First set of monologues

This year I have been fortunate enough to be enrolled into a play writing class. Everytime that class meets, we must turn in three monologues so I thought that I would post them to get a bit of feedback. (Keep in mind that these are my first attempts at writing monologues) 

Monologue #1:

Letting people in isn't really my forte. So I kind of cheat out of it. I'll tell one person a story but then change it around when I tell it to someone else. It's some kind of sick guessing game.

So here's the truth: I don't know who I am or what most of my story is. I'm told that the first few years were the worst of it, but that's all a blur. But it sure sounds like hell.

Long story short, my dad was a major illegal druggie that introduced my mom to rock and roll--or as we call it at home, "good music"--and knocked her up. Three months prior to my birth, my dad got the heck out of dodge. 

So my mom scrapes us up a living by working three waitressing jobs and busting her ass in school. Meanwhile, I spent the majority of the first few years of my life in a daycare where i was raped by a member of the staff on a regular basis until I was six.

Dead-beat dad tries to worm his way back into my life with court orders and false accusations against my mother, and it works for a few years. Just this year I stood up to him and told him to piss off. He hasn't called me since. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

So here I am now, living relatively comfortably with my mother (who is a licensed therapist), my second step-dad (whose not the best, but certainly better than my first two father figures), and my six-year-old blind, autistic little brother.

Don't even talk to me about stress.

Monologue #2:

  I'll give you three guesses at my name because I know that somewhere deep inside you, you know who I am.

was the kid that sat at the back of the class and stayed the hell out of the way. If you didn't ask me a 'yes' or 'no' question, then you weren't going to hear a peep out of me.

I was the kid that opened the door for one person and ended up having to hold it for ten minutes as people rushed to take advantage of a small convenience. I was too much of a push over to say 'no' and go inside.

I was the kid that spent the whole bus ride staring unblinkingly out the window while you talked to your friends.

So tell me, what's my name? Or did you even take the time to ask me in the first place?

Monologue #3:

I created life today.

And yesterday, and the day before that, and so on since I was seven years old. Because this is what you do when you're shut up in your head all day: you make people.

I'm not talking about imaginary friends. No, that's for amateurs/ I constructed a living, breathing, thinking, feeling human being by dragging an ink pen across a piece of paper and making letter after word after page.

They're so charismatic!--that;s how I know that they're their own people and not just myself with a different name. I giggle at their banter with one another. I cry when one of them passes away. I don't create their story or their personalities, I simply write them. There's no game-of-chance involved.

When I pick up my pen--and yes, it is always a pen--they tell me their stories. They want to be heard. They beg me to write out their life so that they can be remembered. What can I say? I've always been a people-pleaser. 

I wonder sometimes if they feel stuck on the paper when I write them out. They tell me it's the best freedom they've ever felt. They're trapped inside the ink of my pen until I write them out.

Won't you please read their stories? They've waited so long to be acknowledged. I can only write so much and even then i hear them sobbing inside of my pens.

They are very gracious. You see, their way of thanking me is to shed some of their ink onto the side of my hand when I write them. That way, I know what good I have done, and I am able to keep their stories on my skin.