Sophie

The house was really only ten years old, but it looked as is it had been in the middle of a war. A sprawling park with red, heart-shaped cobblestone pathways and marble fountains sits beyond the broken picket fence of the house. A young woman holding a cigarette is sitting on the house's scarred, wooden steps. Half a block away, a nervous looking man in his thirties is walking towards her.

Young Woman (blows smoke cloud and eyes the man: You lookin' for something?

Her torn shoes match the rest of her appearance. A dirty black skirt, torn black tank top, with matching kohl around her eyes and mused black hair, red lips that blew smoke upwards.

Man (licking his lips nervously: I got an invitation. This was the address.

The man is wearing a pin-stripped gray suit, and he holds a brand-new leather briefcase. His Manolo shoes gleam in the bright sunlight. The young woman stares at him, and the elegant black envelope he meekly holds out, disdainfully, and takes another drag on her cigarette before replying.

Young Woman (cocks hear head to the side: Go ahead. Inside. I'm Alice.

Man (confused: But... What am I supposed to do? I don't-

Alice (irritated: Hell if I know, I'm just supposed to sit here and wave you in. (Shakes her head.) If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you anyway, it’s against the rules.

Man (fidgeting: But I don’t know anything about- (a distant clock chimes to announce its 3:00PM.)

Alice (throws her hands in the air in exasperation: Now, you’re late. He doesn’t like that.

Man (becoming agitated: Who’s ‘he’?

Alice (throws the cigarette at his feet You should go inside.

The man mumbles something incoherently and stiffly marches up the steps, dodging the gaping holes in the wood, and goes inside. His mouth drops open when he gazes into a luxurious parlor. He staggers around to look out the door he has just come through and sees only the park and the left side of Alice’s body. Her head turns and she nods, telling him to proceed. Soft leathers couches face an inviting fire in a white marble fireplace, with gold trimmings, and carvings of snakes. An old woman sits behind a desk, typing serenely; her breathing is asthmatic.

Old woman (without glancing up: You’re late, Mr. March. You’re… (Deep breath) exactly… (Wheeze) 2 minutes and 17 seconds late. He doesn’t like that.

Mr. March (agitated: What does that mean? Anyone is allowed to be late.

Old woman (smiling and couching out a chuckle: Not here, chum.

A pause goes by while the old woman types an infinite letter, and Mr. March looks around. His briefcase shakes slightly, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

Old woman (softly: Don’t be scared. Trust me, you want this. (The old woman stops and as if signaled, she nods.) You may see him. Second to last door.

Mr. March looks behind her at a hallway he was sure wasn’t there earlier. Elegant tapered candles light the dim hall. The first door is labeled ‘Lives’, across from the door is another door labeled ‘Memories.’ On and on it went, doors labeled ‘Acquaintances’, ‘Friends’, ‘Sins’, ‘Virtues’, ‘Mistakes’, and the second to last door had his own name on it in fine script. Mr. March’s shock grows as he stares at the door.

Mr. March (surprised: What in the world…? (He opens the door and steps into a replica of his own office. The only difference is that a stranger is sitting behind the cherry desk in his black leather chair. The man is very handsome, with black hair that fell into his eyes with a casual elegance Mr. March could never achieve and envied instantly. He had pale blue eyes and a mocking smile) What-? What is this place?

Man (gestures to the red chair in front of the desk: You’re late, Frank.

Mr. March (abashed: I- I didn’t know what this place was. I-

Man (waves his words away: You still don’t know. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, Frank, and some of them may upset you, but I’d like to you to know, that you cannot walk out of this room until I let you. You may call me Thomas.

Mr. March (frowning: I don’t understand.

Thomas (concedes: You will.

Thomas leans back and observes Mr. March through wise eyes. A moment later, when Mr. March begins to get nervous again he opens a drawer and pulls out a thick green folder filled with small square slips that appear to be written on. Thomas flips past all of them and comes to the last piece of paper. Mr. March gazes at the page and wondered why it was red. A small frown crosses the man’s handsome features.

Thomas (still gazing at the paper: What was so different about today, Frank?

Mr. March (puzzled: What do you mean?

Thomas (looks up: You wanted to die today, Frank. What was so different about today that made you want such a thing?

Mr. March’s eyes widen and his mouth gapes open in complete surprise. He manages a few sounds before sputtering out his outrage. He is tense and the outrage helps him think.

Mr. March (angrily: I don’t what you’re talking about. You have no right to know – or tell me - what I thought today, nor do you have the power to ask me why. How do you know this?

Thomas (thoughtfully: I apologize. You’ve noticed that this place isn’t exactly… normal, correct? Well, this place contains every single thought you’ve ever had, everything you’ve done or thought about doing, every memory you hold dear, or wish never happened, every person you’ve met, how you met, why you met, and under what circumstances. (He looks steadily at Mr. March, knowing he will understand) Who you pushed away, and whom you lost.

Mr. March’s eyes widen and a flash of recognition flits through his face before they are covered with denial and anger.

Mr. March (defiantly: I don’t believe you. A place like that can’t exist, you’re not God.

Thomas (smiling: What makes you so sure?

Mr. March (outraged: That is not a joking matter!

