“Good morning,” croaked Elizabeth.

“What time is it?” groaned Dave.

“Oh crap! It’s one o’clock!” said Elizabeth.

“Shit!” shouted Dave, leaping out of bed. He threw on some clothes. He rushed about frantically looking for his shoes, his keys, his phone, then his keys again. He ran out the door quickly. His phone started to buzz. He knew who it was. He ignored it.

He drove as quickly as he could through traffic as thick as molasses. He cursed himself. He cursed the day. He cursed his job and everyone on the streets. Dave’s phone lit up with a text, ‘Are you coming to work?’ He was supposed to be there at half past noon. His day began in a catastrophe of emotions.

I’m late again. I’m always late. Why? Why? Why? I hate it when I do this. I hate myself. I hate my job. Traffic came to stop. There has to be a reason I’m late. It hiccuped forward. Why did I do this? What’s going on with me? I’m just so sad. I’m always sad. I miss her. I just miss her. I miss my sister.

Tears ran down Dave’s face and dripped onto his pants legs. You need to suck it up. You need to get over it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Suck it up. There wasn’t much he could do but keep driving. He had to get to work. He had to go on with his day. “I don’t have a sister anymore.” That morning still itched and throbbed in his brain like a faded scar; he’d never forget it. He’d never forget the sound of his parents sobbing in each other’s arms.

The house had been busy with people, all there to share their condolences. Dave avoided the small crowd; he was never sure how large it had been. He had wanted everyone to leave; he remembered hiding upstairs with his little brother and Elizabeth. She had been busy taking calls on his phone, intercepting concerned acquaintances. Everyone had to say they were sorry, and Dave had to wonder if they were compassionate or selfish. In the end, he was grateful for those who had been there, even if he had lashed out at them or thought about doing so. Grief made the world seem a dark and terrible place.

There had been two overwhelming desires in Dave: the first had been a longing to be alone, left untouched by condolers and mourners. The second had been a sense a duty to be with his family. Deep down, he wanted to know what was going through the minds of his mom and dad. How did they cope with this? He’d learned a number of things from them growing up, but they’d never had the chance to teach him how to deal with the sudden, irreversible pain of having your heart ripped out and your head dashed against tragedy’s asphalt.

He couldn’t be himself around these people who had only come to be there for him, his brother, his mom, and his dad. These people were flies buzzing around and licking at a wound on hot summer’s day. They were Botticelli’s angels, divine arms wrapped around the grieving, mortal husband and wife.

He couldn’t be himself around his family; to Dave, even the people he had known his entire life sometimes resembled strangers. He had never shared with them his long, persistent periods of existential dread, and so how could they really know who he was if they had never bothered to ask why he locked himself away so often. He remembered the uncounted hours after he’d come home late from school when he’d shut his door to the world and light, lingering alone in darkness. He wished he could return to that room. That room was the closest Dave had ever come to the exit sign in the corner of his brain.

Dave couldn’t have beared himself had he been alone. He had never loved his self-loathing nature or his uncontrolled anxieties over the mystery of purpose. These were shameful things. They were entirely imaginary problems rendered by Dave’s own thoughts; Dave found no righteousness, justice, or power in announcing them. Grief was now the same. Grief was shame.

He walked out near the railing above the living room. He didn’t dare lean down, but looked from afar; he had to keep some distance had from the flies. “Facebook’s blowing up with pictures of her...” Dave’s Dad barely finished that sentence, choking on words and tears and reality he was trying to swallow. The angels around him sniffled in empathy.

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Dave cried today like he had two years ago. Was it two years ago? This had been the third Thanksgiving his family had spent without his sister and would be the third Christmas. Dave had to work.

Once more, grief and shame were bedfellows. Traffic hit a red light. I deserve this hell. Dave wiped his eyes and descended further into madness. I should just run my car off the road. I don’t understand this game. I shouldn’t be playing it; someone else can take my spot. Get me out of this theatre. Get me out of this show. He noticed the light turn green. Traffic stayed still. The lights on stage turned red. I’m just sad. I miss her.

