c h a r a c t e r s

Carrie Ann Evans - an eight-year-old girl traumatized by her mother’s death. Pronounced                                          accent.

Carolina Wren - an eight-year old personality; female, unpredictable, slightly more sophisticated                          than Carrie--often angry, sometimes fearful. Slight accent.

Mara Evans - age uncertain, though mature; female, straightforward, memory-trace. Erratic                              accent.

Other personalities are hinted at. All personalities are highly intelligent.

Counselor - a psychoanalyst, one assumes

P.S. Descriptions of Carrie (and Mara) can be changed as applies to the actress.

s e t t i n g

New York, NY

late 1950’s, early 1960’s

a room

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(Carrie sits in a chair, swinging her legs and looking around, typical eight-year-old fashion. Beside her is a mute social worker, sitting in the generic position adults tend to sit in when trying to reassure a child. Carrie has braids and a jumper or skirt, in fashion with the times. She speaks with a Southern accent for no reason other than that I wish her to and as a cheap device to help tell the personalities apart.)

Carrie (and Co.):
My momma’s bedroom ain’t pretty. It’s all red and blue, and garish-like; and I don’t wanna go in there all the time, ‘cause my daddy’s in there .

I don’t like it when my daddy’s in my momma’s bedroom, ‘cause she cries when he is. Then she cries when he ain’t there, too, but it’s a different kind of sadness; like when you’re sad about what already happened, not what’s goin’ on right now. An’ it’s not fun when daddy’s in there, neither, ‘cause sometimes he’ll tell me to go away (and then the belt comes out) and sometimes he’ll tell me to come in, but then I’ll have to watch (and if I don’t, the belt comes out).

I don’t like my daddy’s belt, it’s brown and thick, and the buckle makes creases in his hand when he holds it too hard. I don’t like my daddy’s hand gettin’ hurt, ‘cause he don’t deserve no  pain. I know ‘cause my momma told me so, she told me he ain’t deserving no problems, so that’s why I don’t fight no more, when I seen him talking to my momma. Once upon a time I made trouble but it didn’t do no good for me, and worse for her. He got out the belt for me, see, and I had to watch while he did other stuff to my momma; I don’t know what it was. Only that I was sure he was gonna try to do it to me, ‘cause what he done to my momma other times he went around and tried on me.

So I hid, ran away to Ruth Kerwood’s an’ played with her an’ got back home late, so that my daddy was out in back, sleepin’ off . . . what’d my momma call it? . . . sleepin’ off the drink. But then she cried, the way I didn’t like to see her cry, all red faced and upset ‘stead of relieved or only cryin’ for what passed, an’ I knew I’d made too much trouble. An’ her back was red and raw, so that I shivered an’ went off to hang up my daddy’s belt where it couldn’t do no harm.

She cries about then now, though, so I guess I’m glad ‘then’ already happened. My momma told me it only happens when the likker gets in him, so I guess it’s the likker’s fault, not his. An’ the belt’s fault, too; ‘cause after all, why’d I be scared of my daddy ? He’s my daddy! It’s the belt, really.

 I asked my daddy, once, if he could stop drinkin’ the likker, ‘cause then it would all be okay, but he talked to me with the back of his hand an’ I knew it was the likker’s fault, not his. It couldn’t be his, ‘cause my momma told me so, and my momma’s right, ‘cept when my daddy says she’s not.

‘Cause my daddy’s always right, you see? You hear? ‘Cause if you don’t, he’ll take out the belt and tell you, and then his hand will hurt from the leather pressin’ into his fingers, and I don’t want my daddy’s hand to hurt. ‘Cause he loves me, grown-ups always love their children, so he must! And I know I love him, ‘cause he told me so.  He told me to tell him, an’ I did, so it must be true. He loves me, and I don’t want nobody who loves me to get hurt.

See, for my four birthdays ago, my daddy took me into my momma’s bedroom, all blue and red, and he put a towel on the bed. It was white, white, white, and clean like you wouldn’t believe. My daddy loves me, he told me, even though the towel got red, like the walls, but he just told me it’s love, an’ I know he don’t lie. He don’t never lie. My momma came in, an’ I knew he asked her to. She said ‘no’ at first, but then he went out to talk to her, an’ she knew he was right to ask her, and she came in. Her cheek was all red, like the wall, but before the towel was red, but anyway, I wondered why she only put rouge on one cheek. She looked pretty all flushed like that. My daddy gets all flushed with the likker, but it’s different red, and men don’t look so pretty with pink cheeks. Unless they’re babies, but I only seen a couple babies, and never inside our house. ‘Sonly me, and my daddy, and my momma.

But that’s okay. My daddy says it’s okay for it only to be us, and I know my momma agrees, even if she sighs sometimes; see, my momma always agrees. And anyways, I know it’s the women who have babies, and we don’t have no other babies around, and if we wanted some, my momma would have a couple. But she don’t. So I know.

