The Yellow Wallpaper Monologue

Sergeant Joseph, my partner, and I stand, nearly freezing, on the outside of two grand, blue-silk painted double doors. A neighbor of the resident living at this address had rang our office at an unwelcomed hour to alarm us of a “suspicious shriek,” as she called it, coming from this specific household. I could be at the station right now, reviewing over-due reports and snacking on the creamed cherry coated muffins form Ms. Clarisse down at the courthouse. (She always likes to spoil us.) Despite the depressing darkness of the night and ice cube envy of a temperature, old Jo and I figured it to be the responsible thing to do to check out the scene. So, here we are, after knocking once, make that twice, waiting for an answer. Bang! Crash!
Yes, as much as you need,” the withered man rambles on with the zealous voice of a young child hosting their first birthday party. I walk into the candle-lit hallway, strung with rusted picture frames surrounding faces worn dry through the years. Crystal chandeliers dangle from a leak-ridden ceiling, burgundy rose outlined wallpaper droops off the walls. So far, so good.
“Charlie was-is his name, you know? A good man, a very good man . I miss him so far away as he is.” I start to ascend up the stairs heading towards the bedrooms, leaving the caretakers over pronounced words behind. He is below, speaking to Jo, telling him now how his uniform is fitted so nicely. A panel of wood squeaks beneath my weight. Those darn muffins, I silently curse Ms. Clarisse’s genuine home cooking. The caretaker up in my direction and immediately hurries up to match my pace. “Upstairs? Yes, why not? I can show you his treasures. A wonderful man, Charlie, oh my dear Charlie.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jo pipes with a new sense of confidence.
“Where in the country,” I decide to ask for the sake of
I join in every few minutes when I can catch a second during a breath between two of his sentences. The not-so-unfamiliar stranger, sensing that we would be indeed staying for a while, went across to another room to fetch a few mismatched chairs for us to sit. Jo and I are next to each other, our back toward the open door, and the man is across from us at an old angle on the paneled floor. Jo is a complete rant at this point about some fox-hole incident at the caretaker is smiling along.
After a while, I look over at him again and see that something has changed. He now holds a horrified expression on his wrinkled face and is searching the ground around him. Jo is laughing still and all of sudden, the caretaker is up and swinging his chair over his head. I duck behind my own and Jo is already backed against the opposite wall.
The man jumps upon the rug to his left and begins tearing at the splintered wood. I am dumbfounded with no idea of what to do. He must be crazy, I think, possibly out-loud. It’s hard to remember the fine