Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

That’s something else I’ll recover, the fact that I am self-absorbed.

I DON’T KNOW

“I don’t know” is a placeholder hanging with the drug-induced numbness of the past week. I haven’t so much as left the basement since leaving the hospital. I’ve failed to really grasp the events of the week before.

I reach the door to the basement and after taking a couple heavy breaths, I step into the kitchen. The comfort of the house is never more apparent than in the kitchen and adjoining dining and family rooms.

Recover: the memories of spending long nights watching movies, analyzing fight footage, and smoking cigars in the family room while Sarah Mullen ran around playing various imaginative games, often mixing drinks for Spencer and I.

Recover: the memories of Spencer Mullen, my only friend, longtime agent and trainer.

It’s all starting to snap into place.

Recover: the memories of the fight between Executioner and I.

Recover: the memories of public spectacle, “I KILLED A MAN.”

Recover: the memories of Spencer paying off the authorities, keeping them quiet on the fact that it was a lie. No man murdered. No man harmed.

Recover: the memory of a recent argument with a certain someone.

The medicated numbness pulls back as I am reminded of what’s missing.

Recover: the memory of Spencer being absent from recent events, Spencer and the kidnappings; the kidnappings and how they are escaping and what that might mean for Spencer and our professional relationship and the friendship as a whole.

Recover: enough to send me into a sprint around the house, listening for those footsteps.

I run to one end of the hall and wait.

Listen.

I hear footsteps trailing behind me, stopping, mimicking my own.

Don’t move. Wait.

The footsteps begin up the steps to the second floor. Each step creaks with deliberate purpose. Direct me to where I need to be.

I run up the steps, feeling nauseous due to the increase in heart-rate after having been medicated and stationary for so long.

I really shouldn’t be running around like this, not while on this sort of medication, but who’s going to stop me? Myself?

Yeah right.

No trust there.

The second floor hallway is lightless and dark.

The stairs continue to creak long after I’ve climbed them.

Annoyed, I shout:

QUIET!

And the house is still.

Tune into the atmosphere. I merge into the cadence of the house.

I open the one door that leads to the one room that matters most.

Sarah sits in a rocking chair, talking to herself, “Yeah it’s going to be a great day! I like swing sets!”

She sees me and I freeze, as if not wanting to be found out.

She continues talking, “He’s finally here.

“Yeah he looks better than he was.

“Yeah he doesn’t know.

“Yeah he’s not going to take the news very well.”

I make a face, “What are you doing? Stop talking to yourself!”

Sarah tilts her head to one side, “Look who’s talking.”

“Yeah he hasn’t noticed.”

“What? What ?”

Sarah addresses the area to her left, “Should I tell him?”

I shake my head, “Is it James again? More of your imaginary friends?”

Sarah replies with an even tone, “Dad says you need to start listening if you want to keep the story going.”

You can say I’m a little startled, “What do you mean?”

I look around the room, “Who are you talking to?”

Taking a few steps forward, “Who are you talking to Sarah?”

Sarah says, “Dad wants to know if you remember anything?”

“Spencer?”

Sarah nods, “He’s right here.”

“Where?”

“Dad says you can’t see him.”

“But you can?”

Sarah grins, “You wrote him out of your life. He doesn’t exist anymore.”

“I don’t…” I trail off, shaking my head.

Recall what I said about confusion. It’s all coming back to me now.

“Dad says he’s teaching James how to box like a well-rounded fighter.”

“What?”

She nods, “Yeah, Dad says James can be even better than you. Dad says he’s more dedicated.”

What I feel isn’t quite anger but it’s not far off.

“Dad says he’s even got a good alias for James.”

“Oh yeah, and what is it?”

“Dad says it’s ‘Dynamite.’”

Her words send shivers down my spine.

I sit down on the edge of her bed.

I listen to Sarah talk to her father, getting only one side of the conversation. Amid the space of a haunting, Spencer has sought revenge for being unwritten from my career.

And yes, I did that.

I ignored him.

I didn’t appreciate him.

What is James but another imposter?

It’s not what I choose to remember but rather that I remembered anything at all. When everything eventually falls silent, the fact that I can retain the texture of a surface and the pitch of a tone, the smell of a scent and the resonance of an emotion, is more than enough. I should be content that I am able to retain any fragment of my past. I mean, right?

That’s why we have photo albums, flash drives, and home videos.

What else am I missing?

The silence I design comes from the memories I derive.

SILENCE

In each moment of silence, I pull from a memory I never knew I had.

They haunt me like the hauntings continue to linger around the house. I no longer question whether the hauntings or the memories are real or fake. The fact that they remain in my mind is enough and I hope it is enough for you.

But then why Spencer, why now?

Why James, who does he think he is?

SILENCE

“He seems to think he’ll be a better version of you,” Sarah says. She sneaks up behind me, grabs my hand, looks at my reflection in her vanity mirror. I look down at her and ask, “So you hear them then? It wasn’t your imagination?”

She grins, “Do you want to play a game?”

When I turn to look back at myself in the mirror, I discover that my reflection is already staring back at me.

“Umm…”

Sarah looks, “Oh, you can see him! Yay!”

“What?”

“James, say hi!”

My reflection steps to the side, waves and says, “Hello, my name’s Willem.”

I hear him, his voice tinny and muffled but otherwise it’s a lot like listening to your voice after having been recorded on a cheap microphone.

Sarah giggles, “I still like to call him James.”

“I was James, once,” he nods, winking at Sarah.

“That’s me? That doesn’t look like me!”

SILENCE

“Dad says that it does.”

“Where is he?”

“Dad says he’s standing right next to you.”

I rub my eyes but nothing changes the fact that I can’t see him. So what happens next? What turns James into me?

“Don’t you remember?”

What do I say to that?

What does she even mean?

A rumble comes from deeper in the house. The basement.

Sarah gasps, “He let another one go.”

“Spencer?”

She nods, “Dad is mad at you.”

“Tell him I’m mad at him!”

Sarah frowns, “I don’t think you and Dad should fight so much.”

DO I HAVE A CHOICE?

Does anyone have a choice?

I feel like the values around me change more often than I can create meaning. What am I?

List them here:

______________

______________

______________

Because lately, due to the last fight and what I’ve done to create a fence around the spotlight, everyone has been wanting to create their own definition of who I am. Who is Willem Floures?

It’s not an easy question to answer.

Not something easily defined.