I like knowing things. Nobody ever tells me anything, so I hafta find out for myself sometimes. It’s okay, though, ‘cause anything I should know, my daddy tells me. Oh,  my daddy’s a fine fella, and if I knew where he was I’d tell him you’d wanna meet him. ‘Cause you would, you know, and I know you do, even if you don’t know it, ‘cause I know my daddy wanted to meet everybody and everybody wanted to meet my daddy. My daddy and my momma told me so.

I don’t always like bein’ told, but sometimes I know I gotta, ‘cause otherwise how would I ever know what to do? I wouldn’t, silly, I’d have no idea at all, ‘cause I’m just a little nobody. My daddy told me that, too, but he’s always right, and anyway, the janitor at the school said it too. He only said it after I was done telling him about my daddy, and then he yelled at me, ‘cause he said my daddy wouldn’t punish me ‘less I deserved it. And I b’lieved him, too, ‘cause he told me stuff I knew already.

Nobody else talks to the janitor. I wonder if he’s lonely, ‘cause maybe that’s why he’s so sour.

But anyway, like I told you, the towel got red like the walls. I like red, pretty red, like roses in summer--but blue’s my favorite. It’s deep and like the ocean, which I ain’t never seen but which I saw pictures of. I like the ocean. My daddy told me about it, how it waves and it wrinkles like the laundry when my momma don’t fold it right, and it’s so blue that sometimes you’d think the night sky came down to earth. That’s what my daddy said. My daddy’s a smart man who knows what it’s like. Out there in the world, I mean. He told me so.

So one day I was walkin’ home from school, and the leaves were red like the walls and wet like the towel, shiny with the rain and all. And I saw my daddy leave the house, like he does sometimes-- ‘sokay, though, he always comes back, like sometimes Ruth Kerwood’s daddy don’t come back for days and days . And anyway, like I was going on before I started whatchacallin’, gossipin’? I dunno, but my momma don’t like it when I talk about other people, ‘cause she says we got enough problems without no other ones brought in. But it was okay. okay.

And I saw him, with the likker bottle, and I wanted to yell at him a little bit, but then I remembered he was my daddy, and he loved me, and he told me I loved him and I believed him like I always do. ‘Cause that’s what you do, you believe him. My daddy can’t do no wrong, said my grandma, afore she stopped comin’ round.

I ‘member: “Annabelle,” she said, to my momma ‘cause that’s my momma’s name, “Annabelle, you think that man can’t do no wrong. You think ‘cause he swept you off your feet twenty years ago you are bound to stand by him. And I’m not gonna stay round her after that, I am not stayin’ around here where everyone’s unhappy ‘cept your little girl. And she don’t know no better.”

She didn’t come ‘round no more after that, neither.

Aw, I’m sorry, I’m always goin’ off like that. My daddy useta yell at me for never gettin’ to the point of nothing, so I guess I never can do anything right anyway, like everybody always said. Aw, you look sad, don’t look sad. Why do you look sad?

I hope it’s not ‘cause of me. One thing my daddy never did say was I made him sad. That’s my momma’s job, it is at that.

So’s I was goin’ inside the house, anyway, right to the clean kitchen where the floor wasn’t never dirty. It was always nice and white, just like my daddy liked it, so’s you could see your reflection in it if you looked just right. And I looked--I looked around the counter, you know, like you do.

‘Cause sometimes there’s things behind there, and things, well, I don’t like things.

(Here she really starts becoming upset.)

Not all things, you know? Not everything’s good. I don’t know what everyone’s talkin’ ‘bout half the time, I don’t even know that her, that my daddy’s good, that, uh, that everyone’s good. ‘Cause they ain’t, I know they ain’t, her daddy told her and me, too, ‘cause he didn’t know. No one knows! And she don’t either so she don’t tell them and she didn’t see it, I did! I did, and no one ever believes me!

(The social worker starts reaching toward her, as if to calm her, but she backs away and eventually jumps out of the chair.)

And the floor wasn’t white like he always said it should be! It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it was all red like the bedroom walls and the towel and it was spattered, and it wasn’t right , even though you could sees your ‘flection in it if you wanted to bad, I guess. I saw. Little bits, like lookin’ through a flashlight and cellophane, all colored like her momma’s pillows.

Not my momma, not mine! I don’t know why everyone’s always going off the deep end for that, ‘cause sure as all fire that woman is not my mother! And that––that–– ‘man’ is not my father! He’s not, no matter what anybody says, ‘cause I’m not her. And everyone knows they only have one child, so it can’t be me!

(Somewhere during this tangent she’s sunk to her knees. Begins crying.)

It isn’t my momma who’s been hurt! I’m not hurt, it’s all her, it’s all her and her family’s fault. It’s not me, it ain’t me, I don’t know why all you think it’s true because the only thing I’m sure of, absolutely, is that I’m not her. I’m not her and she’s not me and no one knows and all it just builds up.

(Hysterical.)

