**Jeremy** (24): Slumped over in the same folding chair from

Scene 2. Pale, eyes sunken. Wears the same jeans. Sweat clings

to his brow. He appears weak and brittle.

(The same cramped kitchen. Pill bottles still line the counter.

Takeout containers remain. The calendar still reads December

2014, X’s through the 13th. The clock reads 10:30. A faint

breeze filters through the open window. MARTHA’S chair sits

empty.)

Pacing note: Let the audience register the absence—Martha’s

chair is still, untouched. Let the wind draw attention to the

window.

(Lights up. JEREMY is already seated, hunched forward in the

folding chair. His breathing is slow but audible.)

(A faint knock is heard offstage, followed by the sound of a key

turning in a lock.)

(GEORGE enters quietly. He sets down a small dry-cleaning bag on

a nearby table, then sees JEREMY and assesses him—wordless.)

Pacing note: Hold a beat while George watches him. Let the

silence thicken. Don’t rush to the next movement.

(He walks to the counter, lifts a pill bottle—nearly empty. He

opens the cabinet above the sink, finds three more bottles.

Opens the fridge. Finds the shot bottle of Jägermeister—nearly

empty. He sets it down.)

(GEORGE grabs JEREMY by the shoulders and shakes him, hard.)

GEORGE

Wake up. Are you nodding out? Jeremy!

Pacing note: The volume shift should be jarring. The silence

before it matters. Let the first shout hit like a slap.

(A pause. The clock ticks. JEREMY blinks, very slowly. His voice

is faint.)

JEREMY

What... what happened? I was with Mom—watching that stupid

show... what happened?

(Long silence. GEORGE inhales sharply.)

GEORGE

I found your mom passed out on the couch with your pill bottle

in her hand.

I had an ambulance rush her to the hospital. I followed her.

(He shakes JEREMY again. JEREMY grunts.)

GEORGE

Snap out of it. What the hell is the matter with you?

Pacing note: This should feel less like anger and more like

desperation starting to split open.

(JEREMY blinks again. His breathing shallows.)

JEREMY

She okay?

GEORGE

They pumped her stomach.

Pacing note: Let this line land hard. Don’t follow it

immediately. Give space for the audience’s gut to turn with

Jeremy’s.

(JEREMY coughs—rough and sudden. Then again.)

Pacing note: Don’t cut the coughing short. Let it force its way

through the scene, ragged and real.

(GEORGE crosses to the calendar. He stares at the X’s marked

through each day, mouth tight. Then, without a word, he rips the

calendar down and throws it into the trash.)

(He turns back, jaw clenched.)

GEORGE

Hope University my ass. You’re just like your father.

JEREMY (groggy, barely upright)

Do we have to do this right now, George?

(Beat. The wind slips through the cracked window. GEORGE exhales

through his nose.)

GEORGE

Yeah. We’re done taking care of you. I’m done having you under

my roof.

I’m done paying for your dentist.

(JEREMY rises slowly. His balance is shaky. He grips the chair

behind him for support.)

JEREMY

I never asked you for shit.

GEORGE

Of course you didn’t. You just took it like it belonged to you.

It’s always been about you. Always.

(JEREMY breathes through his nose, fighting to steady. He locks

eyes with GEORGE.)

JEREMY

Martha’s been carrying you for two decades. Now you need to

feel like a man again,

so you come after me.

(Beat. The fridge motor hums. The floor creaks.)

GEORGE

You’re a personality man. Just like your father,

the tax-evading disbarred attorney. Never lifted a finger to do

one bit of work.

(JEREMY stays put. His breathing stays even. A low creak from

the cabinet as it settles.)

GEORGE

You don’t even need to go to college. You’ve got a PhD in

Drama.

Worthless bastard.

JEREMY

Are you done yet?

(GEORGE slams his fist on the counter. Several pill bottles

scatter across the floor.)

Pacing note: Let the crash land with clarity. Hold silence after

it. Let the fallout breathe.

GEORGE

I tried to make a man out of you. I tried.

I have a 10th-grade education and I worked 14-hour days for

decades.

I shaved years off my life to make your years better.

JEREMY

Here goes your sob story. You made a choice to do that.

No one asked you to.

(Beat. GEORGE stares. Something in him changes. Silence.)

GEORGE

You needed more.

(Long pause. Both men are breathing hard. JEREMY lets go of the

chair.)

JEREMY

I can see why Mom cheated on you.

(GEORGE lunges and shoves JEREMY in the chest. JEREMY stumbles,

crashes into the table. His hip hits hard. He grits his teeth

but doesn’t cry out.)

Pacing note: Let the hit feel unclean. Sloppy. Not theatrical.

Let the room go silent except for Jeremy catching his breath.

GEORGE

Get the fuck out of my house.

(JEREMY scrambles back, then sits up. He smirks faintly, wiping

his mouth.)

(George takes a step, then stops himself. His fists unclench and

clench again.)

GEORGE

Right now.

(JEREMY rises slowly. One leg drags a little.)

JEREMY

Always on your high horse.

You’re an impotent motherfucker.

(GEORGE starts forward again. JEREMY backs toward the edge of

the stage. Then he raises his middle finger.)

JEREMY

Your sacrifice led you to this. Hope it was worth it.

(He holds there a moment, then turns and exits.)

Pacing note: Let the exit linger. Don’t rush to the aftermath.

Let George be alone.

(Beat. GEORGE stands still. Then he hurls a coffee mug across

the kitchen. It explodes against the clock, which jerks sideways

and freezes at 10:31.)

Pacing note: Let the audience feel the break—let the crash echo.

(He loses control. Pill bottles fly. The coffee maker crashes.

Utensils clatter across the floor. GEORGE roars—a guttural,

feral sound—and collapses forward against the counter. Then he

slides to the floor.)

(He sobs into his hands. The refrigerator hums. Wind through the

cracked window. A dog barks faintly in the distance.)

Pacing note: Let the quiet return with weight. Let it hang.

(Lights fade to black.)

Joey Colby Bernert (any/all) is a disabled, queer, and neurodivergent clinical social worker, statistician, and MPH student. Joey is the Editor in Chief for the Orichalcum Tower Press. They are a recovering heroin addict and alcoholic. They work to with rural populations to provide treatment for substance abuse.

Authors Notes: December 13th is rooted in the night, three weeks after a major open abdominal surgery, when I first used heroin. My half-brother was away at university, and after a fight with my step-father I walked three miles through a Hamburg Township snowstorm hoping to buy pills but was handed powder instead. Reflection, for me, is returning to that night, its pain, its silences, and the absences inside my family, and recognizing how those fractures carried forward. This is Scene 3 of Act 1.