Italics - Narrator’s thoughts

Bold italics - Cues from a higher command.

After Laughter
Shannon Higgins

ONE
TWO
THREE
ACTION!

I lounge across our living room couch, dabbling into the daily newspaper. It

arrived late today. “Tommy must have had a slow start this morning” is the reasoning

my wife gave. She made her way out of the kitchen, holding sandwiches for our girls

who would be home any minute from school.

“Maria likes turkey, but Susan loves chicken, so I made them different types. I

also cut Susan’s in half but Maria’s into four, no crust. Those two can never agree on

anything!” I cannot help but smile seeing her become so invested in our daughters’

happiness. She truly is lovely.

“Darling, please, sit down.” I motion for her to sit beside me. She takes a seat,

sandwiches in her left hand and my hand in her right.

“You fret so much. I love you for it, I do, and I know our girls feel the same. I

have never seen either of them turn down a meal from you, and frankly neither

could I.” I memorized those surprisingly well.

Without a second for her to think, Maria and Susan burst through the front

door, applause announcing their arrival. Both sport their leather school bags but

take off their shoes at the coat rack as always. Maria was much taller than before,

she must be growing well! We welcome them home and encourage them to sit with

us, but once they come closer they see the snacks and fill with delight.
 “Turkey, my favorite! Thank you so much Mama!” She gnaws into the

sandwich, much more ravenous than any other afternoon snack. My wife throws her

a confused glance, mine slightly more horrified.

“Honey,” my wife says, “I thought you liked chicken more.” The live audience

starts to laugh at the mistake. Susan stops mid chew, looking up to her, then to me

who cannot say a word, wondering why she ate so quickly because the sandwich is

plastic. The snack leaves her mouth, and with a continued round of laughter she

begins to cry. Only once I kneel to her level does the audience silence. I need to get

things back on track.

“Now, now, sweetheart, it’s okay.” I offer a gentle smile.

“I messed up” is all I hear through her muffled tears.

“That’s normal. You can always try again, life is full of chances!” She needs to

pull it together. She regains the smallest amount of composure, just enough to

whisper in my ear.

“That was my third.”

Frozen is the best way to describe this. No words can fix her fate. I offered a

hug, and stood to free up space, but she grabbed the arm of my suit, begging.

“Daddy please! One more chance! I’ll do better next time.” She trembles, her

eyes pleading for me to fix everything. She’s too young to know that even I have no

power here. I guide her to the door, and watch as she holds the handle in her fragile

hands. I wish to help but know I’d risk my own clean slate. The red light takes her in,

and the door closes without a second thought.

If I’m lucky, I’ll never know what is beyond that door.

TWO
THREE
ACTION!

The clapperboard snaps my mind into motion. On my cue, I rattle the door

handle and swing the front door wide open. My strut has a bounce only a swooning

man could endure, as beyond that door lies the light of my life. I stumble my way

into the brightly strewn living room, glancing at every little detail I miss after a long

day of work. The fireplace freshly snuffed out Is this our first take?, the drawings my

children bring home from school I genuinely can’t remember, the stair’s railings

covered in red and gold garland Have the stage lights always been this warm?, and

most of all, her.

“Darling! I’m home!” I call to her.

She is my motive, my muse. Well, at least for now. Soon it will be a business

proposal, or a one-off about being a better father, but at this moment my goal is her.

To see her smile If it’s not perfect we’ll have to start all over again and embrace her

loving warmth. I run my fingers across the garland, waiting for her guest appearance.

Soon enough she will swing into place at the top of the stairs, empty coffee mug in

hand. She says it is her only fuel during daily meetings. Just one more second and-

No one.
 “Take your time, sweetheart! The girls will be home any second. I’ll wait for

them down here.” The live audience laughs. Strike 1.

I sit down on the right side of the mulberry red couch, newspaper adjacent on

the coffee table. Why didn’t she come down? I stare at the blank insides of paper for

far too long. Eyes bore holes through these fake articles, waiting for progression. I

wait for her. Patience is a virtue, no matter how thin virtues can become. I glance to

the staircase in case she awaits my attention.

Empty.

“Looks like they’re building a new town hall.” Did no one tell her we started?

The second floor hallway lies dormant, its abyss turning my stomach now that I sat

alone with it. I show no fear. I am a grateful man with a family I love and an audience

that boosts me high If they don’t freeze me out first. And they are grateful for me too.

“Sorry about that, dear!” A cheer erupts from the audience. She is here.

“Work was asking so many questions today.” She floats down the stairs.

“Events, accounts, new hires, they practically hand me everything!”

She is - not my wife.

My instinct is to question her, this woman who barged into my home. This is

not my usual counterpart. Where are the bouncy red curls? The freckles that adorned

her collar are nowhere to be seen. The makeup team did not even try to match her to

the predecessor! You cannot replace someone so easily. I regain my persona for the

sake of the take.

“No worries! The girls haven’t even arrived yet.” I smile triumphantly, exactly

as I was told. My arms are ready to hug the girls as soon as they run through the
door. I practiced before to keep them safe. They still refuse to tell me what

happened the last time they missed my embrace.

My new wife looks at me with a soft smile of pity.

“Dear, we don’t have any daughters.” The audience howls.

Strike two.

“W-what do you mean, honey? Susan and Maira will be back any minute.”

My laugh could never mask the panic creeping up my spine.

“You seem pale, I’ll make you some soup.”

“I don’t…like soup, dear.” Why did I say that? Just go with it!

