In a life more or less defined by shameful failures, a few of them stood head and shoulders above the rest. The time John tripped on his way to home plate at age six, for example, then fell face first and knocked the wind out of himself, giving the catcher an eternity to trot over and tag him out while both teams shared a hearty laugh - that one was choice. Or the time he wet his sleeping bag at a seventh-grade sleepover with nine of his friends.

Or the time his girlfriend dumped him so he stopped doing everything, failed out of college and had to come live with his parents and literally waste oxygen for the next two years.

There were so many good ones to choose from.

Still, as John stood in that Christmas Eve hell before the expectant faces of his family, holding an upside-down cowboy hat of charades clues, he felt instinctively that this one had the potential to top them all.

John had never been good at charades. The Robbie family had played this game every Christmas Eve for his entire life, and before that on his mother’s side for decades further back, and John had never improved at it, even a little. Knowing himself, he’d probably gotten worse. Moreover, he sucked at performing in front of people. His nerves eat him alive, and he inevitably blanked.

The ingredients required for a lasting, shameful memory were all here. Start with John’s incompetence, add in a generous amount of public spectacle, and finally, for a little spice, sprinkle in the scornful judgment of his betters. As John glanced around the room, starting with the tense smiles of his brother, mother and sister and ending with the disdainful glare of his father - not to mention the hungry, mocking smirk of Vanessa’s new girlfriend, Molly - he imagined a helping of vegetables thrown into a broth.

“Let’s go, John,” his mother said with a supportive point.

“You got this, Johnny boy,” Clark said, echoing the sentiment as Claire nodded along.

One day, John would like to be normal enough that people didn’t have to bolster his confidence for simple things. It would never happen, but still. He would like it. He reached into the hat, wiggled his fingers among the tiny strips of paper and chose one. Nervous energy quaked up and down his spine as he straightened the strip to read it.

The Matrix

Great. This was just perfect. A two-word clue, and neither of the words could be acted out individually. Vanessa could probably figure out how to act out the word “the,” but certainly not John. And “matrix?” John wasn’t even sure he knew what a matrix was. The only way to do this was to act out a scene from the movie, and the prospect of doing that redoubled John’s anxiety. Molly already said “that’s not how charades works.” John didn’t agree with her, but still. She would judge him for this.

Like she isn’t judging you already, you fat fucking loser, said the voice at the back of his mind.

John was taking too long. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to do something, but like always he was lost and being awkward and holding everything up. This shouldn’t be a problem. He had seen The Matrix ten times, at least. He practically knew it by heart. If he was the one guessing, someone could act out just about any scene and he’d know. Other people though - normal people - didn’t watch the same movie over and over again. He would have to act out the most iconic scene if his team was going to have any chance at getting this. Only one came to mind.

You are going to fuck this up.

The heat of the fireplace warming his back, John held up two fingers.

“Two words,” his mother and Clark blurted simultaneously.

John simulated the cranking of an old movie camera.

“Film,” they say, though Clark gets there a little faster.

Trying his best to push away a wild surge of panic, John began to act out the scene he had chosen.

In the movie The Matrix, there was a pivotal part when the good guys have to confront an “agent” on a rooftop. Though, as the viewer had learned earlier in the film, no one had ever faced an agent and lived. Keanu Reeves’ Neo was held by one at gunpoint, and it seemed like he was done for. When the agent opened fire on him, however, Neo dodged with an inhuman backbend that left him parallel with the ground, knees bent and arms waving dramatically as the bullets passed by in slow motion. For whatever reason, it was the scene everyone knew.

As John began to bend backward, he was well aware of his own limitations. He was fat, uncoordinated and probably not very limber, so his expectations for mimicking Neo’s special-effects-rendered contortion were not high. He just needed to bend backward far enough to get the point across. Clark, at least, should know this one.

He arched back as far as his unfit body would allow, then began to wave his arms backward in a circle as he watched invisible, slow-motion bullets fly past.

“Oh yeh,” Clark said. “Obvious. Its…”

As John’s left arm circled backward, the delicate balance keeping him upright faltered. His body shifts leftward like he had been shoved, and instinctively, he jerked himself back to the right to recover his center. This only further destabilized things, however, and in the span of one, nightmarish heartbeat, John was plummeting backward.

Heat crushed into the back of his head, dazing him. The world grayed out. In the blur that followed, a woman screamed, furniture dragged urgently across hardwood flooring, a man shouted and John’s body was drug forward, away from whatever was burning him. Though it all, however, two things rang through the haze of John’s mind in perfect clarity. His father’s voice, bristling with irritation and disdain, muttering “For Christ’s sake.” And the voice of a young woman, laughing. Laughing at him.

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Cold blasted across him. It erased the heat from his head but only dulled the pain. As unintelligible questions bombarded John from above, the living room came back into focus, though not entirely. He saw it as though he alone was underwater, and everything else was above the surface. Clark, Vanessa and John’s mother were all standing over him. His mother was feeling around on John’s head, as though searching for something in his hair. In her other hand was a water bottle, empty and dripping its final drops.

