Broken monologue

BROKEN

INT: A TEENAGER'S BEDROOM

PAUL, a gentle man, is sitting helplessly by his daughter's bed. She's thirteen and sobbing into her pillow.

PAUL

You're not broken, sweetie. I know it feels that way now, but this kind of thing happens all the time. It's just part of growing up. Kids are mean. Especially boys.

(At a distant memory, he leans away from her and really considers his knees)

You know, you can only be you. At your age, everyone's just trying to figure out who they are. It means that a lot of feelings get hurt. You're, well, you're going through a lot of changes—

(She raises her head and gives him such a withering glare that he raises his hands and backs off)

Okay, okay! I won't mention 'changes.' I just mean that I know it's hard. You're not a little kid anymore and it's going to seem like everything or even nothing makes you mad or upset. That's part of growing up. It happens all the time.

(That seems to make the wailing worse and he seems baffled and ashamed)

Not that—well, I just meant that—I'm sorry. I'm sorry it hurts right now. I wish I could make it all just…hurt less.

(He reaches over and places his hand lightly on her back. She's calmed a little. After a moment)

I've felt broken before too. There are a lot of things—your brother—well, I'm just saying that it's okay if you feel that way. I won't tell you that it's not real. All pain is real. All of it matters. Hurt is hurt.

(After a long moment of hesitation)

There's this thing in Japan that I read about. It's called Kin…Kintsugi? Kintsugi. When they break a ceramic bowl or vase there, they don't throw it away. They don't slap some glue on it and hope it doesn't look broken. They piece it back together with bright gold or silver lacquer. All the cracks become part of the pattern.

(With great love and heavy tenderness)

Some things are more valuable after they've been broken.