Christian, about 17 years old, hitchhiking on a deserted away, talks to a woman who hitchhikes on the other side of the road. She carries a sign that says "Alaska." This is from LAST RIGHT BEFORE THE VOID, a ten-minute play that had its premiere at Oak Park High School in Kansas City.

(Warning: Using this monologue without permission is illegal, as is reproducing it on a website or in print in any way.)

STUDENT
Do I look like I killed my father and slept with my mother?
(beat)
Do I?
(beat)
I thought you might want to know. I’m hitchhiking because my car broke down. That’s a lie. It broke down, but it’s not my car. It’s my father’s car. Pieces of it broke off when I ran over my father in front of our house. That’s a lie. He’s not my real father. My real father killed himself when I was two. Or four. My Mom tells it both ways. When I was two, he took me to a baseball game, then left me with a hot dog vendor and hung himself in a bathroom. When I was four, I was asleep and he stuck a shotgun in his mouth and woke me up from a dream about a sea horse.
(Christian crosses the road to the Woman)
He also killed himself when I was six by jumping into a pool of concrete at a construction site or by suffocating himself in a plastic bag. I was at my grandparents’ for the weekend.
(beat)
Do you really think someone’s going to drive you from Minnesota to Alaska?
(beat)
I go to community college. I wish I could live at school. I don’t think I’d have so many problems at home if I lived at school. That’s a lie. I dropped out, because I got fired from my job at the mall. I handed out flyers for a seafood restaurant—-Joe’s Seafood-—until I got fired. And I was in this Calvin Klein underwear ad when I was twelve. With my shirt off. That’s a lie. It wasn’t Calvin Klein, and I was sixteen. I’m nineteen now.
(beat)
I walked through an accident up the road. It’s a big one. You’ll see it if you go that way.