It just builds and builds and I can’t think anymore, not like her daddy told me to, told her to, too, gotta think, he said, gotta think, can’t let anyone catch. Not anyone. So he left the house and there was a Coke bottle next to her, the glass kind, like you don’t always see so often, and I knew it was the Coke bottle they kept. Like rich families, he always said they’d be rich, and don’t ya see, don’t ya see they all believed! Me, I believed, and he isn’t even my daddy. He isn’t, he isn’t! I don’t care what anyone says, that is not my family, I only live with them because otherwise there’s nowhere for me to go. Nowhere. That man made sure of that, no one’d want his kid, who knew what they’d do? We heard, we all heard, and he didn’t even care!

He didn’t even know my name! Carrie this, Carrie that, can’t you see I’m not even Carrie?

And it builds and builds, like pressure, like a storm front like the say on TV and, and, and, and, and--

(She dissolves into sobs. The social worker stands up and goes to her, again reaching out as if to comfort. She stops abruptly, scooting away and wiping at her cheeks., quite composed.)

Oh, don’t worry. Don’t worry ‘bout that, that’s only Carolina, she’s always a little bit upset at somethin’ or other.  Even doesn’t like it when ever’body shortens her name to Carrie, which is kinda silly, seein’ as everyone always does it. Gosh. She can be touchy, cain’t she?

(The social worker looks slightly confused, gestures as if to say something, then subsides.)

Whatever is the matter with you, now? Lately everyone seems confused aroun’ us, an’ I have to say it’s kinda gettin’ on my nerves. Well, not confused so much as angry. Awful angry, is everybody. At least I know why! None of the others seem to.

Social Worker:

(as if shocked)

  O-others?

Carrie (and Co.)
(almost contemptuous)

Of course others, what did you think? There’s only one?

Everyone seems to think that ‘cept us, an’ prolly the only reason we know we’re real is ‘cause we’re us. Gosh, even Carrie don’t know about us an’ we’re nearly related, ain’t we? Distant cousins, I think. Everyone says we look alike, although of course my hair is curly and lighter. And I’m taller.

(Social worker looks, frankly, shocked.)

But we look alike, I guess. Now what’s hilarious is when people mistake Carolina and Carrie! I mean, Carolina looks like her namesake, drab and brown an’ not un-pretty, I s’pose, but neither is she excitin’. Well, Carrie an’ I aren’t, neither, but at least we’ve got red––well, I’ve got red, I s’pose hers is auburn––hair and blue eyes, not all one color.

But I’m bein’ self-centered as always! Don’t even get me started on the rest of them, you don’t even want to ask them about how they get mistaken for poor ol’ Carrie, you’ll get a clamoring!

But what were you asking? When she started forgettin’ things?

She’s terribly good at evadin’ questions, y’know. She’s been doin’ it most of her life. She started forgettin’ things when I came along, of course, the same day her dear father decided to initiate her into the ‘love of adults’, like he called it. She didn’t know what half the words mean but she was thrilled , the little idiot. Now I love her like a sister, everyone likes her, at least sometimes, but she sure can be dumb for someone with such a brain.

Social Worker:
(Calmed, finally.)
And what is your name?

Carrie (and Co.):

Oh, silly me, I didn’ introduce myself? I’m Mara, of course! Mara Evans, at your service. I know everything an’ everyone.

Social Worker:

Everyone? Excuse me?

Carrie (and Co.)

(Back to mannerisms used at the beginning of the monologue.)
Excuse? What for? You didn’t burp or somethin’, didja?

 What’s a matter? What’s a matter? Aw, why you lookin’ like that?

(She scoots forward again, this time voluntarily touching the social worker, who looks rather startled.)

You okay? I hope you’re okay, I don’t like anybody to be upset. I just don’t like it, you know, you look like how my momma gets sometimes! Don’t be upset. I like you, don’t worry, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout nobody not liking you, ‘cause I do! Okay? You sure you’re okay?

(Such concerns continue but fade during a gradual blackout.)

ZE END

Adriana’s Handy Dandy Informational Paragraph(s):

    DID, or Dissociative Identity Disorder, was once thought to be very, very rare  . . . and while it remains one of the least diagnosed mental illnesses, it is now thought that many-a-time, the affliction was misdiagnosed as schizophrenia (which is understandable, as schizophrenia means, literally, ‘split personality’). More common in women than in men, DID is thought to be brought about by severe physical, emotional, or sexual abuse during early childhood; however, there is also a theory that the illness is more likely in those with a family history of mental problems.
    Basically, DID is a coping device: when the real world becomes too difficult for the person in question to deal with, they retreat, allowing other people to take their place.  In the more complex instances of DID, such as the case of Sybil Isabel Dorsett, who had sixteen personalities, each person had a designated emotion to take care of or disperse before Sybil could become comfortable in her own body again. After a while, each of the sixteen persons present in the body could ‘take over’  at whim. The personalities present in most DID cases are, indeed, fully people in their own right; in instances where the personalities were given IQ tests, word association tests, or, indeed almost any psychiatric evaluation, the answers were completely different. Sometimes the brain wave activity even changes from personality to personality! DID can be treated through hypnosis and psychotherapy, using these tools to ‘introduce’ the dominant personality––who usually has no idea that the other people exist, treating the times they were outside their own body as fugues, or blank spots in their consciousness––and eventually integrate them into one whole being.

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