De Vicky

Dita: Welcome, welcome, welcome! Goodevening, goodevening, goodnight! 

Dolora: Let us tell you a story. About a woman and her mother. About anxiety and a hell of a fire. This woman, this woman, oh she has a name. This woman, her name, let’s play a game. It starts with a capital V and ends with a Y. Vicky she’s called. Vicky is her name. 

Dita: She is soft, she is sad, she is hot. She’s alive and at the same time she’s not. 

Dolora: She smells like strawberries, tastes like blueberry pie and sounds like a mockingbird high in the sky. Sweet and sour. Milk and spice powder. She silently hides all little heartaches. 

Dita: Oh Vicky, yes Vicky! She sparkles, she cries, she suffers, she’s afraid. She smiles, she giggles, she’s one hairless hell of a maid. 

Dolora: It’s a story. Such a sad little story. About life locked in a self-chosen little box. Never to be unlocked. The windows are closed. The curtains are closed. The door is locked. Stay away she whispers day after day. 

Dita: She loves, she loathes, she hates.  She cries, she smiles, she suffocates. Every tear is a star. And her life’s so bizar. She dreams herself happy. Although she sometimes feels crappy. She raises her glass. And waxes her ass. Adieu she says and bows and waves.As she digs and digs and digs her own grave. 

Dolora: She sips. She stumbles. She blows kisses and screams: goodbye!. As she is – ooooh – about to die. And fireworks, fireworks up in the sky. Red and green and blue so high! Sky rocking Vicky. Vicky. Oh Vicky. The Vicky. Rise high! This beautiful human being. That lives in a pink quarantine. Come Vicky come, this is the end. And it will be the best time someone ever spent. Dying. 

Telefoniste: Please hang up and try your call again. Please hang up now. This is a re-recording.