Eight Thousand and Sixty Four Hours

[A young girl of about 20 years old stands alone behind curtained
windows in a darkened living room. A clock ticks quietly but audibly in
the corner. After a few seconds she draws the curtains and looks out of
the window]

Another day. No rain but not much light either. In between. The
children from next-door are out playing again: screaming, crying.
(Winces)(Pauses) Climbing onto cars and yanking their aerials seem to
be their favourite morning activity. (Turns her head in the opposite
direction) There's their mother, armed with shopping and pushing a
pram. In a few months that baby will be put with be out with its
brothers and sisters: another little vandal.

[Looks up, checks the clock]

10 minutes gone. Strange to think they'll never come again. Didn't even
feel them pass.

[Walks over to calendar, hanging on the wall. Leafs through different
months of the year]

January passed quickly. The Festive season always gallops by, pushing
everyone into February. (Grimaces) February was cold and wet this year;
29 days in total, each 24 hours long. That means&;#8230;(Closes eyes
briefly) 696 hours altogether. But really, it wasn't fair. There were
24 hours in each day but the amount of light differs. Why should people
be expected to do the same amount of work? Someone should do something
about it. (Turns the page) March&;#8230;what did I do in March?
Can't remember.

[Sighs, and then walks towards some boxes lying in the centre of the
room; kneels down beside them and begins to rifle through items near
the top, bringing up dust. Pulls out two loose photographs and studies
the first one]

(Smiles slowly) I'd forgotten we'd even been to that. The High School
Leaving Party. End of S5. (Chortles) She couldn't wait to leave school:
she'd have gone with her four GCSEs if Mum hadn't made her stay to
attempt some A Levels. I remember feeling strange going to that party
because I wasn't even leaving that year. (Smile fades) It was she who
dragged me along. Can't think why - she had all her friends to go with.
Mum never liked her friends much. "Loud and foulmouthed" she used to
say. But they were just living their lives. (Looks up briefly) Mum was
probably the only one of us who couldn't get used to living here, ever
since she divorced Dad and we were forced to rent cheaply. (Pauses) She
was always so judgemental, still is. Mind you, none of Fiona's friends
seemed to even notice anything about other people. That was probably
why she liked them - less time for thinking and more for doing. Mum and
Dad, but especially Mum, were the thinkers. Our house was filled with
books: they were everywhere. She hated them; when we were little Mum
used to make us read a chapter of our books each night. She used to sit
on her bed opposite mine and kick the wood with the heel of her shoe,
scowling. Thump, thump, thump. But I began to like reading, secretly
devouring novel after novel. Furtively. She'd have been annoyed had she
known. (Pauses) It was round about that time that she began to reach
out, make new friends. She got in with a group from school. They'd
barely looked at us when we first arrived but, suddenly, were her best
friends. But they didn't treat her properly: I used to see her, crying,
behind the bike shed at school. Any attempt by me to comfort her was
met furiously. " Just go away, Morna", she would hiss angrily,
sniffing. " It's ok, I'm fine. It's a test, to see if I can join their
group. They have to take my money - it's part of the rules." After a
while I gave up. And anyway, not long after that the "trials" seemed to
stop and she could be seen strolling about arm in arm with Charlene,
the apparent leader of the group. She began to go out more, even when
she wasn't allowed. She tried to make me come too, at first. I only
escaped by ensuring I was never alone when she was about to go out.
(Shifts slightly to sit cross-legged on the floor) I remember one
Friday night; we must have been about fourteen. I was upstairs, and I
could hear her arguing with Mum downstairs. Muffled shouting; the
clanking of cutlery as dinner plates were cleared away. Then, suddenly,
silence, nothing. I've never found out what she said or did that night
but later when I went down, Mum looked pale. Her eyes were different
somehow. There was a purple swelling below her left eye, and she was
gone.

[Picks up the second photograph]

She and I on our 19th birthday. Quiet one that year. (Fiddles nervously
with the edge of the photograph) Just a few drinks with the family. She
looks deathly pale, although she's smiling and has her arm around me.
(Peers more closely) But there's something about her eyes, they
seem&;#8230;incredulous, as if she'd never seen a camera before. I'm
not smiling, but gazing uncertainly. It must have been Dad who took it:
photography's not his strong point. We shouldn't let him take
photos.

[Rises and begins to walk absent-mindedly around the room]

(Whispers word slowly) Fiona. Her face becomes more blurred every day.
(A shaft of sunlight fades out the photograph) The impossible is
happening: she's fading away, increasingly unrecognisable with every
hour that goes by. I see her calling to me, beckoning, pleading.
There's nothing I can do to prevent her from slowly ebbing to the edge
of my consciousness- and beyond. (Turns abruptly) Where has she gone?
How could someone so beautiful, so alive, cease to exist just like
that? It's strange being able to judge her. (Light passes slowly away)
(Pauses) I never could when she was alive.

[Looks in the direction of the window]

Her death was&;#8230; bizarre. (Breathes deeply) By that time, Fiona
was permanently in hospital, but had been allowed to come home. Dad
arrived at the house, this house. It was the first time we'd seen him
in weeks. He looked old - suppose he is. But tired too. Mum and I are
helping Fiona out of the taxi and inside, and he is just standing
there, as if he was dumbstruck and suddenly not capable of anything.
Fiona, she was calm. She became exhausted easily, and ended up lying on
the couch for most of the day. Physically, she's barely recognizable,
and she knows it. She took to avoiding mirrors and, as time went on,
any reflective surface that would show her, remind her, of what she had
become to anyone looking at her. But she was still the same person; she
hadn't changed at all. It was as though&;#8230; (Hesitates) as
though it hadn't happened to her at all - the cancer. She was Fiona
Dale so she wasn't going to die: she was always in control when she was
well, and she tried to apply that to her health too. In a strange way,
she succeeded, because it wasn't long before she lost strength and the
doctor gave her drugs to make her sleep all the time. (Pauses) After
that day, Fiona never woke up again. So she didn't know what was
happening to her. (Haunted expression takes over her face) The day she
died. I entered her bedroom, which was curiously musty with stale air.
I saw a figure lying in the bed, straight, rigid, barely moving. As I
drew closer, pushed on by Mum, I saw it was Fiona from her thick blonde
hair sprawled out on the pillow. I remember being frightened, more than
anything else. She was my sister: my world. But this goodbye was long
overdue: I had watched her deteriorate for days, seen who she was slip
away. I cried until there were no more tears to come. (Closes her eyes)
So I touched her, tentatively, briefly on her white face. She was
delicate, despite everything. Then, knowing that if I stayed&;#8230;
I left quickly.

[Walks over to mirror and stares at herself in front of it]

My eyes are exactly the same colour as hers were. Strange. For the
first time, I can see the resemblance between us. (Bright light floods
the mirror, temporarily obliterating her face) But I am not Fiona, no
matter what she might have thought. I was not her puppet, ready to play
with and do whatever she wanted. (Looks more intensely into the mirror)
It's been a whole year, Fiona. 12 months, 48 weeks, 336 days and 8064
hours. I'm alive, and you are not. (Light moves away) I lived, and you
did not. (Runs finger slowly and deliberately down the glass)(Whispers)
Goodbye Fiona.