Voice: You look worn out. Have y ou come for some peace and rest?
Weaver: I don't have time for peace and rest. I know I look worn out, but it's everything that's been crushing down on me that causes it.
Voice: Interesting choice of words. Crushed? What exactly is going on in your life?
Weaver: Part of it is good: I have a job.
Voice: I know that you've wanted one for a while now; that's good, then. Where are you working?
Weaver: Superstore. Cashier. 8.25$/hour.
Voice: Sounds reasonable. Better than minimum wage at a fast food place, no?
Weaver: Oh, it's not the job that's getting me down. I love the work. It's memory, repetition, greetings... all stuff that I get off on.
Voice: There's a 'but' in that statement, isn't there?
Weaver: Indeed, there is. I have to tell Brian that I start work fifteen to thirty minutes early in order to get there on time, and I usually have to wait a good half hour to fortyfive minutes after I'm finished to get picked up, regardless of what time I tell him I'm finished. He drives like a maniac, and I feel anything but safe in the car. But it's my only recourse barring my father, and that's an option I won't take no matter what.
Voice: Do you really hate your father that much?
Weaver: Yes.
Voice: That's direct.
Weaver: Would you have me dance around the subject the way that he does? He's fucked with my life, my brother's life, and my mother's life most of all. He can rot.
Voice: You know, in a few years you'll--
MistWeaver: Stop right there. I've heard that I'll eventually be great friends with him from everybody on the face of the earth, along with "you know, Weaver... your parents' divorce doesn't have anything to do with you..." FUCK! I don't think I'm to blame for my parents' divorce. I don't give a shit if I'll love my father in the future: I despise the ground he walks on right now. It shows something about my mother's character if she's one of those people telling me to be nice to my father.
Voice: I believe you've mentioned that already. Care to elaborate?
Weaver: No. Screw off.
Voice: If that's what you want, I'll leave you to the mist.
Weaver: No! I'm sorry. I'm alienating everybody. I guess it's a sign of how bad I'm doing if I'm snapping at a voice in my own head. Here, let me give you an example of what my life is like.
The mist thickens, closes in around her, completely opaque.
An image appears in the mist. Weaver, her hair glowing white in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, sleeping. All is silent. All of a sudden, music starts blaring from a stereo and she jumps up, eyes wide, hops over the back of the couch she's sleeping on, and turns down the volume. She blindly stumbles into the shower, looking too exhausted to be alive.
The scene cuts to her in an empty kitchen. She is frantically searching thorugh an agenda, realizing that she has a test that day, and that she has to memorize quite a bit of text from Shakespeare. Wearily, she flips through the book page by page, looking for suitable passages to memorize.
The scene cuts again to her on the bus, staring at the book MacBeth, writing out feverishly lines over and over again. As the bus pulls into the school, she looks up in surprise. As she moves to shove her stuff in her bag, she catches a glimpse of a paper: one of the study guides, the one that dictates the parameters for the lines she has to find and memorize. It's thick, but she takes a moment to flip through it, remembering that she's not allowed to pick any of the lines that are demonstrated in it. Of course, that's easier said than done, since there are at least twenty different passages quoted in the study guide. Her eyes catch on one, a longer one that shows the motif of ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes move frantically in disbelief as she realizes that this is the same quote that she chose to memorize after combing the book with a fine-toothed comb for one that wasn't in the guide. Her shoulders slump dejectedly, and she shoves the rest of her books in the bag.
A bell tolls, like that of the school bell, and the scene fades, returns to the mist. It clears, and there is a brief glimpse of the true MistWeaver, before she shakes her head sadly and begins to fade from the misty place.
MistWeaver: Back to the real world again.
