Playing the Victim
By
Melissa Ueckert
A dark living room. It’s a homely place—or it would be, if it wasn’t the middle of the night. A tv on mute playing the jewelry Home Shopping Network serves as the only decent light source. The room’s only occupant, mid-20’s RACHEL, sits despondently slouched on a cracked and worn cream leather sofa, staring at the television but not really watching. She wears pilled sweatpants, a collegiate sweatshirt, and the type of obnoxiously fuzzy socks you’d only ever own because you receive them as a throwdown Christmas gift. A steaming mug is untouched on the cluttered coffee table. A cable knit blanket lies crumpled and forgotten on the floor. It could be such a lovely home, if only someone cared.
Suddenly, a large CRACK of thunder, and lightning is seen zig-zagging across the sky through the plain picture window. No blinds. No curtains. Rachel doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even blink. Rain begins to pour in sheets, a steady drum on the roof.
In walks AMALIA, a small and tired woman of 60. Her bleached blond hair has given way to defiant gray roots, and a distinctly rounded back shows through her floral-printed long nightgown. Her slipper-adorned feet shuffle in as she squints through the dark, obviously recently aroused from a deep slumber. She is confused, but she is not surprised.
AMALIA
Can’t sleep?
Rachel does not move, makes no acknowledgement of her arrival.
RACHEL
Can I ever?
AMALIA
You should try, at least.
RACHEL
I did. I always do.
AMALIA
[Gesturing to the mug] Is that coffee?
Rachel scoffs audibly.
It’s just a question.
RACHEL
[Barely turning towards her] It’s tea, mom. Just like the last fifty times you’ve asked me. Is that allowed? Can I have tea, mommy? Can I have it?
AMALIA
Fine, fine. You don’t have to bite my head off.
RACHEL
Don’t I, though?
AMALIA
Don’t you what?
RACHEL
Have to “bite your head off,” as you say? Every single goddamn time we go through this idiotic loop-de-loop every single goddamn night? Right? [Emphatically] Right??
She waits. Silence.
I see.
More Waiting. More Silence. She turns back to the TV.
Get out.
Amalia starts to leave.
I’m sorry. Wait.
Amalia does not acknowledge her, still making her way out. Rachel clambers up to follow her.
Mom, no wait, mommy I’m sorry. Please wait. Mom, wait-
AMALIA
[Tired] For what, Rachel?
Rachel is confused. A beat.
What am I waiting for?
RACHEL
[Stilted] I don’t- I don’t know, mom, I just-
She gestures wildly towards her head, getting choked up.
There’s just so much up here sometimes, and it’s all so messy and so raw and so bad-
AMALIA
Oh god, Rachel, can we not do this again? Not right now, it’s 3:30 in the morning-
Suddenly, a significant shift in the air. Rachel takes a large, confrontational step back. Palpable tension.
A beat.
RACHEL
Oh.
Another beat.
Oh. Well I am so sorry that the imbalance of chemicals in my brain that I inherited from your side of the family has become such an inconvenience to you. [Now gesticulating wildly] I am SO SORRY that I misplaced the MAGIC depression-curing WAND that was SO GRACIOUSLY BESTOWED upon me by GOD HIMSELF. I am DESPERATELY SORRY that I have forgotten how to swim. I was in my boat, my beautiful, shiny boat, wind in my sails on a sunny day, and I sprung a goddamn leak, and as I am not a carpenter, you know, I could not repair said leak, so I jumped ship as anyone would and watched my shit sink right before my eyes, but HO! What is this? I have no life jacket! So here I am, middle of the fucking ocean, flailing around in the water like an imbecile, slowly, slowly dying, mother, I am drowning, I am dying, because I do not know how to swim. No one taught me how to swim, so I don’t know how to swim. But It’s my fault, right? This is ALL MY FAULT, LIKE EVERYTHING ALWAYS IS, RIGHT?
Defeated silence.
Right?? But the worst part, oh, the worst part, is that I get to watch my boat sink, and I get to drown, and I get to die again and again, over and over, every single night. Never ending. No escape. This is all I’ll ever be, you know. You know, right? Right??
AMALIA
What am I supposed to say when you do this, Rachel?
RACHEL
[Short] Do what, mother?
AMALIA
When you play the victim like this.
Rachel immediately freezes, as something breaks internally. There are missed connections, there are miscommunications… and then there is this. Such an innate inability to understand that it breaks trust beyond repair. Rachel is heartbroken. This is her mother.
Rachel slumps on the couch, stars at the television again, unseeing. She grabs the mug and takes a long drink.
A long, looong beat.
RACHEL
I got into Yale, you know. Got the email this afternoon. Teaching fellowship, too. Gonna get out of your house, out of your hair after all. Won’t have to put up with my victim-y bullshit anymore.
She takes another drink.
Also, this is coffee.
She takes another drink.
Also, go fuck yourself.
Amalia gives her a long, heavy look from across the room, then exits.
Rachel takes a drink, then throws her mug against the wall. It shatters. Coffee splatters everywhere.
END PLAY.
