Only Butterflies Get to Fly Away - Monologue

A Stage Play by Alyssa O'Connor

A young woman recalls her experiences in the garden as a child. Audition Monologue (5 min)

I used to play in the garden a lot when I was little. My mom, she had a thing with flowers; you know, the big ones that billowed out like curtains blowing in the wind… she’d plant them in strict rows all across our whole yard, like army men, and I was so small that I was able to fit in between the rows and lie in the soft soil for hours and just pretend that I didn’t exist. These flowers, they’d attract the most beautiful butterflies to the garden. Red, black, yellow, blue. I loved them; I thought that they were the most marvelous creatures I had ever seen, so delicate and innocent. One day, I was lying in a patch in the garden, amongst the certain flowers that I knew the butterflies liked the best. I was closing my eyes, imagining that I could fly, when I felt the smallest feather of a touch on my stomach, like nothing was there at all. The pressure gradually moved up, until it was on my chest. My eyes fluttered open only to see the most magnificent butterfly perched complacently on top of me, like I was a flower. It was Red, black yellow blue. I held my breath; I didn’t want to frighten it. It crawled up slowly, to my neck, my lips, and finally passed my nose, where I could see it up close.

I screamed and screamed and leapt up and ran as far as I could.

Because up close butterflies are not beautiful. They are disgusting, with huge quivering hungry eyes and hairy alien faces. They are ugly and terrible and nasty and vile and monstrous and evil.

And I felt cheated because I didn’t know it was possible for something that was so lovely to me to turn out to be so incredibly insidious.

And that’s the same feeling I had when I realized what John had done.

I used to play a lot with John, after he married my mom; she had a thing for tall army men. He’d play with me in the garden, and we’d lie together in between the flowers and he’d tell me I could fly, that I was so beautiful, like I was a flower. I thought he was the most marvelous man I had ever seen; I was so delicate and innocent.

I was seven, maybe six.

One day, I was laying in the flowers, in between the ones I knew that John liked best, when I felt the smallest feather of a touch, on my stomach, like nothing was there, but there was, and it slid up slowly until it was on my chest, and my eyes fluttered open, and it was John, his hand and then his lips. They crawled up slowly to my neck, my lips, my nose and I didn’t like it. I tried to close my eyes and imagine I could fly or not exist but it wasn’t working like it used to, so I tried to scream and scream and leap up and run as far as I could, but John caught me and my body turned red, black, yellow, blue with each hit, and I saw his face and it was disgusting with huge quivering hungry eyes and a hairy alien face and it was ugly and terrible and nasty and vile and monstrous and evil and I felt cheated.

I realized that only the butterflies, the most beautiful, horrible butterflies get to fly away. After they are done with the flowers they leave. John left me in the flowers, twisted and mangled. The flowers have to stay, to make more flowers and then they die. The flowers don’t know, I didn’t know. I just want to fly away, but I’m rooted to this thing, this twisted and mangled thing. Because only the butterflies get to fly away.