How To Write A Compelling Opening Monologue For A Play?

When the murderer tortures me to death, my criminal investigator dad and chief forensic pathologist mom are cheering at my brother's match. The criminal saws off my tongue. He answers my Dad's call with my finger. Just before the call ends, Dad's cold voice cuts through. "Playing dead, huh? We should never have brought him back." The murderer chuckles mockingly. "Looks like I grabbed the wrong kid. I thought they'd care more about their real son." When Mom and Dad arrive at the crime scene later, they stare at the mutilated body in shock and rage at the murderer's cruelty. But they never realize that the broken, bloodied body is their biological son.

Hi there. By now, you know about the boys. Those guys who are too handsome to miss … too cocky to ignore … and far too dangerous to get involved with. And you probably figured out … these stories are not officially about them. Not completely. It’s about us. Girls like me. The ones who don’t mean to get pulled in. The ones who know better … but still fall in love. The ones who should have walked away … but didn’t. I wish I could say I was different. That I saw it coming. That I made the smart choice. I didn’t. So here I am. Aria Thompson. The next girl. Next one to fall for a San Francisco Boy. Enrique Lucio Blackburn. Famous actor. International model. Renowned playboy. Beautiful, broken … and completely unreachable. Big mistake. People think they know him. They see the smirk. The fame. The endless string of women. They don’t see the truth. He turned himself into a robot. Untouchable. Emotionless. Enrique Blackburn is allergic to love. And me? I walked straight into his world with a contract in my hand and desperation in my chest. My sister needed treatment. He needed to fix his reputation. So we made a deal. Fake girlfriend. Public appearances. Perfect photos. No sex. No love. No relationship. Simple, right? Yeah … not even close. Because the line between fake and real can get blurred very quickly. He started to matter. And despite the consequences, I let him steal my heart. I have everything to win, but much more to lose. So the real question isn’t whether I can survive this deal … but can I make the man who feels nothing … feel everything? Can I turn fiction into something real? And most importantly … can I make him say the words?

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After my younger brother died, my parents and grandfather all killed themselves. Each of them died in a different way, but they shared one thing in common: Before their deaths, every one of them had read my brother's suicide note. And in that note, there was only a single sentence. Reporters fought for a chance to interview me. The police interrogated me overnight. Countless people wanted to know what that sentence said. But I never told anyone. Until the tenth anniversary of my brother's death, when I saw a figure standing in front of his grave. At that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of excitement. Because I knew my turn had finally come.

When the half-mile sprint test is about to begin, Quiana Sullivan, the class president, and I have applied to be exempted from it. My own mother, who's the homeroom teacher of my class, approves Quiana's application with a smile. But she then throws mine to the floor. "You're having a chest pain, you say? I can't believe you're able to come up with such lies just to avoid the half-mile sprint! I'd have known if you had a heart condition! "Quiana is weak by nature, not to mention she's on her period right now, so she can't handle the agony. What about you, hmm? You've always been perfectly healthy, yet now you're telling me that you're suffering from heart pain? "Don't go around embarrassing me just because you want to slack off! I don't want others claiming that I'm being biased toward my own child! As long as you're still alive and kicking, you must finish the half-mile course no matter what!" Left without a choice, I can only return to the field. The cold wind makes me feel even dizzier now. My heart keeps contracting uncontrollably against my will. Suddenly, it just stops pumping. The next thing I know, I collapse onto the grassy field heavily. When my consciousness is about to flicker to darkness, my mom finally walks over to me. But she merely kicks my arm with a frown on her face, and her tone remains glacial. "Stop playing dead. Get up right now." She doesn't realize that I can never open my eyes ever again. Isn't this great, Mom? No one will ever claim that you're biased toward your own child. I've used my life to prove how fair and just you are. You must be happy now, right?

After transmigrating through three novels in a row, the hardest thing I ever suffer through is drinking iced long black. But when I open my eyes again, I somehow become the pathetic simp side character in a trashy romance novel. Just as I debate whether to file a complaint against the system, the trembling system hurriedly explains something to me. Although this is a trashy romance novel, it is also an unfinished abandoned novel. I ask, "So you're saying I decide how the story develops?" The system replied, "Yes. Everything is completely under your control." Satisfied, I lazily stretch and begin checking the original Jacob's background. He has a trillionaire father and a billionaire mother. On top of that, he has seven rich and beautiful older sisters. With such a ridiculously overpowered setup, how can he go around simping for a broke college girl with no money? What a complete waste!