Grover's Corners Monologue

“Good evening, Simon… Town seems to have settled down for the night pretty well.” Mr. Webb tried talking to me as I approached him and Bill, the constable. I ignored his remark and paused to stare at him. I wondered if this man truly appreciated the life he had.
“Good evening… Yes, most of the town’s settled down for the night, Simon,” Mr. Webb spoke again, “I guess we better do the same. Can I walk along a ways with you?” I started plodding down the street, still ignoring the poor fellow. I thought about my life for a moment. In Grover’s Corners, everyone knew that I, Simon Stimson, lived as the saddest and the bitterest person of all; however, no one knew why he did so. I suppose I should at least explain why I lived that way before I leave
to greet death. In the early years of my life as a child, my mother and I lived together in Grover’s Corners.
My father had disappeared before my birth, and my mother never mentioned a single thing about him. Whenever she mentioned him, she did so out of spite and resentment. My mother and I lived happily together, singing and laughing at the things Grover’s Corners had for us. As I grew up, however, my mother changed from the sweet, kind person I had known to a cynical old woman who smoked cigarettes constantly. The mother I used to sing church hymns with had long disappeared, replaced by a vicious woman who considered her son as nothing more than a hindrance. By the time I graduated from high school and became a part of the church’s choir in 1860, she uttered her last words for
me.
“You miserable wretch, you deserved this life for what you’ve done to me,” my mother muttered these words to me and closed her eyes forever. With that, I had lost my one and only family in our silent home that reeked of cigarettes. I sat beside her for a long time, wondering what else life would take away from me. In the summer of 1880, I met a beautiful girl by the name of Caroline Summers.
I’d like to describe our meeting as love at first sight; but in hindsight, I wonder if Carol felt that way as well. We married in the spring of 1882, and we lived in the happiness and quietude of Grover’s Corners. I had become a choir director by then, as I always wanted to from a young age. A year from then, we had our first child in the middle of December. Carol and I cherished every moment with our child, pouring all our time and love into our daughter. In those moments, I found happiness and joy in my life again. A few months after her birth, on a warm summer morning, I heard Carol screaming. I rushed over to see her standing at the crib, staring down at the unusually still baby. A grim silence hung heavy in the house. I felt the world around me falling apart, the life I had finally built up slowly starting to crumble on top of me, slowly choking the happiness out of me. In the years following 1901, I relied on alcohol to sustain myself each day. From that particular incident, Carol and I no longer felt the same love we felt years ago. We rarely talked, becoming strangers who did not even bother to greet each other on Main Street. Everywhere I looked in Grover’s Corners, everything reminded me of the happiness Carol and I lost. Every day, life had started to tighten its hold on me, taking away all my
hopes. I have grown tired of relying on being inebriated to live. I cannot spend my last days of life like a pathetic drunkard, clutching a bottle of whisky. Drinking has not lessened the sorrow I felt, but I do know that ending this pitiful life would stop everything. I already have the rope and the stool ready in the attic. I can only hope to see my mother and my beloved child once again.