A monologue from the play by Walter WykesSARAH: Sure. It was flattering at first. I was the love interest back then, the heroine, you know, just dripping sexuality, inspiring armies with my charms, seducing heroes with a look.
It was good for the ego, I’ll say that much. All my friends were terribly jealous. But even then, I had this dark side. In his books, I mean.
Not in real life. He always gave me a selfish streak or some petty score to settle, some obsession that compromised his hero in some way. I thought he was just trying to make things more interesting, you know, unpredictable, lifelike, but then I started noticing little bits of myself in the villains, the really evil characters, right, the kind that need a stake through the heart to put them out of their misery. He denied it, of course.
Said I was being paranoid. But there were certain things I’d say, you know, certain conversations we’d had that he’d repeat almost word for word. It was so obvious. The heroines no longer resembled me at all.
They were young and pretty and innocent, and he’d chase after them, just like he did in real life, and I was this aging, bitter hag out to destroy him, determined to make his life as miserable and pathetic as my own. My only consolation is that after the divorce, I’ll get a cut of book royalties. That’s what we’re asking. I think it’s only fair, don’t you? That every time someone realizes what a contemptible cunt I am, at least I’ll make a few dollars?
