The Sitcom

by Kelleigh Cram

Click.

Multi-colored light fills the room, waking me. This is the part when I get up, go about my day, facing trials and tribulations of the lighthearted variety for the amusement of strangers. It always starts the same, that music, upbeat with a moralistic tone. I can’t remember what happened between this moment and reading my name on the closing credits, but the dread of it clings to me, a reminder that none of this is real. I open the door as the song ends, delivering a perfectly timed one-liner. 

Pause.

My hand stops mid-air, reaching for the mug. During pause I am incapacitated yet fully aware, the closest my conscious mind gets to the in-between. The moment stretches on, locking me in place while pulling me apart like one of those medieval torture devices. Unable to move I am forced to remember the darkness, the nothing, the act of non-existence that is my life without an audience. 

Rewind.

A force yanks me backwards until the door closes in front of me. Once again I step out of my bedroom, delivering the punch line to an awaiting laugh track. I don’t know how they stand it, feigned amusement, just as happy hearing the joke for the thousandth time as the first. 

Mute.

I pour the coffee, no splash as the liquid hits ceramic. The cup steams in silence.

Unmute. 

I slurp, hot liquid searing my insides as the pain crawls up my ribcage. I cry out, but only half a scream.

Click.

* * *

KELLEIGH CRAM resides in a small town near Savannah Georgia. Her work has been featured in Bright Flash Literary Review, Bacopa Literary Review, and Right Hand Pointing.

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