No Parents Allowed

A young woman regains her lost childhood through a castle of couch cushions.

Meredith (early 20s) sits on the floor of her childhood home, inside a fort built from couch cushions and blankets. She is addressing her parents while wearing a handmade, paper crown and holding a flashlight like a royal scepter.

Mom. Dad. I built a castle. Right here. On this floor that used to be our floor. On this shitty brown carpet circa 1983. I used this crochet blanket as my foundation. The blanket Grandma made for you — as a wedding gift — which is kinda funny, because it’s full of holes. And I used these couch cushions from our old couches. I layered cushion upon cushion… a brick wall of green, striped cushions… until all I could see was cushions.

Source: Life on a Couch

But don’t worry. This opening here: this is my door. And this is what I want to talk about. The door. The door that let’s people into my castle. I want to talk about it because you cannot enter this door. You are banned from entry.

“But you’re our daughter” you might be thinking. “We’re you’re parents.” Point of clarification: you were my parents. When we were a family. Before dad decided to fuck Sheila at that motel, and before mom lost her shit and threw dad out. Before dad got a tattoo and veneers and a red Corvette. And before mom suddenly became a blonde and started wearing tight clothes. Before all the late night phones calls with just breathing on the other side of the line. Before the screaming. Before the private investigator. Before the mediators. Before the lawyers. Before you started signing me up for everything like ballet and Girlscouts and softball and math camp so that I would never be home. Before I had two rooms in two houses that you forced me to call home. Before I grew up and realized that I no longer had a home. And what are parents if you don’t have a home? They aren’t. I don’t know who you are. You don’t even look like my parents anymore.

And so, I’m building my own home. It is an awesome home slash fort slash castle. It comes complete with toilet paper tube machine gun turrets and a blazing red battle flag made from a hand towel. And this bowl? That’s what I use to drop hot, liquid magma on unsuspecting invaders so that I can melt them like dragon fire. My dark mages summoned a spell that keeps the bowl from melting. Remind me to give them a raise. They do good work, those dark mages. They will fuck you up.

Source: Life on a Couch

Know that as you are outside of these walls, I will not protect you. Learn to fend for yourself. Because if life has taught me anything, and to quote dad, you can’t trust anyone. Because, like mom used to yammer on about, people are selfish. They are. And they will forget that their feelings are not yours. They will take everything from you. Even your childhood.

You stole my childhood. You stole my family. What’s inside these walls is the last shards of what’s left. It’s my small square of paradise. But you are cast out of paradise. You don’t deserve paradise. You deserve the hell you’ve created. I’m closing the door so I can forget the hell you made me live. And I’m never ever opening it up again. So get the fuck away from me — before me and my mages fuck you up. I’m closing the door on you. Do you understand? I’m closing the door. I’m closing the door. I’m closing … I’m … sorry. I love you, but I have to do this. Goodbye.


This monologue was developed in collaboration with Danielle Beckmann. All rights reserved by the author.

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