Thomas (laughing mockingly: Please. You laugh at God all the time, you HATE God the very minute you wake up, why are you so angry today?

Mr. March (sputtering: I do no such thing, and I’m not angry!

Thomas flips the folder closed and opens it again, this time at a spot close to the middle of the stack of slips. He picks the blue, top sheet and holds it up so he could read it, a sardonic look on his face.

Thomas (reading out loud: ‘God’s a joke, son. If he existed, I would be in a very different place right now.’ Do you remember telling your son, Jon, that, Frank? On June 23rd, 1995 beside the tent you and Jon set up, twenty-four minutes after he found that toad he wanted to keep but you wouldn’t let him?

Mr. March’s face is a frozen mask of horror and shock. He remembered that day very clearly.

Mr. March (frozen in place: I- I don’t- Yes.

Thomas doesn’t speak, but lets Mr. March compose himself.

Thomas (quietlyHave you ever asked yourself when this happened?

Mr. March (puzzled: When what happened?

Thomas (gestures at Mr. March: You. Or this hollow, sad shadow you’ve become.

Another minute goes by in which Mr. March’s thoughts scrambled to cover the not-quite healed wound Mr. March had covered with a cynicism that choked him. Resigned, he slumps forward, the briefcase clattering to the floor.

Mr. March (whispering, avoiding Thomas’s eyes: Sophie.

Thomas (leans forward: What was that?

Mr. March (louder, clearing his throat: Sophie

Thomas (smiles sadly: Oh yes. Sophie. She was something, wasn’t she?

Mr. March (blinks rapidly: Yes. She was.

Thomas (leans forward: If we could only see in black and white, would color still be there?

Mr. March (frowns and stares at Thomas: What are you talking about?

Thomas (shrugs: I asked you a question.

Mr. March: I don’t know. I guess.

Thomas (shakes his head: Frank. You used to ask yourself questions like that. Remember? When you were younger you used to think about them all the time.

Mr. March (whispering: Yes.

Thomas (picks up Mr. March’s favorite pen: Before Sophie came along, right?

Mr. March (nodding slowly: Yes.

A long pause; neither says anything. Mr. March is sitting with his head down; staring at nothing while Thomas leans back and scratches his chin. The Grandfather clock behind Mr. March ticks relentlessly.

Thomas (gesturing towards the clock: You hate that clock, don’t you?

Mr. March (smiles sadly: Everyday I would wish someone had stolen it.

Thomas (chuckles: This is a very sad place, indeed. We’re commissioned by the higher ranks to save people. Sad people. Like you.

A moment pauses while Mr. March absorbs what Thomas just said.

Mr. March (disturbed: Higher ranks? Like me?

Thomas (nods: Yes. You wanted to die today, Frank. Something stopped you. What was it?

Denial clouds over Mr. March’s face, and he opens his mouth to speak out his outrage, but Thomas taps the red slip of paper, a knowing expression written over his features. Mr. March knew he could not lie to this man.

Mr. March (bitterly: I don’t know. I just remember sitting on my pull out couch… and I just thought how great it would be if I really did it. Today…

Thomas (quietly: What was going to happen today?

Mr. March (sadly: I was getting a promotion.

Thomas (surprised: I see. I haven’t heard that one before.

Mr. March (raising his eyebrow: How many people do you save?

Thomas (thoughtfully: A fair few. We summon someone when something drastic happened, or is about to happen. Death is as drastic as you get, and people – some people- just can’t deal with that. We push those people in the right direction. Some of them fall again; others keep on going until they’re happy again. (smiling) The higher ranks don’t like what’s become of you.

Mr. March (curiously: Higher ranks?

Thomas (chuckling: Like a Heavenly Congress.

Mr. March (dumbfounded: Heavenly? You mean that God’s there?

Thomas (smiling vaguely: God is right here.

Mr. March (wide-eyed: How? I mean, why? There are other people that are off worse than me? Why are there so people suffering?

Thomas (sighs: People make choices. Sometimes we try to push them in the right direction, but they always end up going down south. We created something very complex that got out of hand, the world, but there are people, like you, who give actual hope.

Mr. March (confused: People like me?

Thomas (nodding: Yes, people who have been through the worst and survived; if only barely. Sophie is very happy right now, Frank.

Mr. March stares at the stranger, and feels a sudden lightness. His emotions and memories are playing in his head, and he’s surprised when a redheaded Sophie smiles in his mind and he doesn’t feel his heart’s being grounded to dust. In his mind, Sophie says, “Cheer up, Frank.”

Thomas (placing his feet on the desk, recognizing Mr. March’s epiphany: Your son has a crush on a girl named Wendy and he has a soccer game at 4:30.

Mr. March (nods: I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Mr. March stands up, his face fierce, and Thomas grins

Thomas: You’ll have to cancel that meeting, then. (Pause) Things will be different now, wont they?

Mr. March doesn’t say anything but heads to the door. He turns the knob but nothing happens. The grandfather clock ticks again. Mr. March grips his briefcase and swings at the clock and shatters with a loud crash.

End

Author's Note: I wrote this originally for a class I had when I was still in high school, and I liked the theme of it, even if it's rather depressing. I know there are some mistakes in there but this was my first time writing a play... Also, I couldn't think of a title.

Constructive criticism is appreciated.