The following show contains mature themes and language that may not be appropriate for all
audiences. Please keep in mind that this contest intended for mature audiences only,
and listener discretion is advised. Epilogue, Catherine Lynn D. Have you ever
got a bed thinking I am I having a heart attack? But you're too
goddamn tired to worry about it? Good? It's not just me? Then
cool. The room stretches before me, a blique, expansive stair on monotony.
The walls a clinical shade of white, enclose me in ananimous here,
the void of comfort or solace. The sparse furnishing speaks volumes of the room's
purpose. A metal table, an adorn and unforgiving, flanked by a pair
of cold, unyielding chairs. Let me tell you there is an eerie symmetry
to the arrangement, a stark reminder of the division between myself and the enigmatic
figure seated across from me, Agent T. Wilson, a figure of austere
authority, occupies the chair opposite mine. His presence is a study and contrast.
At first gleans impeccably dressed, she had cloaked in an air of detachment.
His expression is a mask concealing intentions and emotions that I am left to
ponder. The dim light casts half of his face in shadows, an allegory
for the deaths of his enigma. The buzzing of the light overhead fills the
void of the room with a relentless rhythm. Its insistent hum, punctuated by
the occasional flickers, creates an unsettling soundscape. This sonic backdrop is only a
company I have aside from Agent T. Wilson, resits with a veneer of
impassivity and eyes to a storm within. Fatigue settles into my bones. I
have your weariness that permeates every fiver of my being. The bags under my
eyes a testament to sleepless nights and relentless restless thought, speak to the told
of recent events I've taken on me. Aside from all the blood haphazardly splatter
all over my signature manager's uniform, of course, anxious fingers lay idly in
the edge of the metal chair in an attempt to channel my restless energy into
a tangible action. Fuck was I shot too? It's all I haze of
broken down memories and mended together by a fractured timeline. The room seems to
breathe uneasy. It's a atmosphere thick attension. The walls press in, suffocating
me, as if the every dimension of the space seeks to crush the reality
that unfalls within. My shock and anxiety melt into a cocktail of emotions that
swirl within me, a tempest that threatens to overwhelm me at in t Wilson's
voice breaks the silence every once in a while, each word carefully mursured his
cadence, even at least for a while. The questions hang in the air,
laden with intrigue and in a sense of foreboding, in avilability. As
it dwells into his inquiries, I'm drawn into a labyrinth of uncertainty, My
responses like breadcrumbs that carve a narrative through the fog. The sterile chill of
the metal chairs seeps through my clothing, a reminder of the divide between comfort
and this dark reality. He hath trembled slightly, a physical manifestation of the
tumult within the room seems to close in. The walls inch in every closer,
squeezing the air from my lungs. Emotions swirl within me, shock,
disbelieve in a growing sense of vulnerability. The room becomes a crucible, with
each question a trial to navigate. The gravity of my answer hangs heavy like
anchors, streddening to drag me under. Agent t Wilson's gaze bores into me
with unrelenting scrutiny that unsettles me erbiously doesn't give a fuck. As I recount
events, my boys waivers, reflecting of the fragility of my composure. The
room transforms into a theater, an audience, and a dialogue is a dens
of words and implications. The stakes couldn't be higher. I'm not just recounting
moments, the reconstructing discaffold upon which my fate may rest h and t.
Wilson's no booc lays open pages poised to capture the essence of my so called
narrative. My own ends feel clammy against a frigid metal of the table,
and my heart is pounding a steady rhythm on my chest. The questions are
a puzzle, with a weight of unknown bearing down on every response. The
sound of the buzzing light takes on a hypnotic quality. Each flicker in a
hum adds an auditory underscore to this surbrial moment, Why am I still alive?
Time loses its shape, blurring at the edges as I grapple with a
whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The room becomes a vacuum, a space where
reality bends to accommodate the gravity of this situation. Agent T. Wilson's expression
remains unreadable, a fortress of stoicism that conceals these thoughts. My exhaustion plays
a counterpoint, an undeniable presence that tempers my attempt at poise, or some
version of it. The silence between questions is heavy, a canvas on which
anticipation paints of vivid strokes. And then, as the interrogation weaves on,
the room moors into a tapestry of memories and uncertainty. The play begins.
My mind feels hazy and thoughts slipping like sand through my fingers. The boundaries
of reality seem to blur, with a room and its inhabitants becoming ethereal.
I can see them now, I can feel it all. Every emotion,
every sound, every smell. The buzzing light's rhythm become a lullaby, a
backdrop to this symphony of revelations and implications that unfold. The questions hang in
the air like threats in a narrative that weaves his way through the room.
