This is the beginning of a play I wrote in 2012. Oedipus stands in the middle of the apartment with a bloody knife wound in his leg; blood drips on the floor. He is breathing hard. He wears nothing more than his underwear. Jocasta lies in bed asleep.

Oedipus: Jocasta? JOCASTA!

Jocasta sits up in bed. She is half asleep.

Oedipus: Hey! JOCASTA!

Jocasta (asleep): It’s coming. I don’t want it. I don’t. Please!

Oedipus: Wake up. Wake up!

Jocasta: It’s coming.

Oedipus: You’re dreaming. Wake up! Why did you– you’re dreaming. Wake up.

Jocasta: Help me! It’s so cold. Help me, please. It’s coming!

Oedipus: WAKE UP! Of course you’re cold!

Jocasta brandishes a bloodied knife at Oedipus.

Jocasta (sleepy): What? Why am I… What’s going on?

Oedipus: Yeah, honey, I will take that whiskey, after all. On the rocks, and bring the bottle so I CAN DOWSE MY LEG IN THE STUFF, TOO!

Jocasta: What’re you doing? Why are–you’re bleeding. You’re bleeding!

Oedipus: Just shut up and bring the whiskey.

Jocasta: What’s going on! Oh, my god!

Oedipus: Stay where you are!

Jocasta: Who did this!


Jocasta: What knife? Ah!

Jocasta tosses the knife on the floor and wipes her hands on the bed clothes.

The end.