**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.