note: the blackouts don’t need to feature a literal lights out – their primary function is to give the audience some space to absorb what is being said, to give them some respite.

 

Narrator: 

you would have never been ready for it.

you look down the whole time. it's only when she asks that you raise your head. uncle alex, what happened to your arms? what are these bandages for?

space.

she is this little person. this little person that moves around invisibly and blows through your mind like a breeze. in sunnier days than this her steps around the house sound like a tiny drum; and she's happy. she's happy and she loves to draw. if you can't see her hands that probably means she's drawing you right now. she has her own way of looking down and smiling as she's doing the outline of your face. she doesn't smile at you, only down at your strange reflection; though you know her smile is yours.

she is your niece. you come and go a lot, but you don't live with them. it's only a couple of times a year that you get to see each other. if that. she wants to see you. says your name out loud a lot; seems to find a certain kind of pleasure in it. she was born when you were twenty years old, and you are now twenty nine. not too long ago, and without telling anyone, you attempted to stay twenty nine forever.

lights out.

silence.

lights back on.

on the phone she sounds distracted. she's watching tv, her mum says, her favourite show's on. let her be, let her be. it's okay. you’ll call back. goodnight.

and you hang up. in front of you silence in all directions.

a long, unbearable silence.

and somewhere inside that silence you remember the rain.

it's in the haze of the morning when you go to her room. she's alone, sat on her little kids' desk, and shows you a bag of confetti that colour she loves, that of poppies. if she knows what the colour of blood is, she's not thinking about it.

she got it from school she says, and extends it over to you. 

 

the performer produces a handful of confetti.

you dip your hand in it and take a handful; without thinking, without really knowing why, you throw it high up in the air.

 

the performer throws it over the audience.

and her eyes look at you with bewilderment as she shouts at something she thought wasn't allowed. wow! look, uncle alex! the rain! you made red rain happen! she jumps around, her little head flecked with red all over, and dances, free and wild, the way city children play when water shoots up in those brave geysers that find a way in concrete.

it is this image that fills your silence: little alex dancing, suspended in the air like a jewel, all because you squeezed a cloud in the palm of your hand, hard; so hard you made red rain happen.

lights out. silence. lights back on.

her name is alex too. you remember the time when full of excitement she shouted, you have the same name! that was a few years ago, you remember it well. it had been a long time since you knew how exciting this simple fact can be. you have the same name. you sense this automatically makes you privy to all sorts of magic secrets that others, non-alexes will forever be banished from. 

 

and yeah. she takes you to her room and shows you around. she shows you her favourite toys. she doesn't say show, though. she says meet. "come and meet them". not a lot of people get to meet them, but your name is alex, which is the same as hers so it's okay, even if you are a boy.

her favourite is called maggie and she is her favourite because she looks like mum when she kisses her goodbye. and her other favourite is a plastic woodcutter and he is her favourite too, because that's what daddy would look like if he smiled more. and down this corner these are the creatures that come out from the forest to sing to them. and this is where the northern lights come out, uncle alex, don't you know about the northern lights, and they all gather here, under the northern lights and distant melodies and get enchanted by a child's magic. and you meet them all, one by one, maggie and the woodcutter and all the rest, and from that day onward whenever you see a toy you think, god, you never would've met them if it weren't for her.
 

space. lights out and back on again.

her name is alex too. it’s something beautiful, and it starts with her eyes. you’ll meet her in between big city lights.

 

blackout.

 

but no. this alex you’ll meet later. 

 

blackout.

 

you are now twenty nine. a few weeks ago you decided to stay twenty nine forever. you never realised this black sun was dawning on you. there was a time when you thought this impossible. to yourself you seemed like such a happy, normal kid. but then the reason found you and threw you out of balance forever. 

 

so one day you no longer remember, a day lost in its insignificance, two big black birds passed through your eyes and nested in the back of your head; black crows came and with their savage cries made a home in the spaces of your solitude; and the same thing happened again, in through your eyes came more crows, but you didn’t worry because they were only a couple more. and then the same thing may have happened again, though you'd choose not to remember it. then there was a day when your eyes were covered by black wings, like someone else's eyelids forced onto you, or maybe just a glimpse of black feathers passing you by. another day where you were fairly certain that, yes, more savage cries echo in your skull now, or even a day when you weren't sure you saw anything other than crows at all. until much later you held your breath and finally, you turned and looked: the crows were no longer a few; there was a murder in the back of your head.

blackout. lights.

the voice comes from the other side of the table, from very far away. it's the voice of your brother. you miss the days when you were not able to tell what’s behind it; when, as children, you’d both hide behind an endless series of chess games. waves of blacks and whites moving to and away from you, but never quite touching you. nowadays your brother is this guy who sits down between a bottle and a bible and after a while forgets inside which one his god is. right now he's telling little alex that uncle alex did a very stupid thing, a very selfish thing, and we should consider ourselves lucky he didn't succeed. all of a sudden there's a bull in the room. loose in between the furniture, and loose in the silence, this bull keeps you as token over his frown. the wounds in your arms ache as if they were open anew. and all of a sudden the thought comes; he's jealous. he's jealous, the coward, you think to yourself, as you force yourself to keep your eyes down. an empty apology has left your lips like a withering petal. it seems to land on your wounds, where alex's innocent gaze rests.

 

lights out. silence. lights back on.

you couldn’t decide how, though you had been obsessing about it. still you had no idea. you knew you wanted to make it quick. just wanted it over with. just wanted empty, swift, vanishing blackness to come and swallow you.

 

space. blackout. lights.