“Now don’t be silly! It’s french onion.” With a grin to me, then the audience,

she exits stage left. The sweat drips past my scalp over my dry cheek and into the

corner of my mouth. The direction is too off-script for me to continue. Why are the

cameras still rolling? With lights beating down on my suit, and a mind too scattered

to even call “line,” I freeze. All I can see are lights, engulfing my eyes in flames that

never bothered me until this scene. Heat rises through my chest as each breath

heats the ornate living room. The fireplace is cool yet its flames catch me. When did

it get this hot?

I try to distance myself from the fireplace, yet stumble over the shaggy rustic

carpet. Strike 3. It was a thrifted buy, right? Or maybe it was a gift from my mother-in-

law. They chuckle in the distance. Where is my wife? The new one, is she gone

already? The kitchen could be empty for all I know. Only five minutes in and they

take her too. The laughter grows. It swells from behind the lights; an audience filled

with glee. It feels like static, pricking my skin from beneath my suit. I can’t see them.
Can they see me? Surely they can. Otherwise they wouldn’t laugh as I try to stand,

only to be crushed by the weight of their shrieks. They mock me. They invalidate

me. They call for my removal.

The lights burn far greater than ever before. My bones ache under the heat. I

crawl behind the couch to avoid the light yet the warmth stings me still. Small burns

dot my white collar shirt, I scream in agony yet it falls on deaf ears. My head falls

between my arms. I prepare for a crushing weight to destroy me once and for all,

but it never comes. What does come is my skin, loosening and stretching in ways I

could only feel yet never see. The crowd is entertained with my pain as they breach

my ears with howls that cover any sounds I could possibly make.

CUT!

The lights cut out. Relief swells into my chest, and I take the chance to stand.

With both feet on the ground, I brace to check my injuries, but they never happened.

The abyss leaves my eyesight useless, not a single camera with a recording light on.

Maybe they changed their mind?

A glowing red beam leaks from underneath the front door, It sways with a

movement more lifelike than even I can show. I should run. One step. I won’t get far.

Two steps. This is the only door I know. Three. My hand cups the door handle, frozen

without the heat of the lights. The beam dances with finesse, becoming more

tempting every second as if luring me was necessary. I don’t have a second option.

With a gentle push, I leave the stage to its own devices. It will notice when I am

gone and find someone else to fill that role soon enough. My eyelids droop, causing
me to stumble onto the floor. Pin pricks run up my neck and face. Whatever takes

hold, at least I know it is over.

I have been reassigned

…..

I awake, glued to my very own chair. It is comfortable, but not too

comfortable. My view is narrow. I cannot move my head. It is just where it needs to

be. No need to waste time causing a ruckus. My sleep gave me patience. I can only

feel through the pressure on my back. There is an overwhelming sensation in my

face. Pain. Red thread adorns my cheeks, forcing a grin so wide a dentist would

rejoice. Skin wishing it could burst free, even if it had to tear off of my face to do so.

My hands hover in front of me, one on each side, refusing to move no matter how I

request it. What am I, a monkey? They feel no weariness as they wait for their cue, in

fact they feel nothing at all. Are these even mine? And do they come with cymbals?

My view floods with light, but not on me. I sit behind the warmth and stare at

the fireplace that almost burnt my skin, the railings that mocked me, and the

drawings that line the - wait. Where are they? Any traces of children are gone. No

little shoes by the front door or sundresses slung over the couch, and their drawings

- their drawings are gone. All that remains are blank walls. Pale tawny canvases

ready to fill whatever new storyline they crave.

a man who cannot feel much, I sure do freeze. Both on and off stage. I’m not the

only one. My head has no control to show me everyone in this crowd, but I can

make out my wife, my true wife, nearby me. Her amber locks are tousled in dirt, at

least from behind. Gardening before she left, no doubt. Has she been here the whole

time? Was she forced to view my demise? Up on that dreaded stage? That was my

stage, so this is -

THREE
ACTION!

The clapperboard rings through my ears. My hands begin to move in rhythm

with the sound of clapping. I add to the wave as a presence enters the stage.

Swinging the door open, he bounds into the room only a swooning man could

endure that and waits for the roar to subside.

“Darling! I’m home!” No response.

He sits on the same dusty red couch, picks up the same newspaper, and

pretends to read the blank pages that caught my nerves not long ago. Did they

catch his as well? Was he as nervous as I was? I shout out to him, yet all I hear is

laughter. I force myself to yell for his attention but the sound of anguish never

comes. My laughter soars to the stage and catches the man off-guard. The crowd

joins me in hysterics. We chuckle and laugh and begin to tear up. My cheeks

become sore, but the red thread keeps my mouth in an ever-curving grin. I can

barely see through my watery eyes that flood from a mixture of laughter and pain.

Tell him. Tell him I’m here! Tell him I need help! I laugh even harder. The thread pops
through my hysterics. The strings fall for a second, then re-stitch themselves higher

than before. The pain my skin feels is agonizing. Why is that so funny?

Help me, please!

The man moves his newspaper. Squinting into the darkness, he stands to

grasp a better view of us. Our laughter. It calls him to see us. This is my chance. My

internal screams form whoops and hollers that impel him towards me. He attempts

to step off the stage, dropping one foot below the stage into our darkness. The

ceiling lights shift to center only on him. The living room walls are cast in shadows

as every light hits him. He recoils with a yelp as his pant leg catches on fire and

begins rolling on the ground. We scream for his survival. He hears our laughter and

curses us, begs us for release. We are not in control here. Our gazes lock, even

though he cannot see me. His eyes are bloodshot, brimming with tears as the fire

consumes both of his legs. Now we both have no legs to feel. This man, and me. The

needles wrap him in red thread, piercing his skin in places all too familiar. He

screams for my help. Small holes burn into his shirt. I laugh.

I cannot help myself.