“Can you talk to me John?” she asked.

Her voice distorted strangely, but the question makes sense. For some reason, though, he could not reply. The words refused to come. A high-pitched squeal reverberated in his ears like an antique television had been turned on but given no input.

“This is really important, buddy,” she said. “I just need a yes. Can you talk to me?”

“Y-yes,” he mumbled. The word came out thick and syrupy.

“That’s good, buddy,” John’s mother replied tightly. “You’re going to be okay.”

“That’s right,” Vanessa said, “No worries, John.”

“I can’t believe I got that on video,” Molly said.

John rolled slightly until he can see past Vanessa’s crouching form to her partner, Molly, who had her phone pointed at him. He face was plastered with an Oh my god this is so embarrassing but I love it smile.

Vanessa wheeled on her.

“Stop it, Mol. Right now.”

Molly’s smile only left her porcine face until Vanessa turned back to John.

She’s sees you for what you really are. A fucking embarassment.

“Does your stomach feel okay, John?” his mother asked.

His stomach? It was his head that throbbed like a cartoon thumb. Though, when John took a moment to check in with himself, his stomach wasn’t doing much better. Whatever he had eaten that day was in the middle of a violent coup, battering against the entrance to his stomach with angry fists. He had to get out of here. If John threw up it would only be worse. Already, he would never be able to face any of these people ever again.

“Hang on now, buddy,” his mother said, trying to ease him back down as he began to rise.

“Need to go,” John muttered thickly. “I’m fine.”

Against the further protestations of his family, John staggered to a knee, fighting to stay upright while the earth wobbled beneath him. His father, who hadn’t even uncrossed the ankle from his leg, tipped scotch into his scowling face.

He sees you for what you are too. A fucking disappointment.

“Boy says he’s fine,” Gerald Robbie said. “It’s just a little burn, no need to get worked up about it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Gerald,” John’s mother retorted, “I forgot you had a medical degree. These ‘little’ burns are second degree and they’ve taken a fair amount of his hair. It’s also obvious to anyone with actual medical training that John has a concussion. He might need to go to the E. R.”

His hair was burned off? Oh god, John must have looked ridiculous. He needed to get back to his apartment and lock the door behind him. He could never face anyone again, not after this.

“Have to go,” John said, rising shakily to his feet.

“Easy there, Neo,” Clark said as he steadied John with a gentle hand. “Why don’t we let the doctor take it from here, okay? Mom knows what she’s doing.”

They pity you. They pity the sad, incompetent baffoon, just like always.

“Have to go.”

As John took a stumbling step towards the kitchen, his mother interposed herself between him and his way out, placing a hand on his chest.

“Let’s just sit down for a-”

John’s arm reacted on its own. It slapped her hand away, hard, setting off a tumult around them in the living room. His father’s voice overpowered them all.

“Watch it, son,” he said, his tone dripping venom as he pointed in warning. “If you touch my wife again, we’re going to have a problem.”

As John turned to face his father, the appeasing voices of Clark and Vanessa distorting into incomprehensible mutters, something inside him shifted. His father had risen from his chair, glass of liquor clutched like a grenade, red faced and gritting his teeth so hard the chords on his neck protruded visibly. The man who had frightened John his whole life suddenly became nothing. Meaningless. Like the rest of them, he was merely a collection of molecules to which an arbitrary name had been given. He meant nothing.

“Fuck you,” John said, looking his father in the eyes for the first time all night. Maybe for the first time in his life.

“What did you just say to me, boy?” he retorted in a tone that promised violence. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

“Gerald, he’s confused,” John’s mother said. “This is what happens with a bad concussion, he needs to-”

“Fuck you too,” John said.

Shelia Robbie recoiled as though her son had thrown acid in her face. As Clark and Vanessa began to admonish John, and Claire looked on horrified, and Molly smirked over her recording phone and Johns father stalked forward like a hungry tiger, John swept an unsteady finger across them all.

“Fuck all of you,” he spat. “You don’t give a shit about me. You never have. You feel sorry for me so you pretend to be nice but deep down you know you’re ashamed we’re even related. Admit it. You all wish I was dead.”

As John pushed past his mother and stumbled towards the kitchen, where a side door would lead him out of this hell and back to his sanctuary, her voice froze him.

“That’s not true, John. We love you. We love you so much. You’re hurt, and we just want to help you.”

Her voice broke into a sob. John didn’t have to look to see the tears running down her cheeks. Whatever emotion that might have pulled from him was overwhelmed by the nothing inside. He harnessed it.

“I don’t want your help,” he said. “I don’t love you, I don’t need you and I don’t give a fuck if I never see any of you again. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

As he pulled the door open, a stunned, horrified silence having taken hold of these people who were so recently laughing and having fun, John uttered one, final word.

“Cunt.”