House On Mango Street Monologue

Oh Lord, what has this hellscape made us into. Beasts of our basest instincts no longer able to help one another? Gone are the days of community and respect. Now we live only for ourselves and our survival. I can only think of the agony my husband must be in knowing he died in this tragic place with only me to mourn him. No neighbors came knocking to give their comfort to me. The women I would have once called sisters have abandoned me in my time of need. I waited and waited for them to come to no avail. Many don’t even know he is dead. They don’t want to know. Too busy celebrating their own good health and fortune. The men my husband labored beside also abandoned us. I stepped out of my house in an attempt to catch the attention of one, but they all averted their eyes from me. They instead choose
Not out of pity or guilt. No, they finally came to help my husband because they “couldn’t stand the stench” anymore. Even then they didn’t grace him with a proper burial rite. No march to the church of our choice with a priest waiting. Instead, they dragged him out of our house and left him on the front step as if he was someone else’s problem. They couldn’t even look me in the eyes when they hurried off to hide in their houses after they finished. All I could do was numbly sit with him until a group of men came by to collect his body. They came with a bier already full of bodies and threw his on the top. When I asked where he was to be buried that just looked at me and said “in the trench with everyone else.” I have given up protesting this barbaric treatment of our dead. I have lost all hope in humanity surviving this apocalypse and choose to live out my few remaining days locked away by myself. No one will see me lift a hand to help them when they are at their lowest. Thank God my husband does not have to see what I have become. To live in a world where the dead outnumber the living is a cruel existence