Philomene Doucette is a made-to-order assassin, and death never looked so good. Orphaned and brainwashed from the age of six, by Beau Dupree, a C.I.A spook, she is a beautiful, empty killing machine, fractured from systematic abuse. Philomene is given her most important assignment yet: executing Haruto Mori, the leader of a deadly Japanese clan. To conceal her identity, Philomene is smuggled into Japan under the guise of being a sex worker and is presented as a gift for Haruto. Philomene’s mission to kill Haruto becomes an inner battle as she struggles between her conditioning, the affection she feels for Haruto and her increasing desire for Tadakai, her CIA handler.
When Haruto is unexpectedly murdered by another assassin, Philomene uses her deadly training to find answers. She learns of a shocking government plot for mass murder at an upcoming Yakuza Summit—where Tadakai will be in attendance.
Philomene rescues Tadakai, and together they find a haven in a remote, abandoned farmhouse. As they forge a deeper connection, the two make a life-changing decision to leave this dangerous lifestyle behind to create a new life together...but their past misdeeds will not be absolved without exacting bloody sacrifices.
Currently performing in the Broadway National Tour of The Book of Mormon, Monica has worked with such notables as Jesse Norman, Diahann Carroll and Freda Payne. She covered Eartha Kitt as the Fairy Godmother in Rodgers and Hammerstein's' Cinderella and sang opposite Jon Secada as the Narrator in the National Tour of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Her other credits include; Broadway: Finian's Rainbow, Abby's Song, and Ragtime. Off-Broadway: Little Ham. National Tours: Disney's The Lion King, Annie 30th Anniversary; City Center Encores! productions: On The Town, Pipe Dream, Fanny, Anyone Can Whistle, Purlie, Finian's Rainbow and Applause. When she is not onstage, you can find her in a quick change booth--writing, playing video games with her daughter or perched on a stool, having a cocktail
It is the eve of Philomene's biggest mission to date and she can't quiet the voices in her head.
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Waking of the Witch
Philomene went out the front door into the stifling heat. A wisp of a breeze tickled her skin as she searched the night sky for answers to unspoken questions. She felt with certainty that she was standing at the crossroads and payment in full was long overdue. She walked down the stairs then stopped and turned to look up. Mr. Ceebo was watching her from the attic bay window, and their eyes locked in quiet conference. He smiled, and what remained of Alice’s little girl tipped her head and smiled back.
Philomene went around back, past the practice field to the tool shed. She grabbed an old kerosene lamp and a box of matches from off the shelf overhead and walked out, into the dense swamp behind. Sounds from all around her seemed to herald her arrival as if they were welcoming their queen back from a long absence. She felt at home, there in the dark.
She approached a tiny shack, standing lonely amid the lush beauty of the swamp. The roof had caved in partially on one side. Overgrown vines threatened to swallow it whole. The marsh, like any mistress left alone too long, had taken back all that she had given. It had been years since Philomene visited the place, and she was not sure of why she picked that night to return.
As she opened the door, the light reflected eerily inside the tiny edifice. A wood-burning stove stood in the middle of the one-room building. Philomene placed the lamp on top of it and looked around. On one side was a damp, rotted-out table with two chairs that had withstood the brunt of exposure from the damaged roof. On the other, a narrow wooden platform with a pallet made of old quilts and a rocking chair. She walked over and sat down on the chair, hoping that the long years had been kind.
Slowly, she rocked back and forth and the motion ushered in what was getting harder and harder to keep at bay. The time was for ghosts. She needed solace, this night, that’s why she sought out a sanctuary in the place where her mother found hers. Chattel had lived there; souls robbed of their freedom. Bought. Sold. Trapped. She wondered if her mother felt a kinship, surrounded by the trapped spirits.
Philomene stopped rocking. She heard--no, felt--a presence. She searched with her mind’s eye for danger but sensed none. She knew of only one person who could come that close without detection.
The door opened.
Tadakai took in the view before him. Philomene presented a picture of domesticity, sitting there. He crossed over and knelt down, putting his head on her lap and with all the softness she possessed, Philomene stroked his curtain of blue-black hair, permitting herself that small indulgence.
He lifted his head, his desire for her plain for all to see. She leaned down and kissed him. It was a hungry kiss, slow in its bittersweet perusal. Philomene felt starved for something no one could give her.
She was at war with herself, living in both the light and the dark. Tadakai had become a light in her otherwise dark world and for that she was grateful but what he was offering, she told herself, she had no right to take.
She abruptly broke the kiss.
Tadakai stood, backing up a little, eyes awash with anguish.
Philomene left him there and walked further into the swamp. She knew that what happened at the end of the barrel would never sit well with Tadakai. It sat well enough with her because it was all she knew