Prose/dialogue/poem, about a clash with the conscience.
|Daffodils aren’t daisies.
No, they’re not, Rose, but as you can’t deny, nor can Petunia, or Lily, or the Princess Bride’s Buttercup, they make for fairly unoriginal names.
Doesn’t mean they aren’t pretty.
Pretty is in the mind, it’s an adjective we pick, based on our perceptions of the world. To a blind man, one person is as pretty as the next, and their name doesn’t distinguish them any more. As an old, overrated, possibly plagiaristic old sod once said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Do I smell sweet, then?
I don’t know, Rose. You don’t engage my olfactory senses, you don’t make my skin tingle, you don’t make my eyes see, or my ears hear. You are empty, not from this world.
Just because I’m in your head, doesn’t mean I’m not from this world.
Fair enough, Rose. Inspiration, drawn from faces, paintings, breakfasts, whatever nouns you can think of, have all converged into you. Congratulations. None of you is original. You’re not pretty, you’re not ugly, you’re nothing. You’re in my mind.
Pretty is in the mind. I’m in your mind.
Don’t you dare put those things together! You don’t exist.
But I could-
No! Stop it! You don’t exist. I don’t permit it to happen.
You can’t control me.
Oh, yes, I can. What do you think happens if I shot myself? My thoughts, my ideas, my secrets, it’s all gone. A whole inner life, that no-one knows, gone. I think Johnny Flynn sang a song about it.
I don’t care what Johnny Flynn did.
You should. “Pray for the people inside your head, for they won’t be there when you’re dead.”
You wouldn’t. Come on, tell me you wouldn’t.
I won’t, if you behave. There. Good. Keep quiet, like that, and I won’t have to kill us. Now, help me move this body.
I’m not physical; I’m in your mind. You, yourself, said that.
Yes, and I also said not to talk.
Rose, you idiot. Apologizing is talking. Rose, do you have a voice in your head?
What does it say?
It says bad things. It makes me say bad things to you. It wanted her to die.
So this woman in the back, with the zip-tied hands, it’s my voice’s voice’s fault?
Yes. I think.
Hmm. Where did I put the gun?
No, no, you said you wouldn’t!
I lied. Where’s the gun?
Can’t you just tell the police it was the voice that told you to do it?
They’ll put me in a straitjacket. Found the gun.
Callum, I’m warning you…
I said not to say my name! It gives away my identity!
Callum, no-one can hear me! I’m in your head.
I don’t care. I’m using the gun.
If these are to be my last words-
Then know that I forgive you.
That’s nice. Can I pull the trigger now?
Wait. How do you know you can kill yourself?
What do you mean? How could I not?
What if you’re a voice, in someone else’s head?
Rose, you’re being ridiculous.
No, hear me out.
Then, my life, it’s a lie?
Join the club.