movement I need is on my shoulder?” I thought the world was on my shoulders. Did the world take a dump on me? If you’re going to throw in nonsense lyrics, at least make them trippy. They’re looking at me for reactions. How do you react to this? If I laugh, Stupidface will think he’s cheering me up. If I cry, he’ll try even harder. Maybe I can pretend to be sick and run off to the loo. Then duck out the back door.
Jesus Christ on a crutch, HOW LONG IS THIS THING? Oh excellent, he’s forgotten the rest of the words, he’s just singing na-na-na-nahhhh. Maybe that means he’ll end it. Wait, what? Mum, please, no, don’t join in, you’re drunk. Oh fuck me, now they’re all doing it! I’m going to throw this fucking chair in a second. I am not clapping along. No. NO.
Can it be over? Do I dare believe? It’s over, and… he’s waiting for his hug. He’s actually waiting with his arms open.
God, what a prick. Uncle Ringo’s so much cooler.