Note: Meant to be a one act tragicomedy for the Theatre of the Absurd. Written for English class.

I Am You

There are two men. One is dressed in all black and is enclosed on all four sides by clear walls; he cannot see out, but everyone else can see in. The other man stands alone on the stage in the open field; he is dressed in white, and can see everything.

Tamlin: I must say, it is a beautiful day!

Vaughn: For misery.

Tamlin: For fun!

Vaughn: If fun is to be alone.

Tamlin: To contemplate the wonders of life!

Vaughn: More like to contemplate the meaning of life.

Tamlin: Oh yes! Let us contemplate the meaning of life! Let us breathe in the fresh air! Let us wander joyously and prance about in this open field!

Vaughn: Are you daft?

Tamlin: Me? Daft?

Vaughn: Yes, you. Daft.

Tamlin: Are You daft?

Vaughn: No.

Tamlin: Really.

Vaughn: Really.

Tamlin: No!

Vaughn: Yes.

Tamlin: Remarkable!

Vaughn: Stunning.

Tamlin: Yes, I think so too! It's almost as stunning as this beautiful view!

Vaughn: View? What view? There is no view.

Tamlin: You jest!

Vaughn: Do not. There is no view.

Tamlin: There most certainly is!

Vaughn: He pauses and stares around at his four walls, which, to him, show nothing but blackness. Yes. Blackness makes for a . . . wonderful view.

Tamlin: Blackness? A puzzled expression settles on his face. What blackness? Are you ill? Are you feeling well? Are you . . . daft?

Vaughn: muttering, "Blackness, what blackness?" he asks.

Tamlin: Speak up, I can't hear you.

Vaughn: Blackness! What Blackness!

Tamlin: Exactly! Look at all the beautiful flowers! Tamlin points to his far left at the colorful forget-me-nots, sunflowers, tickle-me-pinks, and lilacs. He stoops to begin gathering a bundle.

Vaughn: puzzled, Flowers? What flowers? There are no flowers. Just black nothingness.

Tamlin: He straightens up from his crouch. Are you blind? He heads towards Vaughn. Are you daft? He begins waving to and fro in front of Vaughn's face. There is no blackness. Just the clear sky and my field of nature!

Vaughn: And I suppose you'll tell me that there are birds soaring across the sky?

Tamlin: Yes!

Vaughn: And there are, perhaps, some goldfinches and bluejays calling to each other across the expanse of this sky?

Tamlin: Yes!

Vaughn: And perhaps there is a lone cardinal, sad and desolate at the loss of his mate?

Tamlin: He looks around and squints when he spots a dash of red plumage among the grass next to a dull-colored body. Yes!

Silence.

Vaughn: . . . Why do I put up with you?

Tamlin: Because you love me! He throws up a handful of forget-me-nots.

Vaughn: More like abhor you.

Tamlin: You adore me!

Vaughn: I detest you.

Tamlin: You cannot forget me!

Vaughn: Of course not. You're an obnoxious burr in my side.

Tamlin: You are funny!

Vaughn: I'm being entirely serious, dear voice-in-the-darkness.

Tamlin: Saddened, You do not mean that!

Vaughn: If I could have, I would have gotten rid of you a long time ago.

Tamlin: You lie!

Vaughn: I'm perfectly serious. The sooner we part, the better.

Tamlin: You do not mean that!

Vaughn: I most certainly do.

Tamlin: You lie!!!

Vaughn: Is that all you can say?

Tamlin: Yes!

Silence

Tamlin: I mean, no! But you lie all the same.

Vaughn: I would feed you to the wolves if I could.

Tamlin: But then you would be alone.

Vaughn: To be alone is nothing bad.

Tamlin: appalled, To be alone is nothing bad?!

Vaughn: Of course not. To be alone is to be alone.

Tamlin: But Alone! A-L-O-N-E. Alone!

Vaughn: Yes. In silence. In solitude. Alone.

Tamlin: But to be alone is the worst thing ever! I would be ever so . . . depressed if I should be alone.

Vaughn: To be alone is to have space.

Tamlin: Too much space.

Vaughn: To be alone is to think.

Tamlin: seriously, You shouldn't think.

Vaughn: And whyever not?

Tamlin: It's a dangerous pasttime.

Vaughn: To think is a wonderful thing. Much more wonderful than your supposed "field of flowers."

Tamlin: But my field of flowers is real! All the people out there can see it too!

Vaughn: What people?

Tamlin: He gestures to the onlookers. Those people sitting, eagerly waiting to see what we may say next!

Vaughn: There are no people.

Tamlin: There are! Life is a stage! There are always people monitoring us! They can see us; they can hear us! They can laugh at us; they can throw rotten tomatoes at us!

Vaughn: Don’t be silly.

Tamlin: I’m not being silly. I’m being entirely serious.

Vaughn: Serious? You can never be serious. You don’t know how to be serious.

Tamlin: I most certainly can.

Vaughn: Can what?

Tamlin: Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? I can be serious.

Vaughn: Prove it.

Tamlin: Those are fighting words, my dear. En garde! He mimics drawing a sword.

Vaughn: So much for being serious. He watches in mild amusement as Tamlin continues to parry and thrust at an invisible opponent.

Tamlin: He eventually tires of fighting his imaginary opponent and kneels on the ground. To be serious is to be Vaughn.

Vaughn: To be serious it to be me?

Tamlin: Yes, you.

Vaughn: Surely you jest.

Tamlin: I most certainly do not.

Vaughn: I am hardly the epitome of seriousness.

Tamlin: You are most certainly the a-pit-uh . . . a-pit-uh-me of seriousness.

Vaughn: Epitome.

Tamlin: Yea, that.

Vaughn: But then, if you are me, who am I?

Tamlin: If I am you . . . then . . .

Vaughn: Yes . . . ?

Tamlin: Then you cannot exist. As he ends his sentence, Vaughn begins to fade.

Vaughn: There is crackling in his voice as he speaks. Then so be it. You are me, and I fade. But you are no longer yourself. Conform. See if I care. But I will no longer be around to care. Surround yourself in my darkness.

Tamlin: Darkness? Confusion lit his eyes.

Vaughn: You thought me a liar? Here he laughs. You shall see. His last words echo in the empty space as with his departure, the field, the flowers, and the animals all fade from existence.

Tamlin: Wait! No, don't go! Come back!

Vaughn: His voice drifts into the air one last time. You wanted it this way, remember? Remember?
Remember?

Tamlin: He falls to the ground. This wasn't what I meant! I don't want to be alone! I don't want to be . . . imprisoned. He beats his fist against his invisible walls and pleads to the audience whom he can no longer see. Help me. Someone. Anyone. Save me. He cries bitterly as no one helps. I live. I die. But not myself. I begin as myself. I die as someone else. I am You. And I don't want to be alone. Not anymore. He lifts an imaginary dagger from the floor, and as he plunges it into his chest, the lights go out and the curtain closes.

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Author's Note: Written for a Creative Writing Journal. As previously stated, it is supposed to be a one act play for the Theatre of the Absurd, but I do intend to write a second act (like Waiting for Godot!) for fun.
So . . .please review? I'd prefer no flames. Although flames about spelling and grammatical things that I can fix would be appreciated.

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kokoryhurra underscore dragon at yahoo dot com