The Black Hole and the Whisper

Scene 4: The Black Hole

Stage is almost bare. A faint circle of light on the Scribe, sitting alone, head bowed. Around him, a low hum, as though air itself is being pulled inward. The Companion stands at a distance, outside the circle, untouched by the pull.

Scribe (voice heavy, slowed):
It begins quietly.
Not fire, not fury.
Just weight.
A silence that thickens,
a gravity that bends all things toward me.

I become a black hole.
No light escapes.
No warmth returns.

Companion (calling from beyond the pull):
And those who orbit you?
What of them?

Scribe (raising his head, anguished):
They are dragged in.
Their laughter distorts,
their kindness splinters.
Arguments spark,
tears spill –
and I retreat.

Companion (stepping closer, voice sharp):
So you crown yourself recluse.
Peace bought at the price of presence.
But is it peace,
or only absence painted pale?

Scribe (bitterly):
Both.
And neither.
It spares them my darkness,
but it costs me their light.

Companion (low, warning):
Indifference, then?

Scribe (voice falling, almost hollow):
Yes.
Indifference.
That is the devil’s most perfect victory.
Not rage, not fire –
just nothing.
No care.
No pulse.
A ceasefire colder than death.

The hum deepens. The circle of light around the Scribe shrinks, threatening to engulf him completely. He clasps his head in his hands. Then suddenly – silence. The Companion raises a hand. The hum stops. The light steadies, faint but holding.

Scribe (whispering, broken):
Memory.
That is what saves me.
Faces I have hurt.
Wounds still raw.
The hardest lessons etched in me.
When indifference beckons,
memory alarms.
And even feebly,
I recalibrate my compass.

Scribe (softly, almost prayer):
Indifference is the devil’s most perfect victory.

Blackout.