My responses feel like offerings to an unknown deity, every word shaping rich destiny
that awaits. The weight of my exhaustion settles deeper. And yet the gravity
of the situation has unlesson. Nothing has changed. This fucker still one,
answers, Agen T. Wilson, pistoic man with a weather face that bore
the marks of a life filled with countless trials and jivulations. This fucker has
seen it all. Appears at me with a heightened sense of frustration. This
time I can feel it. I can sense it before he even speaks,
The lines edged and his forehead deepened, scentuating the wariness that lay behind his
eyes. With a heavy sigh that carry the weight of a thousand unspoken burdens,
he finally loses his shit. Could you please state your name for the
record, his voice tinged with a mix of resignation and exasperation. All right,
your fucking count My name is Catherine Lynn d forty seven years young,
and I reside in a damn beautiful three bedroom of townhouse, alongside with my
sister Kay or should I say Susan? Now, yeah, is all about
the name change game these days. Life's been a rollercoaster for her lately,
going through a messy divorce and all that. As a result. My niece
scratched a scratched, My nephew crashes at our place now and then, and
then let's just say they're still figuring stuff out, and it's the whole Sometimes
situation should be tall. The whole mess was a long time coming. It
was no surprise me at all. My sister, not my nephew Dylan.
He they have other stuff going on. Fuck. I started toos jogging now
I'm rambling. Agentine Wilson, sitting across from me and his shoveled hair,
unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, let out a deep sigh frustration his boys
feel. The exasperation seemed to address the floor itself. I began to notice
all his imperfections. I didn't fucking ask for any of that, any of
that, misty. So anyway, I guess I'll tell you since this sack
of shit doesn't keep a flying fuck about me. So the endless midnight calls
canceled. Plans for long goodbyes never seemed to hand because my sister simply refused
to go home. I mean, her kid is sixteen. I took a
heat breath and corrected the wrecker once more. Dylan sixteen, I'm losing my
mind. Agent T fucking Wilson leaned back and spoke with a touch of resignation.
Oh rush, Catherine, you know it's not like the world is ending
upside this world. I took a deep breath, lend the weight of the
situation shuttle on my shoulders. My sister Susan a rather doctor Catherine Susan d
as she prefers to be called now when parents lacked originality and naming SMB paid
a price for it. Trust me, our situation well was a puzzle to
me. She told me. Countless versions of what was happening, each more
imaginative than the last, without ever beyond their real truth always lays with unspoken
truth, half lies and secrets. Referring to their situation in between bunny ears
of hers and Kevin's also his situation. I'm making quotes. They were never
married, as it didn't believe in such things, but they spent almost two
decades together, had a kid. Good for them, I guess, I
suppose for the fine cliches, but damn it, why couldn't they just move
on with their ant lists back and forth? They don't just want closure.
That's why I can't stand sitcoms, and they're tiresome. Will day one day
bullshit, and they had that four miles. The bickering with a passive aggressive
were out route aggressive was relentless until the bitter end. I just don't understand
how two people who once seemed to love each other so deeply could end up
hating the very air they breathe. It smells awful here. I don't smell
anything, of course you don't, as the kind of fucking subtlety that I'm
talking about. It may not seem like much, but it's all in the
subtext. It smells awful here. It has to be you. I hate
everything you stand for. Also, I don't smell anything, you fat piece
of shit. Of course you do. You worthless cunt Dylant can explain it
better or he could have. This shit wears on you down. It's over
time, and it breaks you apart, piece by piece. That poor kid
had to injure it all how do you live with the knowledge of the person
you choose will always be in disagreement with you on everything. Agent mother fucking
t Wilson lean forward. He's tired and bloodshot, eyes locked onto mind,
and he spoke with intensity. What the fuck are you talking about, lady,
I asked you about the diner. What the fuck happened to the goddamn
diner? Fuck? Fuck? And like a petulant chion, he had pretty
stood up and threw his chair against a wall. Neither the wall nor the
chair had anything to provoke such a reaction. And the markings on the wall
and the dents on my chair, which simo obious now it seems to be
a bit of a habit. They'll fuck him and his hideous, uneven mustache
and that mustard stained shirt and the audacity to wear treshoes without socks. Only
serial killers do that. I have been through a lot in the past forty
eight hours, and if I want to tell this story from my perspective,
I damn will do whatever the fuck I want. That goddamn blind corp pencil
pusher thinking he can dictate how I tell my goddamned story. They'll fuck him,
fuck him and with a resounding slam, He stormed out, leaving behind
the echo of his frustration reverberating through the door and through the room. My
mind was spinning, lost in a haze of disorientation, shock, and bone
deep exhaustion. The passage of time has become a blur, days blending into
nights one another, until I can no longer distinguish one from the next.
Where have been? Where am I going? What's happening? But hey,
let's rewind o'clock, shall we? I reach for the glass of water before
me, a token of kindness from my mustached companion. With a moment of
reflection, I brought it to my lips, savoring the refreshing taste of it
as it eased the dryness of my throat. Then, with a steady inhale,
I embrace the death of my feelings. It was time to unravel my
tail from its origins in viewing each word with the raw emotion and unfiltered honesty.
One more time from the top, this time we'd feeling. This episode
is made possible by listeners like you. Visit our website at lifdesign dot net,
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or Patreon page at patreon dot com. Forward slash rod pull Art Tonight's production
of Excuse Us, a mystery drama with delightful undertones of humor and eldriche horror.
What's produced by Rebecca Lakepool and Rodrigo Pool, Written and directed and performed
by Rodrigo Pool in association with R and R Side Audio Theater, Music and
sound effects by Epidemic Sound some other sound effects who are recorded live on set,
voice modulation by eleven Laps. If you're enjoying this production, please make
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Rodrigo Paul saying thank you very much for listening.