The car in front of him crept forward. He started to follow but hit the breaks with a lurch. I’m an hour late. I’m barely halfway there. Fuck this. He pounded the steering wheel with a short, furious howl. The car in front of him crept forward again. This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I’m better than this. I’m just pretending.

Through blurry eyes, Dave saw himself on stage in the red light. The actor flailed back, wailing dramatically then strutting about with appalling sobs. He donned a red nose, a bright orange wig, and big floppy shoes. The actor thrashed forward in misery; his head popped back up, covered in a tramp-style paint. This is just an excuse for being a piece of shit. Get over yourself. You’re not really sad. You don’t really miss her. ‘Yes, on my way!’ he texted back. Traffic began moving again. The clown on stage puttered about wildly with steering wheel in hand, sobbing with surreal zeal.

No. No, I’m actually sad. I’ve been sad for months. I do miss her. 18 years. No, 19 years. We knew each other for 19 years. I wish I could remember something. I wish I could pick out a fond memory. I just can’t. I can’t remember anything; I’m too damn sad.

“What’s happening on stage, Eugene?” whispered Dave from within the audience. “Why does he keep flailing about up there? Can’t he just get over himself?”

“Be quiet and watch,” said Eugene after a quick swig from a flask. His eyes were wide and haunting in the dark. “And no, he can’t. Can you just brush the pain off of a scraped knee?”

“But, he’s dressed like a clown!”

“Who isn’t?”

“Well, he needs to look up! He needs to keep his eyes on the road,” said Dave.

“You’re being very rude,” said Hitchcock with his slow English drawl, each word coming out like the arm of a sloth reaching for a branch.

“He’s going to crash, isn’t he? You’re the director; what’s happening next?”

“Why don’t you keep on watching, and try to enjoy the show,” said Hitchcock with a bygone matter-of-factness. “And, let’s hope the police don’t get involved.”

Dave stared at the stage with wide eyes. The actor ran about. I can’t do this! thought Dave from the audience seat. I can’t watch this! His eyes darted to the exit sign. I have to get out of here! Dave struggled and began to sweat. His eyes ran across the stage; Elizabeth was standing in the background. Her hands were on her hips. She rolled her eyes at her husband the clown.

Dave sat up straight. She thinks I’m pathetic. She’s sick of me acting like that. She just doesn’t understand. Behind Elizabeth, he noticed someone quietly curled up on their side. He strained his and recognized his wife’s face. It was soaked with tears.

Behind the curled up woman was a curtain with the silhouette of a man. The angry Elizabeth stomped over. She ripped the curtain down to reveal nothing was behind it. She beckoned for the curled up woman to collect herself. The woman on the floor shook her head like a child refusing to move before a whooping. The audience laughed as the back and forth went on. Finally, Elizabeth grabbed the fetal woman and began to slowly drag her off the stage like an old, heavy piece of luggage.

The audience roared with laughter, but Dave didn’t see what they did. He saw a proud woman dragging her own weight off the stage, dragging a broken version of herself. The two Elizabeths were as much one person as they were two people. They were the complex facets of being human, and while one was right, the other wasn’t wrong. While one might be wrong, the other isn’t always right. He saw the facade, and he saw the remainder, what was left after the brave face was worn out. I need to be nicer to her.

Dave pulled into the parking lot, finally. He was over an hour and fifteen minutes late; he didn’t care anymore. He just sat there and sobbed. He wiped his eyes with his shirt and tried to get control of his breathing. Today has to start before it can end.

He walked to the front door sniffling and wiping his eyes. People stared at him. Strangers wondered why he was crying, but what was he going to do, tell them? His co-workers didn’t seem to care. No one actually seemed to care; they just seemed to be curious.

He went in the back clocked in. He walked out and was told to go on front bar. He got to work immediately. You can’t stop. You can feel as badly as you want, but you’re going to keep on keeping on. It is what it is. C’est le guerre.

No one tried to talk to him while he stood there making drinks. That was probably for the best; he needed to forget himself. He needed to steam milk, count pumps, and pull shots. The world was going on, and so he had to find a way to do so as well. His shitty job was definitely an option.