Dramatic Monologue Final Draft

Hello! Good to talk to someone for once. I'm currently sitting at the
back of a shelf, waiting for someone to pick me up. While we wait, I
might as well tell you how I arrived here.
It was two years ago where I started out on another shelf, but in a
store. A bookstore, to be specific. I sat there as people walked past
me, some occasionally reading my blurb, then putting me back down.
It's such a pain to be gaslit so many times, sometimes you just lose
hope. Another day came along. Again, someone picked me up, but
this time it was different. I felt it in my pages.
I felt myself moving away at high speed, finally about to fulfil my
purpose.
I took a final look at my old spot on the bookshelf as I left the store.
No, I arrived at my new owner’s house I am put on their bedside
desk. By this point, my anticipation almost made me burst. At last,
they came along. As they tucked into bed, I knew my moment had
come. It began.
I told them my story for one hour, two hours, three hours, four hours,
It didn't seem to stop! Finally, after the billionth yawn, they finally
put me down and went to bed. But oh! It felt amazing! Absolutely
fizzling experience. And I was only halfway through with my story. For
the next few days, I was his most prized possession. He treated me
with special care, laying me softly down every time he finished. And
every time I was exhilarated from the experience. However, as I
neared the end of my story, a sudden thought occurred to me as I
flashed forwarded to what would happen once I finished. Was he
going to leave me to just rot on his shelf, or even thrown away! To be
recycled as a lowly paper straw, or something with not even a
fraction of my knowledge and power. Let me down. I was
uncomfortably aware of housing. The pages were through the end.
I still remember it bitterly, as I spoke my last word, as I was set down
on the shelf, never to be picked up again. This is where I still am. I've
already long given up on hope, it's useless. I just sit here for weeks,
months, years. Who knows how long? I watch my owner grow up,
have friends over, play video games, be bored. Yet here I am, right
here, right now, able to revive him from his misery. My page is turned
dog eared and yellow as even I get old. By this point, I've accepted
my fate, long ago, that I will be recycled. I just wonder when that day
will come.
Oh! What's this? I'm moving. Quite fast it seems. Is this a hand? Yes,
it is. Oh yes, I'm going to get read again! This a whole different
sensation, like being resurrected. And this face looks awfully
familiar. ... It's my owner’s son!